she was nervous. She hadn’t told him her plans and she knew he wouldn’t approve. “Well, I’d rather not go back to the convent,” she said, stalling for time. “I think I’m ready to move beyond that.”
“Agreed.” He looked at her levelly. “But you are rejecting life as a princess, rejecting poor old Alphonso, and I want to know what you see for yourself instead. What is it that you have your heart set on? What is it that you would most like to do?”
Could she tell him? She glanced his way and decided against it. He would never understand.
“For a start, I want to learn how to drive,” she said, avoiding the issue altogether.
“Didn’t anyone teach you that?” No mobile phone, no driver’s license—what sort of modern woman was this?
“No. You know very well there are no cars at the convent. Except Popov’s, of course. And even if there were, they wouldn’t teach me. They were too afraid I’d run off as soon as I had a way to do it.”
He waved that away. He really didn’t want to delve into it. “Okay, you want to learn to drive. That’s easy enough. I could teach you in an afternoon.” His look was penetrating. “Then what?”
She avoided his gaze. “What do you mean?” she said evasively.
“I mean, what is it that you want to do, Julienne? What passion calls to you?”
Should she tell him? She looked at him sideways and scrunched up her face, ready to do the dirty deed. She knew he would never look at her the same way again once she’d admitted her passion to him.
“Okay. Here it is.” She took a deep breath. “I … I want to go to pastry school.”
He blinked, not sure he’d heard her correctly. He leaned closer. “What kind of school?”
She looked up at him, baleful. “Pastry.”
He shook his head, still at sea. “I don’t understand.”
Now he was starting to annoy her. Didn’t understand! Hah!
“Peach tarts. Napoleons. Eclairs.” She was facing him now, her passion expressed clearly in her face. “I want to learn to make them. I want to create new forms. I want to—”
“Enough,” he said shortly, holding up his hand. He was finally getting the picture, and the picture filled him with horror. “You’re trying to tell me you would rather slave away in a hot kitchen all day than be a princess? You actually expect me to believe that?”
Her shoulders sagged. “Believe what you want,” she said sadly. “You asked me to tell you my passion, and I told you.” She turned away. “Let’s change the subject.”
He knew he’d hurt her feelings, but he still couldn’t believe it. They sat in silence for a few minutes, then he tried again. This time he told himself he would remain calm.
“Tell me how all this came about. What made you fall in love with the idea of being a pastry chef?”
“I love good pastry. Who doesn’t?”
“Yes. Well, I love a good steak, too, but I don’t plan to be a cowboy.”
She rose and turned away. “Let’s just go.”
“No.” He rose as well, taking her by the shoulders, stopping her and gazing down into her pretty face. “I want to know how it all began. Please tell me.”
She searched his eyes. Could she trust him? But how could she not?
“Okay,” she said slowly. They began to walk along the stream, back toward where the motorcycle was parked. “I guess it all began when Nooma, the cook at the castle, began to let me help her in the kitchen.”
He frowned, wondering if the woman should be fired. “Did she do this often?” he asked.
“Often? Yes, it was often. But it was my doing, not hers.” Her quick humor was back and she laughed at him. “What do you think I was doing all those long winter days, waiting for you to show up?”
He didn’t laugh back. “I expected you to be improving your mind with worthy reading, learning to play the piano, practicing your French….”
“Well, I wasn’t doing much of that. I was in the kitchen, baking pies.”
He frowned. “Where was my aunt, the Duchess, during all this? I thought she was keeping a firm hand in your development.”
She shook her head. She was going to have to rat on the lady, but she guessed it didn’t matter. She’d long ago moved to the coast of France. “Your aunt, the Duchess, was usually confined to her room with a headache and a bottle of vermouth most days until teatime.”