Alice stared at the Duke of Lockwood over the rim of her water glass. He was perfectly turned out in a black evening suit with white vest and bow tie, his handsomeness and aristocratic bearing drawing nearly every eye in the room. The tables around them were full, as they were on most nights, and Alice tried not to fidget under the increased attention.

This is what you wanted. A man who likes you, a man you might grow to love.

Why, then, was she so forlorn? So dead inside? It could not be because of Kit, as she had decided to put him firmly out of her mind for good. Flowers or not, Kit was headed down a different path. Alice had to marry to escape the insufferable presence of her mother, to start a life in her own home with her own kitchen. And with a man who wanted her by his side. She was not a rebellious upstart, willing to throw away her chance at security and happiness on a man who refused to claim her publicly.

In her head she knew this was the right decision, but her heart was not operating on logic. No, that particular organ followed a completely separate set of rules, and it was devastated at the moment, yearning for the man who’d stolen a chunk of it the other night.

It will heal. The hurt will go away.

She had to keep telling herself as much. Otherwise, she might crumple into a ball under the bedclothes and never emerge.

“What do you recommend?” the duke asked as he studied the menu. “I hear the lobster thermidor is excellent.”

Her throat closed up with memories of the other night, of Kit and his mind-numbing kisses. “Yes,” she finally managed. “It is delicious.”

“Excuse me, sir. Miss.” Their waiter interrupted by setting down a plate of clam fritters. “Chef has sent this for you to enjoy. He said it is one of the lady’s favorites.”

“Please give Chef my thanks,” Alice said, and the waiter left. She gestured to the plate. “Try one. His clam fritters are heaven on a plate.”

“I don’t see those on the menu.” Lockwood put down his menu and cocked his head. “How did Chef Franconi know?”

Because I spend at least four nights a week in his kitchen, watching and tasting. Learning.

“He used to work for my parents in Boston. I’ve known him since I was a young girl.”

Instead of exhibiting ducal horror at the commingling of classes, Lockwood appeared fascinated. “You are like an onion, Miss Lusk. So many interesting layers. Did you spend a lot of time in the kitchen, then?”

“More than my mother liked, actually. She was forever chasing me out of there.”

“You must have a love of food, I would imagine.”