A Wife Worth Investing In. Marguerite Kaye

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      ‘In Paris, the juice of freshly squeezed oranges is often served in the morning, but the French don’t really take breakfast seriously as a meal the way we do. Are you sure you don’t want some fresh coffee with that? Or perhaps—perhaps I should simply be quiet and allow you to eat. I talk too much when I’m nervous.’

      Her mouth trembled. When she poured herself some more tea, her hand shook. What the devil had happened to her! He’d wager her revered Solignac had some hand in it. He had already taken against the man before he’d finally turned up late at the Procope, and his appearance in the flesh had simply confirmed Owen’s dislike. An ill-mannered bully with an inflated sense of his own importance who took his lover for granted.

      He forced the last mouthful of breakfast down, and was rewarded with a smile.

      ‘You see, you were hungry after all.’

      ‘Apparently,’ he said drily.

      ‘The eggs were a little over. It is very difficult to keep eggs from spoiling, but the simple solution is to add a little knob of butter, I don’t know why more people don’t realise it. Forgive me, the last thing you need is a culinary lecture.’

      Owen pushed his plate away and eased himself carefully to his feet, biting the inside of his cheek as the anticipated fierce stab of pain shot through his damaged hip. ‘We’ll retire to the morning room, if you are finished with your tea. It is the second door on your left.’

      Ushering her ahead of him, he followed her slowly, resisting the urge to use the wall for support, mortified by how vulnerable he felt without his stick. He would not fall over. He bloody well would not fall over.

      Lowering himself into the wing-back chair by the fireside, he felt as if he’d completed an epic journey, closing his eyes, taking a moment to get his breathing under control, wondering if the doctors had been right after all, and that the pathetic and rudimentary exercise regime at least served to prevent his health from deteriorating further. The footstool was just out of reach, but as Miss Brannagh made to help, he nudged it towards himself with his good leg.

      ‘Thank you, but I’m not entirely helpless.’

      He waved her to the chair opposite, where she sat, hands clasped tightly, on the edge of the seat. ‘I’m sorry.’

      ‘Stop apologising. Please.’ Adjusting his foot on the stool, he tried to force a smile, but it felt strained, and probably looked more like a grimace. ‘Now, Miss Brannagh, that we are more comfortable, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?’

      ‘Well first of all—I know it’s silly—but when you didn’t show up at the Procope I wondered why. I hoped that whatever your reason for not being there, that you had fared better than me.’

      ‘Then you have been sorely disappointed, I’m afraid. I assume you are on your way to visit one of your sisters or—did you say you had an aunt?’

      ‘Aunt Kate. Lady Elmswood. She lives in Shropshire.’ She gazed down at her hands, which were white at the knuckles, she was clasping them so tightly together. ‘I’m not planning on visiting family just at the moment.’

      ‘Then may I ask what has brought you to England—assuming that your concern for my non-appearance at the Procope in August is not the main reason.’

      She took a visible breath. ‘The truth is that I have lost absolutely everything, including almost every penny of the settlement Eloise made on me. I could not have failed more abjectly and I can’t—I simply cannot face my family until I’ve found my feet again.’

      ‘Good lord! What on earth happened?’

      ‘Exactly what my sister Estelle predicted.’

      ‘Monsieur Solignac,’ Owen said, fatalistically.

      ‘You don’t sound very surprised.’

      ‘I wish I had misjudged him, Miss Brannagh.’

      ‘You cannot wish that more fervently than I.’

      ‘Tell me.’

      She winced. ‘It sounds as if you have already guessed. I was dazzled by him. Everyone was, who came into contact with him—everyone that is, save Estelle and by the sounds of it, yourself. I thought myself the luckiest woman in the world to have been taken under his wing as his protégée, to be allowed to train under him, and I thought that I was progressing well.’

      ‘I remember,’ Owen said, ‘you had reached the dizzy heights of patisserie. I had no idea what that meant, but it seemed to mean a good deal to you.’

      ‘Yes, it did. And I kept progressing, or so I thought. Pascal even permitted me to introduce a few of my own dishes to the menu. The rest of the kitchen brigade treated me as a fellow chef, not a woman. I thought I was earning their respect too. Perhaps I was, but it was more likely they knew me for Pascal’s—Pascal’s lover.’ She coloured violently. ‘I expect you will think that a shocking admission—my sisters were both shocked to the core.’

      ‘Miss Brannagh, I guessed when we met that your—your heart was engaged.’

      ‘You did? I thought at the time that I had been discreet, but I should have known better. I’m not very good at disguising my feelings.’ She stared at him, her face set defiantly. ‘I’m not ashamed of them, or what I did. They view affaires of the heart very differently in Paris.’

      ‘And you were very much in love with Paris.’

      ‘And with Pascal—or so I thought,’ Miss Brannagh replied, looking mortified. ‘It is probably difficult for you to understand, but in the kitchen, passions run so very high, and Pascal—he was—he is—the most passionate of all.’

      ‘But your feelings were not reciprocated?’

      ‘I thought they were. Perhaps they were a little bit, for a time. Or perhaps I’m just fooling myself. You’ve guessed what happened, haven’t you? I don’t suppose it’s difficult. Anyone but me would have seen it coming. That’s what Estelle said.’

      ‘You were living your dream,’ Owen said. ‘That stayed with me, your sheer determination, the way you embraced it all, the way you defied convention to do so. Living life to the full, that’s what you said you were doing.’

      ‘Did I? That was what Mama used to say. She was rather more successful at it than me.’

      ‘What happened?’

      ‘Oh, it turned out that Pascal didn’t covet me at all, only my money. From the first, when Monsieur Salois—he is the Duke of Brockmore’s chef—recommended me to his kitchens at Eloise’s behest, Pascal knew I was rich. He was so—so—I couldn’t quite believe that I was actually there, in La Grande Taverne, working for Pascal Solignac. Not only working for him, but—he singled me out. He admired my work. He admired me—he seemed as fascinated by me as I was by him. Even at the time, I thought, why would a man so famous, so charismatic, with all of Paris at his feet would fall in love with me. I was enormously flattered, and I suppose it went to my head. I should have known better.’

      ‘Miss Brannagh, you do yourself an enormous injustice. If anyone had Paris at their feet, СКАЧАТЬ