Page 74 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Margaret glanced at Connor to allow him a chance to reply. He shrugged. Did he truly not have a favorite sweet? Had his childhood been so sparse? Perhaps he merely had no wish to make a request of the chef. Nor did she. Still, Monsieur Beaufort’s eager gaze encouraged her to speak. Failing to do so seemed ungracious.

“Our family cook used to make macarons when I was a little girl.” She lowered her voice and whispered, “She even let me help her.” She made an exaggerated gasp and put her fingers over her mouth as if she were scandalized.

The chef chuckled. “Ah, shocking behavior indeed.” He made a playful tsking noise.

Emboldened, Margaret added, “I likely made more work for her, but she made me feel as if I were an indispensable part of the process. She let me help with gingerbread sweets as well.” She bit into her cheese and bread, enjoying the food as much as she enjoyed reliving her childhood memories.

Connor let out his breath in a silent chuckle. She grinned. Connor’s mirth instilled a desire to coax out more of his laughter.

MonsieurBeaufort rubbed his hands together briskly. “I shall make the macarons for you.”

“That’s very kind, monsieur,” Margaret said, “but you needn’t go to all that trouble.”

“It is no trouble, Madame. I insist.” He looked at Connor. “Do you like the macarons, as well?”

Connor swallowed. “I don’t believe I have ever had them.”

“Then, for you both, I make.”

While they thanked him, he busied himself pulling out pans and ingredients, making several trips to the buttery. Connor gave Margaret a look that seemed to contain a mild rebuke, but she merely smiled.

After a few minutes, the chef turned back and, with a smile, said, “Madame, do you wish to help me make the macarons?”

A laugh escaped Margaret before she felt it coming. Did she dare? Yes. Yes, she did. She was finished with trying to do everything properly. She stood. “As a matter of fact, I’d love nothing better. I’ll try not to make too much of a mess.”

The chef shrugged and said with a twinkle in his eye, “If you do, I will merely ask you to clean up.”

“Sounds reasonable.” Margaret rolled up the sleeves of her black mourning gown.

Connor watched her as if he couldn’t look away. He was more a gentleman than he gave himself credit for being. And, based on the direction of his eyes, more attracted to her than he would probably admit.

Really, that ought not please her as much as it did.

Beaming, Monsieur Beaufort handed her an apron. She tied the apron strings and let herself grin with all the gleeful anticipation inside her. Connor stood, glancing at the door. Whether he wished to escape or worried someone with ill intent would appear, she could not discern. Perhaps he would stay for the novelty of the experience. Or to spend more time with her.

When had she taken leave of her senses? His attraction to her meant nothing. Then why could she not bear to allow him to leave just yet?

Margaret turned to the chef. “What shall I do first?”

MonsieurBeaufort set her to the task of crushing and sifting sugar to make it into a fine powder.

Connor held up a hand in a conciliatory gesture. “Is there anything I can do?”

MonsieurBeaufort beamed. “But of course, Monsieur… eh, Jackson, was it? I could use someone with your strength.” He poured almonds into a large bowl and handed a pestle to Connor. “Crush these into flour. I warn you; this will take considerable strength.”

Connor removed his coat and laid it over the back of another chair, then loosened the brown stock around his neck. He, too, rolled up his shirtsleeves. Standing next to Margaret, not quite touching her shoulder, he diligently crushed the almonds.

Why his willingness to join the preparation meant so much, Margaret could not say. It might have been that he didn’t view himself above kitchen tasks, a remarkably appealing trait. Hennessy had never set foot inside a kitchen, much less offered to help prepare food. Margaret bit her lip and stayed focused on her task. She must not draw attention to the rarity of a man helping in the kitchen; it would embarrass them both. Did a small part of Connor’s decision to help stem from his desire to remain in her presence?

The chef chuckled. “This reminds me of the time I made the macarons for Maman. She was to have friends over, and I wanted to surprise her.”

While the chef told stories of his youth, of his work as a chef, and his decision to leave his beloved but war-torn France and come to England, the three of them worked side-by-side. Margaret related a few of her childhood memories of her and her siblings’ exploits, their favorite games, cherished moments with her late brother, Jason, her first unsuccessful riding lesson. Mostly she told of moments in the kitchen helping Cook.

Connor made appropriate comments, and laughed with Margaret and Monsieur Beaufort, but never volunteered memories of his own.

The chef peered into Connor’s bowl. “Perfect. Stop here.”

Connor nodded and stepped back.