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Somewhat surprised by his cook’s familiar greeting, Rosalind glanced at Sebastian to see him grinning.

“I confess, when I became too old to sneak down here without suffering a reprimand from my governess, I put Vickers under oath to inform me whenever Chelsea buns were coming out of the oven,” he said.

“Well, I must say, that explains a great deal,” Mrs. Shoup said with a chuckle. She lifted two small plates from a cupboard above her head and set them beside a large pan of freshly baked buns. “Take a seat, and I’ll bring you both a bun and a cup of tea.”

“Thank you.” Sebastian took Rosalind’s elbow and guided her to a large wooden table in the center of the room. A handful of chairs surrounded it. He pulled one out for her, and once she was seated, he took the one beside her.

Across the room, two scullery maids were hard at work. One was scrubbing pans in a large pail of water. The other was peeling carrots. They each glanced at Sebastian and Rosalind, but neither seemed remotely shocked to see the duke and duchess sitting at the kitchen table.

“I gather you frequent the kitchen more than most noblemen,” Rosalind said.

“Probably,” Sebastian replied. “Mrs. Shoup has been the Finley Park cook since before I was born. It’s hard to break a habit that started in your childhood . . . especially if the habit is rewarded by baked goods and copious cups of tea.”

“You could just ask to have them brought to you,” Rosalind pointed out.

“True. But I find that I rather like having somewhere I can go that is as far removed from my work as it can possibly be.” He shrugged. “My visits to the kitchen rarely require any calculations or financial decisions but always include something tasty to eat and an insight into the inner workings of the house that I would not acquire any other way. I would fully recommend regular excursions to the kitchen to any gentleman with the good fortune to have a skilled cook.”

“So the rumors were wrong; you do seek out the company of others occasionally.”

A deep line furrowed his brow. “I am not quite so unsocial as all that, Rosalind.”

Her attempt at humor had fallen flat, but before she could do anything to rectify it, Mrs. Shoup appeared at her elbow, a plated Chelsea bun in one hand and a cup of tea in the other. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not welcome you to the kitchen when you first arrived. It’s a pleasure to have you here.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Shoup.”

The cook inclined her head and set another plate and cup of tea before Sebastian. “There you are, Your Grace. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to my soup and let you be.”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the two occupants of the table, and Rosalind recognized that it was her turn to apologize. “My comment was flippant. Forgive me. I did not mean to be disparaging.”

He released a heavy sigh. “I am well aware that many in Society consider me a recluse, and I will own to being more comfortable on my own than in large groups. But that does not signify that I do not ever enjoy the company of others.”

“I know.”

“Perhaps not.” His smile was weak. “But I hope that in time, you will.”

She bowed her head. She had not meant to sound critical, but she could not deny that it had come across that way.

“Rosalind.” Reluctantly, she met his eyes. “We agreed to be patient with each other, but I think being patient with ourselves may be just as important.” He smiled, and this time, it held more warmth. “Having said that, I should note that Mrs. Shoup was not privy to our pact, so I suggest we drink our tea and eat our Chelsea buns with alacrity. It would not do to upset her.”

Rosalind hazarded a glance at Mrs. Shoup. Her back was to them, and she was humming over her pot. “Will she really be put out if we do not finish every morsel?”

Sebastian raised one eyebrow. “She prepares all our food. Do you believe it worth the risk to find out?”

A giggle escaped her. “No. Not at all.”

He grinned. “Try the bun. Finishing it will come easily.”

Chapter 14

Rosalind lay in her bed, staring at the shadowy swathes of fabric draped across the tall bedframe above her head. She should be asleep. Darkness had fallen hours ago. And yet, her mind refused to listen to her exhausted body. A day full of words and pictures spun through her head in a pirouetting frenzy. Her vacillating emotions were a study of confusion. How could the gentleman who had abandoned her only yesterday—and who had shown no more inclination to invite her into his workshop today than he had into his tree house years ago—be the same person who made her heart race when he stood beside her, met her repartee with his own, and willingly shared with her his beloved Chelsea buns?

She groaned, hardly daring to revisit the moment she had taken his hand and kissed his cheek. Her face warmed at the memory. It had been an impulsive reaction after his unexpected willingness to host a ball in that marvelous ballroom. Had he thought her presumptuous? Somehow, they had navigated that moment, along with the awkwardness of the empty dining room and locked workshop, and had spent a pleasant half an hour in the kitchen, eating a luncheon of Chelsea buns and tea.

They had parted ways after that unconventional meal. Sebastian had gone to attend to whatever had so captured his attention in the workshop, and she had met with Mrs. Frost to review the household expenses. Rosalind draped her arm over her eyes as the memory of the rows and rows of tabulated expenses marched through her head. No matter that Rosalind had an affinity for numbers, if it had not been for her mother’s insistence that she learn from Langton Manor’s books, she would have been sunk. As it was, Finley Park’s monthly financial outlay was staggering, and Rosalind had already determined that she would need to receive some reassurance from Sebastian before she was willing to purchase anything more expensive than a serviette.

Was it wrong that she was glad for an excuse to see Sebastian again? She groaned a second time. She was lonely. That was why the unfamiliar longing in her heart was so palpable. Perhaps she should have gone downstairs to eat, even if it was only to see more servants. But she was not quite ready to sit at the vast dining room table and relive the hollow feelings of yesterday. Not even if Sebastian had deigned to emerge from his workshop this time.

With a grunt of frustration, she tossed back the covers and got out of bed. She put on her dressing gown, and taking the one candle still burning at her bedside, she tiptoed across the chilly floor to the writing table. Her diary sat where she’d left it the night before. Opening to the back page, she reached for the quill and dipped it in the inkwell. It was time to put today behind her.