Page 27 of One Day for a Valet

Sofia’s knife slipped off an almond with a thunk.

Curling his fingers into a fist, he pressed on. “If I’m wrong, and you don’t like me, then any flaw would put an end to the way you look for me whenever you walk into a room.”

He paused, the collision of nerves and excitement causing his voice to drop into a raspy baritone. “And if you are not afflicted by the same giddy madness that has overthrown my heart and head … if I am alone in these feelings. Well, it’s better that my flaws run you off before I’m lost completely to the hope of another day with you.” His mouth had gone dry, and all at once he noticed his breaths were coming entirely too quickly but he could not slow them down.

The slicing resumed, but Sofia moved more slowly now. “So, it’s the first, then? You are the most confident man in the world.”

He laughed at that. He didn’t feel confident, just stupidly hopeful.

“‘Confident’ implies a degree of certainty in the outcome, which I can assure you is not the case. My confidence tonight extends only to your ability to transform this pile of ingredients into something edible. I assume all Tuscans toddle away from their mother’s skirts already knowing how to make biscotti.”

Her chopping had returned to its swift, methodical rhythm. “You assume correctly. But in Tuscany, we call them cantucci. Now, stop ogling my superior skills and start mixing the dry ingredients.”

“I don’t think that’s what he was ogling,” Jeremy mumbled from where he stood filling his glass with milk several feet away.

Christopher glared menacingly at Jeremy who ignored the silent threat, shifting his attention to Sofia instead. Not spies for Mrs Simmons or chaperones sent by Gabriel, then, but self-appointed guardians for their newest friend.

Jeremy winked at Sofia. “All right, I can take a hint. I won’t stay where I’m not wanted.” If that were the case, you wouldn’t be here in the first place. Jeremy plucked one of the checkers off the board. “Apparently your game is over, boys. Let’s go.”

The boys quickly tidied the board and left, and Jeremy waved goodbye with a cheeky grin.

Ignoring their hasty exit, Christopher returned to the mixing bowl. “You’ll have to forgive Jeremy. He was born in a stable and his humour has never extended far from that location.”

“Va tutto bene. It’s all right. You English are all so much tighter laced than I am accustomed to.” One corner of her mouth quirked up in a manner in which he was beginning to associate solely with her. “An Italian man of the working class wouldn’t bother to mumble under his breath. And unless you are planning to add twice the number of eggs the recipe calls for, that’s quite enough flour.”

Christopher looked down at his heaping scoop, grabbed a pinch from the top and promptly plopped it onto her shoulder. “Is that better?”

Her eyes widened, then narrowed with a grin that promised retribution just before she whisked a flour-coated finger down the bridge of his nose. Christopher sputtered. She giggled, then laughed outright as he took her cheeks between his floury hands, stepping near enough that he could feel her skirts brush against his breeches. Her gaze lifted to his, chasing away his merriment and replacing it with something infinitely warmer.

“Now the measurements will be completely wrong,” she murmured without so much as blinking beneath the heat of his gaze.

His eyes dipped to her mouth. “Do you always follow every plan to the letter?” His thumbs explored the softness of her cheeks, gliding across silky flour and warm, inviting skin.

“Without exception.” Sofia’s breath hitched on the second syllable, and he wanted to sip at that breathy exhale with his mouth.

“Every day with its itinerary, never to be led astray by unscheduled flirtation?”

“Precisely so.”

He let his fingers slide away in search of her hands, which he found fisted within the folds of her drab grey dress. Grey … the antithesis of the fascinating woman who wore it. Lifting one of her hands to his mouth, he kissed the soft centre of her palm, then grimaced when flour coated his lips. He licked it off, not wanting to let go of her fingers.

His hands were trembling. It was subtle, but it was there for her to see, and he desperately wanted to be steady for her. To be even a fraction of the confident man she thought he was. He took a slow, deep breath, but his quavering hands were only a minor symptom of a far more systemic problem. His body—his heart most of all—trembled in her presence and would not be calmed by his silent demands.

“I wonder,” he began, “if you might pencil me in on the morrow for a two-minute-long gaze rife with incontrovertible longing. Mind you, I do not wish to be subtle. I would like it noted in the margins of your itinerary that, if observed by children, this gaze will cause them to scamper behind trees to whisper and giggle. Ladies will flutter their fans to cool their heated cheeks. The following day, I propose an entry in your schedule labelled ‘picnic luncheon culminating in the soft brush of my lips against your cheek.’ It will be the sort of kiss that appears chaste to everyone but the two whose lips and skin are involved. Only we will experience the heightened awareness of every breath and each whisper of sensation.”

Sofia’s fingers loosened their grip on his. Instantly, he wanted to wrench back every hasty, sentimental word. She retreated a step, then looked away, her breaths quick and unsteady. In that beat of silent discomfort, absolute pandemonium broke loose inside Christopher. His emotions roiled worthlessly, and he couldn’t summon the words to set her at ease and bring her back. The jagged edges of his fear careened against all the tender insecurities of his heart. Some deeply buried, rational part of his mind searched for a way to lighten his words, make them seem in jest, but there was no way to make his declarations sound any less like the evidence of desperate longing that they were.

He wanted her. Wanted her in every conceivable way. So at the slightest indication that she might return his affection, he had laid his pair of threes on the table with all the self-control of a lad who had no idea how to play the game. He had wagered recklessly with his heart, as if he had a host of others tucked away in his pocket ready to replace the one he’d just stupidly gambled away.

But there was the crux of the problem—he had never been very good at subterfuge or caution. And he wanted her with a desperation that took up so much space inside of him that there was room for little else. It didn’t matter that she still withheld secrets from him, and God help him, it wasn’t only her body he craved.

He made himself look at her then, forced the clatter of his thoughts into silence as he watched the slow, agonising journey of her gaze rising up to meet his.

And in that heartbeat, all his fears fizzled away. Even as her body retreated, there was pleasure in her eyes. She liked his words. Liked him. And the quiver he heard within her rapid inhalations … he suddenly wanted nothing more than to incite more of them.

She licked her lips and looked away. “Are you certain you are not Italian, Signior Keene? I had no idea Englishmen were so fanciful.”

“My maternal grandfather was Welsh. Perhaps I inherited it from him.” With no small amount of effort, he returned his attention to the ingredients, adjusting the flour quantities so as to be precise. “Is this acceptable?” Pleased with the steadiness of his voice, he offered up his most dazzling smile.