Serves 2 to 4

1 tablespoon oil or fat 1 chicken, jointed (or another similar meat) 2 rashers bacon, sliced 2 onions, sliced

3 garlic cloves, crushed and chopped, if available A handful of sliced vegetables (capsicum, fennel, carrot, or celery) A handful of sliced mushrooms 1 tablespoon flour 1 pound ripe tomatoes, crushed 1 pint stock

3 tablespoons red wine, 1 tablespoon cider, or 1 teaspoon vinegar 2 tablespoons fresh herbs (thyme, sorrel, marjoram, or oregano), or 2 teaspoons dried herbs 1 bay leaf

Heat the oil or fat, then brown the chicken, making sure the skin is crisp, then add the sliced bacon and cook well. Lift the meat and bacon out, add the onions, and sauté until browned, then add the garlic for another few minutes. Add the sliced vegetables and mushrooms and cook until browned. Mix in the flour, stirring to thicken the juices. Add the crushed tomatoes, then the stock, red wine or cider or vinegar, and the herbs and bay leaf, and bring to a boil. Simmer for an hour, or until the chicken is thoroughly cooked and the juices are thick and rich.

Lady Gwendoline

“Where is he?” Lady Gwendoline was pacing around the Fenley Hall kitchen in a flurry—partly for the contest and partly because of the chef. The maid had scrubbed the ovens and tables clean for her and Chef James to cook her second-round course. Saucepans gleamed copper from their hooks. Black pots stood at the ready on the electric stove. Silver knives glinted on the rack, sharp enough to slit a pig’s throat in a single, swift movement.

The chef had been due to arrive, along with the ingredients for her main-course dish, eighteen minutes ago. They only had four hours to cook—four hours to be alone—before getting to the village hall for the next round.

“Has he forgotten me?” She felt her insides unravel in panic.

As she spoke, the door swung open to behold the tall, fine-looking chef. Breath failed her for a moment as he hastened over, took her hands in his, brought them to his lips to kiss. She hadn’t been wrong—hadn’t imagined it in her loneliness. There truly was a connection between them, a thrilling, intense pull that she’d never felt before.

“The trains were delayed. I’m so terribly sorry, there was nothing I could do.” He put the large bag onto the table with that half smile of his. “But now I’m here, so you can sit down, relax. Leave it all up to me.” His presence soothed her in a way she’d never known. Finally she had someone who understood her. When she was with Sir Strickland, the focus was always about him. Kindness and warmth were outside of his scope.

    Why have I never seen it before?

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she murmured blissfully.

Tiptoeing quickly to the door, she peered outside and then shut it tightly. Today, she didn’t want to be seen.

Returning to him, she leaned back against the table, willing him to kiss her.

She’d had enough time to think it through. Other people had affairs, didn’t they? And didn’t she deserve it, after all her mistreatment? Yes, it would be chaotic and out of control, dangerous in the extreme—she didn’t like to think about what Sir Strickland would do to her if he found out. But something inside her had been unhinged, and she couldn’t—she simply couldn’t—leave it alone.

A look of understanding came over his face, and he leaned forward, taking her into his arms, kissing her. As if his touch were sustenance itself, she let herself be carried away with the moment, feeling herself submerge beneath his hands.

Their kissing became more and more ravenous, until a sound from the door made her jolt away.

But it was nothing…wasn’t it?

Unnerved, she bit her lip, rearranged her clothes, and remembered the contest, the cooking, the bag of ingredients on the table.

“Why don’t we cook?” she whispered. “We’ll have time later to carry on where we left off.”

He picked up her hand and led her to the bag. “Come and see what I have.”

Reaching in, he brought out an onion and two shallots; a small package, “scraps of bacon and bacon fat”; a sprig of thyme; a few handfuls of loose, varied mushrooms; a stoppered glass bottle with a dark liquid, “my special beef stock”; and a final, larger package, “a pound of whale steak.”

    “Is it fresh?”

“After they catch a whale, they cut it up and freeze it on board. Fishmongers buy it frozen and have to thaw it—I know, it’s odd that it’s sold by a fishmonger when it’s more like venison, but people think it’s a fish because it lives in the sea.”

“I’ve never actually tasted it. What’s it like?”

“Rich and gamey, which I suppose makes sense since it’s a wild mammal. It can be a little salty, too, but I’ve had it soaking for a few days.” He put a fond hand up to stroke her cheek. “Don’t worry. We’ll be careful about smoothing out the flavors.”

Her heart fluttered with his touch.

But then, as the vile stench of the whale meat seeped from the packet, she felt herself choke. It was like rotten flesh oozing furiously into the air.

“Argh! Is it off?”

He laughed. “I’m afraid it smells rather foul before it’s cooked. Don’t worry, it’ll be fine once I boil it down.”

She held her nose as daintily as she could. “How long do you need to cook it?”

“It can be a bit tough, so we’ll need to give it a good two hours.” He looked around for knives, a chopping board. “First we need to fry the bacon and chopped onion.”

Lady Gwendoline hadn’t a clue where anything was kept in the hall kitchen, so time was spent poking around in cupboards and so forth. Quite often they found themselves head to head in a cabinet, their faces inches away from each other, his lips so soft and inviting.

Was she so wrong for wanting him so much?

She was married—even if her husband was a tyrant, a man she feared and loathed.

And yet part of her couldn’t contain the pull she had toward the dashing chef.

She watched his skillful, manly hands as he took the meat out of its wrapping. It looked like a massive deep-red fillet steak. He quickly sliced it, saying, “If you cut it thinly, the flavors of the sauce get the chance to dilute the meat’s strong taste.”

    This is a proper chef, she thought, watching him heat the pan, add the bacon and onion, moving them by swirling the pan rather than using a spatula. He swept in the small shreds of meat, browning them among the onions, and then scooped in the chopped mushrooms, which soaked up the fats and in turn released their own hearty flavors.

“Do you have flour?” he said. Then, remembering himself, he gave her one of his beguiling smiles. “Sorry to bark orders, but I’m caught in the middle here.” He laughed a little.

“Here it is.” She passed him the flour with a small, ironic curtsy. “I’ll be your sous-chef. Tell me what to do, and I’ll be happy to oblige.” She rather liked that idea, and the notion struck her that he could order her to lie back on the kitchen table, the buttons down the front of her dress slipping undone.

He glanced around at her, his eyebrow cocked in suggestion—was he thinking the same thing? He took the flour, his fingers meeting hers, and sprinkled it in, not bothering to measure it out as she always did.

“How clever you are to know the right proportions,” she murmured, coming up behind him.

“You need to have a gut feeling for it, an eye for estimating.” His eyes flickered over her body.

He reached over to pick up his beef stock, opening the stopper and taking a deep breath of it before handing it to her to smell the rich, beefy liquid.

“What a powerful stock. How did you make it?”

He grinned, adding the entire bottle. “That’s my secret recipe. But just wait, it will have the whale meat tasting of the finest beefsteak in no time.”

The fine, flavorsome tang of herbs, beef stock, and mushrooms was soon wafting deeply through the vaulted kitchen.

As the whale meat boiled away, she began to look for pie dishes for the next stage. After scrutinizing the pantry and finding nothing, she met him as he was coming in.

“Pantries can be like dead-end alleys,” he said with a smile.

    “How very cozy!” she said, squeezing her body past his.

But on the way, he stopped her. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”

Blood pounded through her body. It felt as if he were looking straight through to her heart. “I know. It’s happening to me, too.”

Their eyes urgently met, as if undressing each other, unpacking the whole of their lives.

“I’ve never felt so connected to anyone,” he murmured. “It’s as if we truly understand each other.” He picked up her wrist, looking anxiously at the bruise he saw the previous time. “Even though you say it wasn’t, I know it was your husband who did this.”