A recipe of love

Chapter 13

As Margaret sat in her drawing room, the soft glow of morning light filtering through the lace curtains, her thoughts drifted back to the previous evening in the kitchen. Nothing of consequence had occurred, at least not by society's measure, yet her hands tingled at the memory of Nathaniel's touch. His hands-strong and assured-had enveloped hers as they worked the dough, guiding her movements with a quiet confidence. She could still feel the warmth of his breath as he stood behind her, his voice low and soothing, stirring something in her that she could not quite name.

She closed her eyes, allowing herself to linger on the moment, the way his proximity had made her heart quicken in a way it never had before. But before her thoughts could delve deeper, a soft knock at the door broke her reverie.

"Madam, Mr. Lennox has come to call," Eliza announced with a respectful curtsy, her tone betraying just a hint of amusement. "He's brought flowers, once again."

Margaret sighed lightly, a faint smile playing on her lips. Mr. Lennox's persistence, though flattering, was beginning to tread the line of over-familiarity. Nevertheless, she rose gracefully, smoothing her skirts as she moved to greet him.

In the hall stood Mr. Lennox, tall and beaming, with an artfully arranged bouquet in his hand. He bowed, presenting the flowers with a flourish. "For you, Miss Sinclair," he said, his voice as smooth as the arrangement was lavish. "Though I fear they pale in comparison to your own beauty."

Margaret accepted the bouquet with a practiced smile. "You are too generous, Mr. Lennox," she replied with demure grace, expertly sidestepping the compliment, as was expected.

"Would you care to take a walk?" he asked, offering his arm. "The day is fine, and I thought a turn through the countryside might suit."

After a brief pause, Margaret placed her hand lightly on his arm. "Very well, a short walk, Mr. Lennox. The air is pleasant enough."

As they strolled through the fields, the sun casting a golden hue over the autumn leaves, Mr. Lennox spoke easily of society, his estate, and his recent travels. His words were laced with charm, and more than once, his compliments veered into flirtation. Margaret, however, navigated the conversation with the skill of a seasoned debutante, deflecting his advances with laughter and polite indifference. They exchanged pleasantries and shared the occasional laugh, but she kept the interaction at a respectful distance, never allowing his intentions to linger too close to her.

When they returned to the house, Margaret felt a quiet relief that the afternoon had come to an end. On the steps, Mr. Lennox once again took her hand, pressing a gallant kiss upon it.

"Until next we meet, Miss Sinclair," he said, holding her gaze for a moment longer than propriety dictated.

Margaret offered a small, courteous nod. "Good day, Mr. Lennox," she replied, her tone polite but distant.

As soon as Mr. Lennox had taken his leave, a familiar voice broke the stillness. "And who, pray, was *that*?"

Margaret turned to see Alice, her youngest sister, standing at the threshold with an amused grin. "Oh, Alice," Margaret sighed, shaking her head with a half-smile. "Do not start."

Alice, ever the mischief-maker, laughed and stepped inside. "I couldn't help but notice him kissing your hand. How very romantic."

"It was nothing," Margaret replied, waving off the notion. "A bit of harmless flirtation, nothing more."

"Nothing more?" Alice echoed, her eyes alight with curiosity. "Come now, you must tell me. Have you any other suitors or shall I assume you've only been courted by Mr. Lennox?"

For a moment, Margaret hesitated, then, with a sigh, she decided to indulge her sister. "Well," she began slowly, "there was something else... with Nathaniel, the baker."