Simply Unforgettable by Mary Balogh Page A

been going for some time.
    She was wearing a similar dress to yesterday’s except that this one was cream in color and suited her better. Her hair was neatly, sleekly dressed. She was wrapped again in a large apron. He could see steam curling from the spout of the kettle. There was something cooking on the range top. On the table was a bowl of what looked like whipped eggs.
    He was, he realized suddenly, ravenously hungry.
    He was also curiously charmed by the domesticity of the scene—and more than a little aroused by it. There was something almost erotic about the sight of a woman bending and turning and absorbed in the task of cooking a meal.
    It was a thought that he must definitely not pursue any further. She was a schoolteacher and doubtless virtuous to a fault.
    She was, in other words, strictly off-limits.
    She turned from the fire as if she felt his eyes on her and saw him looking in on her. And then—
damnation!
—she actually smiled and looked dazzling even this early in the morning. That smile of hers was a lethal weapon, and under present circumstances he would be just as happy if she did not use it on him.
    She beckoned him and pointed at the cooking food.
    When he entered the kitchen a few minutes later after shaking out his greatcoat and changing his boots, he could see that she had laid two places at the long kitchen table.
    â€œI trust you do not mind eating in here,” she said, turning her head to acknowledge his presence before returning her attention to the eggs, which she was now scrambling over the heat. “I roused Wally a while ago and sent him for water. Then he felt he had earned breakfast with Thomas and Peters. Only now has he been assigned the lighting of the fire in the taproom. The kitchen will be a cozier place for us to eat.”
    â€œThe men have already eaten?” he asked, rubbing his hands together and breathing in the mingled smells of smoked bacon and fried potatoes and coffee.
    â€œI could have called you in too,” she said. “But you looked as if you were enjoying yourself.”
    â€œI was,” he said.
    She set a generous plateful of food before him and a more modest one at her place. She removed the apron and took her seat.
    â€œI suppose,” he said, getting up again to pour the coffee, “you made the fire in here yourself.”
    â€œI did,” she said. “Is this not a strange adventure?”
    He laughed, and she looked sharply at him before dipping her head to look down at her plate again.
    â€œHave you ever been in charge of an inn kitchen before?” he asked her. “And the appetites of four grown men?”
    â€œNever,” she said. “Have you ever shoveled snow away from a country inn?”
    â€œGood Lord! Never.”
    This time they both laughed.
    â€œA strange adventure indeed,” he agreed. “You told me yesterday that all over Christmas you longed for snow. What would you have done with it if it had come?”
    â€œI would have gazed out on it in wonder and awe,” she said. “Snow for Christmas is so very rare. And I pictured myself wading about the neighborhood through it with the village carolers—but there
were
no carolers this year. And wading through it to the Assembly Rooms for a Christmas ball. But there was none.”
    â€œA poor-spirited village if ever I heard of one,” he said. “Everyone stayed at home and stuffed themselves with goose and pudding, I suppose?”
    â€œI suppose so,” she said. “And my great-aunts refused the invitations they received in favor of remaining home in order to enjoy the company of their great-niece.”
    â€œWho would have far preferred to be kicking up her heels at a village dance,” he said. “A grim Christmas you had of it, ma’am. You have my heartfelt sympathies.”
    â€œPoor me,” she agreed, though her eyes were now dancing with merriment.
    â€œThose are the only uses