Alice followed the faint smell of roasted meat down to the chateau’s kitchen. Dinner had long finished and her mother had turned in for the night. Which meant Alice was free to do as she wished without being followed.

Originally, she planned to find Kit and embark on more lessons, but something about their conversation during cocktails bothered her. He’d actively tried to talk her out of pursuing the Duke of Lockwood, offering up excuses on why the match was unsuitable. Why? Wasn’t Kit eager to wash his hands of her?

It made no sense. Kit was a certified scoundrel. A first-rate bounder with no intention of marrying. And even if he did plan to take a wife, he wouldn’t want Alice.

Christopher is not the marrying kind.

Maddie knew it. Katherine had warned her away, too. Entertaining romantic thoughts about Kit was foolish and impossible, like wishing on rainbows. Alice was much too practical for that nonsense, and she needed to find a suitable husband instead.

So, she would work harder to ignore the fluttering in her stomach when they were together. To forget the racing of her heart, or the heavy pulse between her legs when Kit kissed her. It was temporary. She needed to build up distance between them—literally and figuratively.

Which was why she went to the chateau’s kitchen that night.

The kitchen was huge, a big open space where multiple staff members could move about freely. A long table stood in the middle, which was where the Websters’ cook, Mrs. Berman, waited. “Forgive my tardiness,” Alice said as she entered. “I had to see my mother settled first.”

Mrs. Berman had dark brown hair with a touch of gray at the temples. Though she was probably tired, she gave Alice a smile and held up an apron. “No apologies necessary, miss. There’s always plenty to do around here. I’ve kept busy, believe me.”

Alice tied the fresh apron over her clothing. After dinner, she had changed out of her silk evening gown and into a more casual dress. “You are kind to show me how to bake this bread. I am eager to see the magic that makes it so delicious.”

“It’s an honor. Not many ladies are interested in cooking or baking.”

“My mother often reminds me of that—which is why it’s easier for me to sneak down here at night.”

“I understand. It’ll be our secret.”

Alice relaxed, relieved. “Thank you. Now, tell me about this bread.” There had been a unique cinnamon bread at afternoon tea the past two days, unlike anything she’d ever tasted. The texture was similar to a brioche, but different. So Alice had asked Mrs. Berman to let her assist in making it.

Mrs. Berman motioned to the table, where ingredients and jars waited. “It is called babka, which in Polish means ‘grandmother.’”

“Are you from Poland, then?”