He brought out a few pages and spread them open on the table in front of them. “Here is your winning dish. I’ve decided on whale steak and mushroom pie,” he said with a grin. “The Ministry of Food chaps will be head over heels that you’re using whale meat. They’re finding it incredibly hard to shift.”

The idea worked its way through her mind. “That’s all very well, but how are we going to mask the taste?”

He laughed slightly, pulling himself closer to her conspiratorially. “If you know how to cook it properly and conceal the flavors, it’s just like a jolly good piece of steak.”

She let out a tinkle of a laugh. “Ambrose will love that! I wouldn’t have known where to start.”

“You’ve probably never had the need to cook whale meat, luckily for you.” He grinned. “In the restaurant trade, we have to show willing—especially if we have one of those weeks when we can’t get anything else.”

The first page had a list of ingredients, and behind it was an illustration showing how the final dish would be arranged on the plate.

“How clever of you to think of presentation, too.” She held the page up to get a better look, turning it toward the light.

“It’s utterly crucial.” His eyes gleamed. “Cooking, to me, is more than just taste and nourishment. It’s about art.” He came in closer, his voice softer. “It describes how we feel about ourselves, about life.”

“How poetic. Sometimes I feel this war is killing poetry, making everything so uniform and orderly. Bossing us about.”

He smiled. “I can’t imagine anyone bossing you about, Lady Gwendoline.”

Her face fell as she thought of her husband, always angry. Perhaps it was Chef James’s handsome face, or it could have been his gentle eyes, but Lady Gwendoline found herself confiding, “Sometimes life at the top isn’t as much fun as it seems. It can be quite lonely.”

“Life can be lonely wherever you are. It’s not easy being a top London chef, either. A lot of people view a young man out of uniform as a coward or deserter. Sometimes I feel like an outcast.” He dipped his head.

    She reached over and put her hand on his. “Don’t feel that way! It’s so unfair of people to treat you like that! Top restaurants are crucial, keeping spirits up and showing Hitler that life goes on as usual.”

“Thank you, Lady Gwendoline. I can tell that underneath, deep inside, you have a kind, generous heart.”

She felt her heart stop for a moment. “No one has ever said that before.” How could this man—this newcomer—see so much inside her? She felt disarmed, and yet a gush of gratitude flurried through her. “Most people only see what’s on the surface.”

“I don’t know what it is, maybe we’re similar, or perhaps we have a special connection, but I feel as if I already know you.”

And before she knew it, she was replying, “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”

He took her hand to kiss it, turning it over to kiss the palm.

Which is when he saw the bruising on her wrist.

Gently, he lowered her hand back to the table, holding it and stroking her palm with his thumb.

She blushed, both humiliated by what he had seen and, if she were honest, overwhelmed by the sensation of his skin on hers. How sensitive he was.

How strange it felt that someone finally knew.

For a moment, they sat there, looking into each other’s eyes as the clock ticks faded into the background. She had never before felt this new, strange breathlessness, as if he saw right into the vulnerable and caged woman inside.

“Did your husband do this to you?” he whispered, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being overheard.

“No, of course not,” she lied. But her hand remained there, her breathing fast. “He’s a good man, well—perhaps not very good, but—”

    He bent his head down carefully and kissed her wrist and then turned his head and softly kissed the side of her neck. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul.”

The last time she had been kissed was so long ago that she could barely remember the sheer headiness of it. The softness, the uneasy laying open of her feelings, her needs, and the passion escalating inside her like a firework that had been desperate to explode for decades.

What am I doing? she thought frantically. Yet she could barely stop herself from falling into his arms.

Suddenly, a knock at the door made her leap away.

It was the butler.

“A telephone call for you, m’lady.” He looked from one to the other.

Did he suspect?

“Who is it?” she said impatiently.

“The home economist in Middleton would like to know if you can cover her demonstration. She has suffered a bereavement.”

Frustration overwhelming her, she excused herself and strode out to the telephone in the hall. The last thing she wanted was to end this meeting with Chef James.

What had passed between them? The way she felt, his kindness, his warmth—she had never felt those things before.

But, more to the point, she wanted it to carry on forever.

The telephone call was short. The poor woman was devastated—her son had been killed in Singapore. There wasn’t anything she could do. She had to drop everything and drive over to Middleton to do the Sheep’s Head Roll demonstration, of all things.

Returning to the back reception room, distraught, she broke the news to Chef James that she was going to have to draw their meeting to an end.

He stood, taking her hand in his sorrowfully. “That’s all right. You must be a very busy woman. I completely understand.”

No, you don’t understand! her mind thought chaotically. My life is nothing without you!

    But then his eyes bore into hers again, his finger sweeping the palm of her hand, a gesture at once warm and flirtatious. “I will see you the afternoon of the contest, Lady Gwendoline.”

“Th-thank you,” she said, a headiness coming over her that she had never felt before.

He turned and left, and she watched his broad shoulders as he passed out the door and into the hall, listening to his footsteps, a few words with the butler, then the front door closing.

The room felt empty. His absence seemed to leave a vacuum in the great house, as if he’d removed every speck of light and heat.

Only one burning question filled her mind.

How can things ever carry on as usual after this?

How could she stop herself from falling in love with this man? Was this how it felt before an affair?

Sir Strickland would murder her. That was certain.

But does he have to know?

It could only be once—one moment of happiness. That was all that she needed. It would keep her going—make her feel alive…

She hurried to her bedroom, dressed quickly in a navy skirt suit, and out she went. The drive wasn’t long, but she couldn’t be late.

How tedious it is! she thought.

And yet deep inside, her heart beat faster, her blood coursing through her body as if it had been suddenly brought back to life.

By the time she was back from Middleton it was four in the afternoon. The demonstration had not gone well—although unrationed, Sheep’s Head Roll was evidently not a crowd-pleaser.

How she longed to be back in the privacy of her reception room, free to think about the morning with Chef James.

Free to dream about the next time she saw him—the Saturday of the cooking contest.

But she was not to have her space. Minutes after her return, Brackett entered.

“Sir Strickland requests a meeting with you in his study, m’lady.”

The butler’s eyes didn’t meet hers, which didn’t mean anything per se, but there was an ominous feeling in the invitation.

    As she tidied her hair in front of the large, circular mirror in her reception room, she wondered what it could be, and as she trod softly through the hallway, she listened for the telltale sounds of files being thrown across the room, bellowing voices, telephone receivers being slammed down.

But all was silent, only the echo of the grandfather clock that had stood in its spot beside the library door for the past hundred years, watching with the steady eye of a magistrate.

Anxiety washed over her, but she pulled herself together, murmuring, “Come on, Gwendoline. You’re tough. You can take it.”

Slowly, she raised her hand and knocked gently. “Darling,” she said in her most normal, cheery voice. “Brackett told me to pop in.”

There was nothing. She let out a long, relieved sigh. He must have changed his mind. Her heart was racing, her hands sweating. She turned to go.

But suddenly, the door swung open, and there he was—his nostrils flared, his eyes bulging with almost deranged rage—her husband.

“Get in here.” He grabbed her silk blouse by the collar and jerked her toward him into the study, throwing the door so that it slammed shut behind her.

“What is it, darling?” she asked. Her mind frantically leafed through the events of the last day, trying desperately to recall the reason for this anger. There must be something she did—or didn’t do—something she said, some way that she’d inadvertently humiliated him, exposed him. She knew it was pointless to search for it, though—she could never tell when something could be misconstrued, how one word could signal treachery, betrayal.