"Then hold here and scrape."

Stephen watched Pierre hold the fish by the tail and scale it by running the flat edge of the knife along the body.

"You cut off here and voilà, you are done." Pierre whacked off the tail and added the small fish to the pile of cleaned ones. "You do this and Pierre get his other work done."

Stephen handled the knife awkwardly at first and nearly cut his finger off once, but he eventually got the hang of it, although he could never match Pierre's speed and proficiency.

At first Stephen couldn't imagine what had possessed him to volunteer to help Pierre, other than some insane curiosity to learn an activity completely foreign to him. But he found, much to his surprise, he actually enjoyed cleaning the fish. He felt quite proud of himself when he finished and laid his knife aside.

Pierre examined his work and grunted. "You do good job. Now I show you how to cook."

Stephen spent the next hour in the kitchen with his mentor, learning the intricacies of preparing a midday meal for a family of hungry people. Side by side they fried the mound of fish, steamed a huge pot of vegetables, and baked several loaves of bread while Pierre entertained him with stories of his years serving as cook on Captain Albright's ship.

Listening to the amusing tales, a sense of belonging stole over Stephen-something he'd never experienced in his own home. It was accompanied by a feeling of accomplishment and satisfaction. Such simple tasks, cleaning fish and chopping vegetables, but they inspired a camaraderie he'd never known. Is this what his servants did? Chatted and laughed? Were they friends with each other? He shook his head. He had absolutely no idea, and the realization that he knew so little about the people who worked for him shamed him. They had lives and families, yet he'd never taken the time to know them. Of course, if the Marquess of Glenfield had ever offered to assist in his own kitchens, his staff would have fainted dead away.

Just before they carried the food into the dining room, Pierre set a plate of fish skins on the floor for Bertha the cat.

"I thought you hated that cat," Stephen remarked with a smile as he watched the cook fondly pat the feline's head as she wound herself in between his legs.

"Bertha is good. Keep mice away." He flashed a quick grin. "But don't tell Mademoiselle Hayley. It is our secret, oui?"

Stephen nodded his agreement, then helped Pierre bring the steaming platters of food into the dining room. They arrived just as the Albrights entered the room.

Hayley looked at Stephen in surprise when she saw his arms laden with a heavy platter, which he set in the center of the table.

Stephen caught her look and smiled. "I'll have you know I helped prepare our lunch," he stated, unable to keep the pride from his voice.

"You did?" Hayley looked at Pierre, who confirmed Stephen's words with a solemn nod.

"He good cook. Not très magnifique like Pierre, but good." He graced a beaming smile on Stephen. "You're welcome in Pierre's kitchen anytime."

Hayley gaped at the cook. "You don't allow anyone to help you in the kitchen."

Pierre frowned at Hayley, then turned to Stephen. "She cannot even heat zee water," he imparted to Stephen in a loud whisper.

Hayley frowned at Pierre, but Stephen saw her lips twitch. "I admit that I'm not a very good cook."

Pierre rolled his eyes. "Sacrebleu! She is very bad cook. When she cook, run from zee house."

Stephen laughed, imagining the Albrights dashing from the house en masse. He moved around the table and took his place at Hayley's right, with Callie on his other side. When they sat down, Stephen leaned over to Callie.

"How is Miss Josephine this morning?" he whispered.

Callie flashed him a wide, dimpling smile. "She feels quite well, thank you. She's resting now."

"I quite understand," he said solemnly. "She suffered a horrifying experience."

"But she's all right now. Thanks to you." Callie looked up at him with wide, worshipful eyes. "You're a hero, Mr. Barrettson."

Stephen's hands stilled in the process of lifting his fork to his mouth. A hero. If his throat hadn't tightened so, he would have laughed out loud at the absurdity of such a notion. Ah, the sweet things innocent children said.

If only they were true.


* * *

Hayley watched Stephen all through the midday meal, amazed by what she saw. He laughed openly at Nathan's and Andrew's antics, charmed Aunt Olivia until the woman was reduced to a stammering, blushing state of near incoherence, and even drew Grimsley and Winston into conversation about the merits of fishing. He conversed with Pamela about music, and quite often bent his head toward Callie, smiling at whatever the child said in his ear.

In fact, he spoke to, and utterly charmed, every member of the Albright family.

Except her.

At first Hayley thought she was imagining that Stephen was ignoring her, but when she touched his sleeve to gain his attention, he jerked his arm away, answered her question with a monosyllable, then turned his focus back to Andrew and Nathan.

He might as well have slapped her. Hot embarrassment suffused her, only to be pushed aside by a flush of anger. What on earth had she done to merit such dismissive behavior on his part? Good heavens, the man was utterly impossible. One minute he kissed her as if he never wanted to stop, and the next he avoided her as if she carried a deadly disease. He gave her expensive gifts, only to turn around and ignore her the next day. Was it because she was H. Tripp? He'd assured her that their conversation on that subject was forgotten. Had he lied?

The more Hayley thought about it, the angrier and more offended she became. She'd been hurt by a man once before, and she wasn't going to let it happen again. By the time the meal was finished, she was in a fine rage, her blood all but boiling. How on earth could she have imagined herself in love with such a man? Kind one minute, cold the next. He clearly couldn't make up his mind about anything.

"Are you going to sit there all day?"

Stephen's amused voice broke through her reverie. Glancing around, she noticed everyone had left the dining room.

"You've been sitting there for quite some time, staring off into space with a ferocious frown on your face," he remarked from the doorway.

Settling a glare on him, she arose with as much dignity as she could muster. "I cannot see what difference it makes to you whether I sit there all day or not."

Stephen's brows rose. He walked toward her, stopping when only a foot separated them, blocking her exit from the room.

"Kindly move yourself," she said stiffly, trying to maneuver around him.

He sidestepped and blocked her exit. "You're upset. Why?"

She prodded him in the chest and he grunted. "Ouch."

"Why would you care if I'm upset or not? It was clear during our meal you had nothing to say to me. Why this sudden show of concern?"

Stephen's gaze roamed her face, and a guilty flush crept over him. He had ignored her during lunch. Not with the intention of angering her or hurting her feelings, but for reasons of self-preservation. In his attempt to avoid temptation, he'd clearly hurt and angered her. A pang of remorse hit him squarely in the gut.

Cupping her face between his palms, he ran his thumbs over her cheeks. "I'm sorry."

He watched the anger ebb from her eyes, only to be replaced by a look of utter hurt confusion. "I thought we were getting along so well. What did I do wrong? Is it because of… who I am?"

Stephen laid a single finger over her lips. "No, Hayley. You did nothing wrong. I was simply trying to avoid temptation."

"Temptation?"

"You tempt me beyond all endurance, I'm afraid. I thought if I ignored you, I wouldn't be tempted by you." A sheepish smile quirked one corner of his mouth. "Not only was my plan a miserable failure, but I hurt you in the process." Unable to stop himself, he leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers. "I'm sorry. You deserve better." So much better than I can give you. He pulled away and studied her face. That rush of warm feeling she frequently inspired squeezed his heart. "Can you forgive me?"

She studied him for several seconds then smiled. "Of course."

Damn. Just another facet of her to admire. She grants forgiveness without a scene or coyness. He rubbed the sore spot on his chest where she'd jabbed him. "This is the second time I've seen you angry. To avoid further injury to my person, perhaps you should tell me what upsets you."

"You mean besides pigheaded men who are warm and kind one minute and cold and forbidding the next?"

"Yes. And I am not pigheaded."

"That is a matter of opinion," she said, her dimples winking.

"Perhaps. What else makes you angry?"

She pursed her lips and pondered the question for a moment. "Unkindness. Selfishness. Cruelty. Lies," she finally answered, her tone serious.

Her words washed over him, filling him with shame. Unkindness. Selfishness. Cruelty. Lies. He was guilty of everyone of those things. Especially lies, where she was concerned.

Forcing a light note into his voice, he said, "I shall endeavor not to engage in any of those activities." Too late, Stephen, his inner voice shouted.

"I have no fear you'd ever act unkindly, selfishly, or in a cruel or deceitful manner," she said softly, looking at him with her heart in her eyes.

Another wave of guilt swamped him, lying so heavily on his chest, he had to struggle to draw a breath. A frown formed between his brows. Tell her. Tell her now.