And now her head felt like lead and her belly felt queasy.
When she arrived at Grosvenor Square—only to discover half the hooks of her dress were not, in fact, hooked—Mr. Borerro directed her to the kitchen.
“The kitchen?” she asked, certain her heavy head had misheard.
“Sí, the kitchen. Follow me.”
Off to the kitchen they went, Lila having to walk quickly to keep up through the maze of corridors. And when they arrived, she was astonished to see Lord Abbott at the center table, mixing something in a bowl.
He looked, she thought, rested and handsome. He glanced up. “Ah. Lady Aleksander. I was expecting you.”
“My lord.” She looked around the kitchen, certain that at any moment, some woman would appear and snatch the bowl from him, then stared in amazement when no one did. In fact, a young woman was sitting at a table in the corner, peeling potatoes, as if it were perfectly natural for the viscount to be wearing an apron and mixing something in a bowl.
“You’ve never seen a man bake,” he said.
“No! There...there have been times that my husband and I attempted it, but... No, my lord. You are certainly the first.” Why hadn’t he told her this before? This was something she could have used, something that would have helped her find the perfect woman for him. At least it was interesting.
She walked into the kitchen, ducking under herbs hanging upside down to dry, as well as one chicken, also hanging upside down. “We had planned to meet today,” she reminded him.
He didn’t look up from his bowl. “We are meeting.”
Well then, this was even more interesting. “And your scribe?”
He shot her a look. “She is not expected today.”
“All right. Your mother said she would like—”
“She is visiting a sick friend. Shall we begin?”
She noticed something then—this wasn’t his usual, gruff manner. He was different—he looked despondent. She glanced uneasily at the kitchen girl.
“Yolanda does not speak English. You may speak freely.”
At the mention of her name, Yolanda looked up. Lord Abbott spoke to her in Spanish, and she returned to peeling potatoes, humming a little as she did. With his chin, his lordship gestured to a stool. “I apologize for not having something a little more comfortable for you.”
“I don’t mind a sturdy stool,” Lila said, and sat across the table from him. “I must first congratulate you on a wonderful ball. Your mother is a wonder! I can’t believe she was able to put it together so quickly.”
“Sí,”he said.
Chatty as always. “You met some new faces last night. What did you think?”
He glanced up at her as he sprinkled flour onto the table. “All quite lovely.” He pushed a plate of gingersnaps toward her. “You must try one.”
“I really couldn’t,” she said, and then helped herself to one. “Did anyone in particular stand out to you?”
He shook his head.
“No? I thought perhaps Miss Woodchurch stood out to you. You asked her for the first dance.”
His head snapped up and his gaze sharpened. “And?”
She shrugged and nibbled the gingersnap. “It was an interesting choice.”
“In what way?”
“Well, generally, we reserve the first dance for whoever is first on your list.”
He began to roll dough. “So I’ve heard. Is this a rule set forth in English law? Or written on scrolls?”
