The Bad Luck Wedding Cake by Geralyn Dawson Page B

there.”
    He looked so appalled that she couldn’t help but laugh. With that, her tension eased. “What’s the matter, Lord McBride? You don’t like being popular?”
    “Popular, hah,” he scoffed. “These gals look at me and see one thing. Some silly bit of inheritance that doesn’t mean a dam—darned thing. I’m glad you’re not like that, Claire. It’s reassuring to know that not all women are feather-heads. I’d hate for the Blessings to grow up that way.”
    Claire smiled weakly and turned back to her cake. He was right about one thing. When she looked at him she didn’t see an English title, she saw a handsome, virile man. Which put her right in there with the feather-heads after all.
    Glancing down at her bowl, she saw she’d beat the butter to a cream without awareness of the effort. “So why are you calling on me? Are you hiding?”
    “Darned straight, I am. At last count there were ten ladies up there offering to help baby-sit the Blessings. Each one of them had rounded up a kid of some sort— a niece, a nephew, a neighbor’s child—to come play at our house. Even Mrs. Wilson showed up since she ended up staying in town overnight and now has time to kill before her train leaves for Dallas. The girls are in heaven, but for me it was pure hell. So I escaped. Told Mrs. W. I’d be back before her train left. What are you making?”
    “Snow Cake.” She added arrowroot to the mixture, then a half-pound of flour, trying her best to ignore her visitor. She wasn’t having much luck.
    He rose from his seat and began to pace the small kitchen. He made her feel like a cook in a lion cage. “You’re making me nervous, McBride,” she said as she stirred in her flour. “Go in the front and pace if you must.”
    “No, they might peek in the windows and see me.”
    “Then find something to do.” She gradually added a half-pound of sifted white sugar to the mix, sensing the weight of his gaze all the while. At least he’d quit marching.
    When she laid down her wooden spoon and reached for an egg, he approached her, saying, “I’ll help you with the cake. Except the poison part, that is. I won’t contribute to that.”
    She fumbled the egg. “Poison?”
    “That potion of yours. The Magic. Here,” he grabbed the egg from her hand, “you’re fixing to make a mess. I’ll do the eggs.” He cracked the shell gently against the rim of her mixing bowl.
    Claire stopped him just in time. “No, not in the batter. This recipe uses only egg whites. I’ll do it.”
    She tried to take the egg away from him, but he dodged her reach. “I know how to separate eggs. Get me a bowl.”
    “No. I—”
    “You told me to find something to do. I’m going to help.”
    That she sincerely doubted. He’d already proved to be a distraction to her. Now that he’d taken up a position at her side, it only grew worse.
    He smelled delicious. She tried to put a name to the scent. Spicy, certainly. Hot, zippy spices. Maybe cayenne or red pepper. But savory, too. Like warm sweet cream. And—she leaned a little closer to get another whiff— manly. Musky. Yummy. Figure out this recipe and you can forget all about Magic .
    “How many?”
    His voice jerked her back to the present. “What?”
    “How many egg whites?”
    “Oh. Um…” She couldn’t remember. She’d made this cake a thousand times and now she couldn’t remember. Disgusted with herself, Claire checked the recipe.
    “Six.”
    He whistled while he worked; a jaunty, bawdy tune. It bothered Claire. Having him around bothered Claire. The fact that she was bothered bothered Claire. “Oh, bother!”
    She set her mixing spoon down with a bang and moved away from him, taking a seat in the chair he’d so recently vacated.
    “What’s the matter?” he asked.
    “I’m taking a break. I’m the boss, I can do that.”
    He nodded and cracked another egg. Despite her best intentions, she couldn’t help but watch his hands as they gently juggled the yolk from