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“Recipes don’t have imagery.” She gave him a grudging smile, dimples like two dark currants in her cheeks. “They have ingredients.”

“I wonder if you could bake using a poem instead of a recipe.”

“I wonder if you’ve taken leave of your senses.” She firmed her mouth, deepening the crease in her lush lower lip. He could detect a hint of the perfume she’d worn to the ball on the breeze, and the creamy honey scent of her skin.

“You’ve taken over my senses,” he murmured. “I wanted to say this somewhere more private . . .”

He glanced toward the table. The elderly villagers were seated, except for Aunt Sylvia, who’d begun serving the roast. They seemed occupied and were out of earshot.

He looked back at Nina. “Nina Finch. Will—”

“You’re going to propose.” She was clearly aghast. “Because of last night.”

“And this morning,” he teased. Pink tinted her throat. Her breasts were rising and falling with her quickened breath. Their plump swell made him feel positively carnivorous.

“If you need to ask as a sop to your conscience, go ahead.” She stood taller. “The answer is no.”

“Conscience can go hang.” He met her eyes squarely. “It’s not because of last night, or this morning. It’s because of all the nights and mornings to come.”

He reached out and touched her hand.

“It’s because your whole being is like a melody repeating not in my head, but in my heart. My very blood hums with you.”

“Poetry,” she whispered, her tone dismissive. But her eyes were shining. She hadn’t pulled back.

“A recipe, then,” he said slowly. His thumb slid down the slope of her palm. She made a small sound in her throat.

“A recipe for a life. We combine ourselves. Bodies, minds, hands, hearts. Joys, fears. Dreams. Then we divide the mixture. Not you in Hensthorpe, and me in Chelsea. Us, in both. With Fritz, preferably washed in rosewater, and whatever and whoever else we want to add. Poultry, perhaps.”

The chickens were circling.

Nina’s fingers closed over his thumb. Then their palms slid together.

“I’d planned to open my art gallery in a fruit warehouse.” His heart was rising on a tide of hope. “Why not a farmstead? The literati adore an out-of-the-way locale.”

“You’d put on exhibitions in a barn?”

“I’d remove the cows.” He arched a brow. “But yes, in essence. And Londoners will come by the dozen, by the baker’s dozen. They’ll buy you out of cakes.”

The sun on Nina’s tipped-up face illuminated the faint smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose.

“I meant what I said to you,” she whispered. “I never wanted to marry anyone. Much comfort in cats, little in men. My mother used to repeat that like a lullaby.”

“There’s risk in love.” He acknowledged it, a muscle ticking in his jaw. He leaned forward, and his shadow fell across her.

Her eyes held turbulent emotions. She put her other hand on his chest. “Alan. There’s something I have to tell you.”

Dread snaked through him. He shifted, and the sun flashed in her eyes.

“Lady Kilderbee’s letters,” she said. “You have to give them back.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

Alan looked up at the spun-sugar clouds. The sun was warm on his face. He wasn’t sure if Nina had broken his heart or his brain.

Her voice sounded far away. “You can’t blackmail the duke.”

He stirred himself. “I don’t understand. You’ve developed an eleventh-hour respect for the rule of law?”