improper, Boone opened his arms wide, and in a similar breach of protocol, Rochelle stepped in against him. At first, the contact was light, but then they were holding each other tightly. Like his father’s house, she smelled the same, Cristalle by Chanel perfume and the expensive French soap she had always favored. She was dressed in the same style, too, wearing an Escada suit that tastefully set off the subtle curves of her figure.
It was black. For mourning. And as most aristocratic females only wore color, he knew she had changed for him before she’d came over.
As they eased back, he noticed absently there was loose snow on the crown of her blond chignon.
“Oh,” she said with a start, “you have guests.”
Boone glanced over his shoulder and saw his fellow trainees leaning forward in their various seats and staring out of the archway at him—at him and Rochelle—with wide, interested eyes.
“Come meet my friends,” he said. “You already know Peyton and Paradise, of course.”
As he drew her in beside him, it felt natural to walk into the elegant parlor with her against his hip. But the fact that he was still armed, and so were the people on those sofas, was a reminder that his life had diverged greatly from Rochelle’s since their arrangement.
She had stayed in society, yet he hadn’t heard she’d been mated? Then again, he was out of every thing, for the most part.
He was so glad she’d come, though.
“Everyone,” he announced, “this is Rochelle.”
“You don’t have to make me tea.”
As Boone spoke up, he stared across the kitchen at Rochelle. She was over at the sixteen-burner stove, putting a copper kettle on an open flame. He was over in the alcove of windows, at the table where the staff sat and took their meals. There was no one else around. Marquist had clearly announced the passing to the other staff and the doggen had all retired unto mourning for their master, as was proper.
Meanwhile, the butler was probably polishing Altamere’s shoes with his own tears.
Man, their relationship had had some blurry lines, hadn’t it.
“Boiled water is the only thing I know how to make,” Rochelle said.
The other trainees had left shortly after her arrival, as if they were hoping Boone needed privacy with the female. He was going to have to take care of that after nightfall. When he went back to work.
He would set them straight that there was nothing going on.
“And even so,” she murmured, “I may burn this kettle.”
“Don’t worry, I’m no great chef, either,” he murmured as he rolled his shoulder, testing out its range of movement.
“Where is your china?” She pivoted around and measured a square mile’s worth of cupboards. “So many places to choose from.”
Boone shrugged. “Let me help. We should be able to find it together.”
When he went to stand up, she shook her head. “You stay put. I’ll do the sleuthing.”
She worked her way around the cabinets, opening up the doublesided, paneled doors, inspecting all manner of spices, mixing bowls, cooking equipment. She finally found some mugs above one of the three dishwashers. They were fine porcelain and ornamented with a handpainted gold-and-maroon pattern. They were rarely used, however. Boone’s father had not approved of them, calling them unforgivably coarse.
In a tone that suggested their height and their contours were an offense against the laws of nature.
“Are these okay?” Rochelle asked. “They do not have saucers, but I can’t seem to find anything else.”
“They’re perfect.”
“And I even located the tea.” She smiled as she returned to the stove. “Do you take honey or sugar?”
At least the condiments were easy to get a bead on. They were cloistered on a silver tray on the counter, ready to be portioned out in the way the master of the house had preferred things—
Wait, she had asked him something, hadn’t she?
“I can’t remember,” he said. “It’s been so long.”
He had no idea what was coming out of his mouth. But she didn’t press him, and the next thing Boone was aware of was a fragrant, steaming mug in front of him, with Rochelle taking a seat across the table.
“So how have you been,” he said as he took a test sip. “How are things with your male?”
He was trying to make simple conversation, but the way her eyes teared up made him regret the attempt at pleasantries.
“Oh, Rochelle.” He shook his head. “What happened?”
“It just didn’t work out. In spite of your very valiant attempt to help us.”