A Royal Wedding(115)



“Okay. Here it is.” She took a deep breath. “I … I want to go to pastry school.”

He blinked, not sure he’d heard her correctly. He leaned closer. “What kind of school?”

She looked up at him, baleful. “Pastry.”

He shook his head, still at sea. “I don’t understand.”

Now he was starting to annoy her. Didn’t understand! Hah!

“Peach tarts. Napoleons. Eclairs.” She was facing him now, her passion expressed clearly in her face. “I want to learn to make them. I want to create new forms. I want to—”

“Enough,” he said shortly, holding up his hand. He was finally getting the picture, and the picture filled him with horror. “You’re trying to tell me you would rather slave away in a hot kitchen all day than be a princess? You actually expect me to believe that?”

Her shoulders sagged. “Believe what you want,” she said sadly. “You asked me to tell you my passion, and I told you.” She turned away. “Let’s change the subject.”

He knew he’d hurt her feelings, but he still couldn’t believe it. They sat in silence for a few minutes, then he tried again. This time he told himself he would remain calm.

“Tell me how all this came about. What made you fall in love with the idea of being a pastry chef?”

“I love good pastry. Who doesn’t?”

“Yes. Well, I love a good steak, too, but I don’t plan to be a cowboy.”

She rose and turned away. “Let’s just go.”

“No.” He rose as well, taking her by the shoulders, stopping her and gazing down into her pretty face. “I want to know how it all began. Please tell me.”

She searched his eyes. Could she trust him? But how could she not?

“Okay,” she said slowly. They began to walk along the stream, back toward where the motorcycle was parked. “I guess it all began when Nooma, the cook at the castle, began to let me help her in the kitchen.”

He frowned, wondering if the woman should be fired. “Did she do this often?” he asked.

“Often? Yes, it was often. But it was my doing, not hers.” Her quick humor was back and she laughed at him. “What do you think I was doing all those long winter days, waiting for you to show up?”

He didn’t laugh back. “I expected you to be improving your mind with worthy reading, learning to play the piano, practicing your French….”

“Well, I wasn’t doing much of that. I was in the kitchen, baking pies.”

He frowned. “Where was my aunt, the Duchess, during all this? I thought she was keeping a firm hand in your development.”

She shook her head. She was going to have to rat on the lady, but she guessed it didn’t matter. She’d long ago moved to the coast of France. “Your aunt, the Duchess, was usually confined to her room with a headache and a bottle of vermouth most days until teatime.”

He stared at her, aghast. “Are you serious? Why didn’t you tell me about that?”

“Because I wanted to be in the kitchen, not reciting lessons to the Duchess. It worked out better for both of us. She had her thing. I had mine.”

He groaned. Guilt was piling up all around him. If he’d thought about it he would have realized the Duchess wasn’t living up to her agreements. But he was as bad as Julienne. When he came to the castle, he’d wanted to be with her, not quizzing the Duchess to see if she had been a hard enough taskmaster.

“Oh, don’t worry. I had my lessons with the governess in the morning. I got plenty done.”

“Well, I guess that’s a relief.”

“And then I went to the convent. At first they wouldn’t let me into the kitchen at all. But about six months into my stay the convent cook came down with hives and someone had to take over the cooking. The next thing you know I was in there, baking away.” She smiled, remembering. Happy memories. “When I volunteered they were all relieved, and even after she got over the hives and came back she was glad to have my help in the kitchen. She taught me a lot.”

He was shaking his head. “No one ever told me.”

“No? Why should they?” She threw him a scathing look. “By that time you’d decided to wash your hands of me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m only taking off the rose-colored glasses and facing reality. You stayed away. You left me to my own devices. What did you expect? You’re just lucky I didn’t decide to become a bomb-throwing Marxist. Plenty of royals are into that these days.”

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