Page 51 of Ruined by the Wrong Earl

Whenever Nora visited here, she felt a strong connection to her father. She missed him, and memories of him would arise at different times. As a trader, he often was away, but he made up for lost time whenever he was home. Nora and her sisters would rush to welcome him and gather around him to listen to tales of his travels. He’d bring home rare silk scarves and ribbons for Sara, who enjoyed anything to do with fashion, and charcoals for Candace, who was always drawing. And, of course, he’d bring home seashells for Nora. He knew how much she loved the exotic shells.

Nora passed a fishmonger and a shoemaker before coming up to the row of small homes. She stepped onto the porch, but before she lifted the brass door knocker, the door opened.

‘Nora!’

A woman in her late sixties with dark hair silvering at the temples stood in the doorway. She wore a green dress with a colorful patchwork apron. Her brown eyes brightened as she ushered Nora in.

As soon as Nora entered, the woman engulfed her in a hug and kissed both her cheeks.

‘Hello, Auntie Ani.’

Ani was her father’s stepmother, and they’d always considered her a blood relative. Growing up, Nora’s father would bring the girls to visit Ani weekly. The woman was a fabulous cook.

‘Come sit.’

Nora followed Ani to her small parlor. The furnishings were simple, a sofa and well-used rocking chair with a hand-stitched cushion. A knit blanket was draped across the back of the sofa. A cupboard held small demitasse cups and a jazzve, a special pot used to make Middle Eastern coffee. Nora’s father would bring home the dark, finely ground coffee from his travels.

‘Are you hungry? I’ll bring mezza. You must be tired of plain English fare.’

Nora smiled. Ani always thought English food was lacking. Nora would love to drink the velvety coffee and enjoy a sampling of Ani’s food, but that wasn’t the purpose of her visit.

‘Please do not trouble yourself.’

‘Hmm.’ Ani sat across from her. ‘Your sister was here yesterday.’

‘Candace?’

‘No, Sara. She asked for special cloth embroidered with peacocks to make a skirt. She is quite a designer.’ Ani leaned back in the rocking chair. ‘Now, as for you. You look well and marriage suits you, Nora. Tell me about your lord.’

‘He’s well.’ Ani always had a sense of knowing if something was off or if she was lying. It was why she could never steal an extra treat from her kitchens.

‘Hmm. Just well?’

What was she to say? He’d been more than considerate. He’d been generous with money and hadn’t protested—had even encouraged—her purchase of a microscope. He had provided her a room in which to keep her books and other scientific paraphernalia. Their outing to the circulating library had been perfect, except for her run-in with Umbridge. As for their more intimate relationship, he hadn’t yet opened the shared door between their bedchambers. It was confusing and she wasn’t sure how she felt about his consideration.

When it came to herself…well…she grew more and more conscious of him every time he entered a room. The more she learned about him, the more fascinating she found him. He was dedicated to his bill and concerned for the vulnerable children in the city. He was also mindful of his political career and would be under pressure if he lost. It made him vulnerable and made her care more for him.

‘That’s why I’m here,’ she said.

‘Ah, trouble?’

‘No. I took him to Berj’s tavern. He enjoyed our food.’

Ani arched a brow. ‘An Englishman liked hummus?’

She recalled his reaction when he’d first dipped the pita bread in the spread and tasted it. He could not have faked his pleasure. It would mean much if she could prepare similar food for him and for him to enjoy it. He’d done things for her and she wanted to do this for him. ‘Very much. I’d like to prepare a meal for him.’

‘That is a surprise. You have never expressed interest in the kitchen before. Rather, you’ve avoided it, your head always buried in a book. Or studying the seashells your father brought home.’

‘I know. I still love my shells. But I want to cook for Ralston. Can you teach me?’ She could painstakingly prepare slides for her microscope. In her mind, cooking was like a formula. She believed she could easily follow a recipe.

How hard could it be?

Cooking was hell.

Nora wiped a bead of sweat off her forehead. The kitchen was as hot as the oven itself. She’d asked Ani how to prepare boreg, an Armenian pastry filled with cheese and herbs and one of Nora’s favorite dishes.

Now she regretted her choice.