Apparently not his grandmother, then.
To the lady, he said, “Miss Woodchurch, my study assistant.”
Hattie curtsied. “A pleasure, madam.”
The señora smiled and said to Hattie, “Miss Woodchurch, please.” She gestured Hattie to come to the table.
“Oh no, please—I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your...” She gestured to the balls of dough. “Evening.”
“She would like to show you,” Lord Abbott said. “Please,” he added.
Hattie draped her cloak over a chair near the hearth, tried to smooth her hair made curly by the damp, and then very hesitantly came forward, as if she was being asked to view some strange creature children had found swimming about in the Thames. It was only balls of dough, but the atmosphere was strangely intimate, and she couldn’t quite grasp what role the viscount was playing here.
The woman touched his arm and spoke again. The viscount sighed to the rafters then said, “As you can see...we are making empanadas.”
“Empanadas,” Hattie repeated.We, she thought.
Señora de Leon picked up a rolling pin and began to roll out one of the balls of dough. When it was flattened, she picked up a bowl and spooned out a mixture of meat, onions, and mushrooms onto half the dough. She folded the other half over the mixture, then crimped the dough together to form a seal, creating a bun of sorts. She basted both sides with egg.
She narrated as she went—in Spanish, of course. Hattie had no idea what she was saying. And the viscount did not translate. He was watching Hattie, his expression sheepish but curious.
Señora de Leon went on to do three more just like the first, then moved to the oven, and pulled out a sheet with several of the cooked buns. Lord Abbott placed them on a plate, and Señora de Leon cut one into small triangles. She and Lord Abbott each forked a triangle and sampled it. They looked at each other, nodding, discussing it with a few words, but clearly agreeing.
Señora de Leon picked up the plate and held it out to Hattie for a sample. The viscount handed her a fork.
Hattie hadn’t eaten all day, and the smell alone was enough for her to abandon all good graces.“Gracias,”she said, to the delight of Señora de Leon, forked the piece, and bit into it.
It was scrumptious. The burst of flavors was spicy and salty and with a hint of something she’d never tasted in her life. “Ohmy,” she said. “Oh my, this is sogood.”
Señora de Leon laughed. She spoke again to the viscount, pointing at various things on the table and in the kitchen, then removed her apron. To Hattie she said, “Good evening.”
Hattie, still chewing, watched her go, then turned to the viscount in confusion. “Where is she going?”
“She is retiring for the evening. She’s left it to me.”
“You?”
“Is it shocking that I enjoy baking?”
“Yes!” Hattie said emphatically.
He gave her a lopsided smile. “I won’t defend myself against my hobby.”
His hobby? Something clicked in Hattie’s brain. “I beg your pardon, but...areyouthe cook behind the wonderful pastries served with tea?”
His smile deepened. “Not always. Butsí, sometimes.”
Hattie laughed with delight. “You never said! How did you let me bring them to you to try?”
“I’m not above a bit of flattery, Miss Woodchurch. You’ve been an enthusiastic admirer of my attempts and I didn’t want to risk your praise revealing my secret. But it’s true—I very much like to bake. There is something satisfying in it. Will you help me finish?” He gestured to the many balls of dough still left to bake. “We meant to make enough for the week.”
Hattie didn’t hesitate. “I would.” She went to the pump and washed her hands, then returned to his side of the table. He held out an apron. “May I?” He stepped behind her and wrapped the apron around her waist, tying it off in the small of her back. When he’d finished, he put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around to face the table.
And just like that, her breath left her. It was the lightest of touches, but her shoulders were tingling where his hands had been. And now she was standing so close to him she was certain the warmth she felt was the heat of his body. Her heart was racing, her pulse fluttering, and when she glanced up, she discovered he was looking at her, his eyes shining with pleasure.
There was that spark again. That low burn of want in her body. This man had the capacity to turn her to a heap of ash if she looked too long.
“Do you bake, Miss Woodchurch?”
