The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(68)
“I’ll set up a meeting with my entire kitchen staff first thing tomorrow. This problem I can solve rather quickly. And I shall. I never intended to neglect anyone who looks to me for guidance and care.”
“I…put together a menu with Madame Chabois earlier today.” She handed him one of the pieces of paper on the table, her eyes darting between the menu and his face. “There are no kidney pies.”
“Or beets, I see.” He glanced up at her. She’d put this together with his cook? It seemed fine, but he would still need to speak with the woman. It was a change that would affect the gentlemen, his staff… He had to oversee something of that magnitude. Everything about this place had to be successful, even what he fed the men who lived here. He would see that the change was properly handled.
“She brought up these samples. The menu would allow for some variety and interest while not being wasteful with the budget. By repeating some key ingredients within short spans of time…”
He watched Isabelle speak about the menu as if giving a report from some mission for the Spares. Had he underestimated her once again? She was just as passionate about this as her paintings or stories from her books. He could listen to her talk forever. “Go on,” he prompted when she stopped.
“You’re looking at me as if I’m mad.”
He rose from his chair and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile before moving to stoke the fire in the grate. “You’re insightful, not mad, but I’ve always suspected that to be the case. The way you look at paintings, you see them as individuals, as living creatures. I simply wasn’t aware that your expertise extended beyond books and art.”
“I am a lady.”
“I’ve noticed,” he retorted with a wry smile as he turned back to her with the fire poker still in his hand.
“Meaning that I know how houses are to function. Fallon, your home—aside from the flowers—is a normal bachelor residence, just like any other.”
That was debatable, but he didn’t argue her point. Instead he leaned the poker against the hearth and went to the sofa, beckoning her to join him. The day was catching up with him. Perhaps it was his own weariness, but if Isabelle wanted different foods, so be it. He never took time to sit down to a proper meal anyway. He would talk to his cook about the changes Isabelle had proposed in the morning. Above all else, he wanted Isabelle to be happy here.
A second later she joined him on the sofa, still going on about his “normal bachelor residence.”
He would have to tell her the truth about that at some point, wouldn’t he? That was a topic for another day. His mind was already turning fuzzy from lack of sleep. The room was warmer now with the fire stoked, and Isabelle was at his side. Her voice was a soothing sound to his ear.
“Your bachelor residence is also either haunted, or filled with a large number of guests or thieves, since I regularly hear voices at night, but that’s a subject for another time.”
“It isn’t haunted and no one steals from me,” Fallon stated, silently cursing Hardaway and his booming voice. It would be him echoing through the halls as he returned to his rooms in the wee hours of the morning.
“You clearly didn’t hear what I did, but we’re discussing the menu at the moment. Ladies are trained in such things, you know. My training in dance steps began a bit late, but the part about homes and family is long ingrained in my mind. Families…children are what’s expected, after all.”
Fallon straightened, instantly alert, his drowsiness gone. She couldn’t be serious, but then this was Isabelle, who tried to confess her undying love before he’d ever touched her. “Children? Isabelle! I…” He wouldn’t ever be able to have a family with her—not here, not surrounded by all that the Spares were involved with. He was mad for even encouraging a relationship beyond friendship with Isabelle, and now she was discussing children? How had they gone from French food to a family in a heartbeat?
“I’m not suggesting we have a child,” she said, shoving him in the arm. “Heavens! I simply planned a menu…among other things.” She mumbled the last bit, but he heard her all the same. “I don’t wish to have discord with you. Perhaps this was a poor idea after all. I only wanted…” She scooted away from him a fraction, her eyes focused on the rug where they’d kissed only last night.
He was an arse…and now he’d scared her away. Reaching for her, he said, “I’ll meet with Madame Chabois tomorrow morning. I’ll review the menu with her and see that some changes are made.”
“Fallon…do you trust me?” She looked up at him, uncertainty pulling her brows together above her eyes.
He studied her for a moment before nodding. Oddly enough, considering he’d only met her this season, he did trust her.
“Then allow me to do this. I want to help you.”
The sentiment behind her statement was one he’d often heard from his men—Hardaway being the most vocal on the subject—but he’d never equated controlling a situation to not allowing anyone to assist him. Not until now. Isabelle wanted to help him. It was touching that she’d stepped forward to make him such an offer. He couldn’t deny that some assistance would be a welcome change. And perhaps allowing her to help would fill her days and bring a smile to her face. He would do anything if it made her smile. “Very well.”