I’d discovered this by reading the early romance novels where I noticed the governess would whip up the most blissful omelette. Before long, the hero would be at her feet.
I’d never had a true reason to perfect the omelette, or even to decide on whether to spell the word with the French or English version, but when I married, I knew it was time to learn to cook this perfect dish. I just needed the right omelette recipe because mine were lacking. They tasted like scrambled eggs no matter how many additions I whipped into them.
Then I realized, the magical recipe for this perfectly enchanting food had been secreted away by the governesses.
As a nod to the wonderful books I’ve read about omelettes, I added a reference to those blissful dishes in Saying I Do To The Scoundrel, and sadly, Katherine never learned the governess' recipe either.
Inside, the smell of wood smoke mixed with the scent of food. Brandt stood with his back to her. He had hung a pot over the stove and was now putting dollops of dough on to the lid top to cook.
‘Would probably be too much for me to expect you to cook something even as simple as an omelette…’
She raised her brows in question.
‘An omelette. My father travelled near Bessières once and when he returned he insisted we have omelettes. Eggs stirred about. Cheese in it. Very tasty. I discovered I had to show the women at the tavern how to make them if I wanted one to my taste.’
‘I like my eggs normally prepared.’
‘And how might that be?’
‘By Cook. And in biscuits and cakes and tarts and things like that.’
‘I very much want an omelette.’
‘That is probably beyond my experience.’
He leaned forward, blinked slowly and met her eyes. ‘I thought so.’