Pitch
Seventeen-year-old Tess thinks she’s hit the jackpot as the Duchess’s personal chocolatier—until she realises she’s just signed up for a front-row seat to the French Revolution. Between sneaking love notes inside truffles, dodging flirtatious glances from a rebellious kitchen boy, and trying not to lose her head (literally), Tess’s new life is anything but sweet. With parties that rival a Bridgerton ball and a treasonous plot thicker than chocolate ganache, Tess must figure out if she’s going to help overthrow the aristocracy or just help herself to more cake.
Chapter One
The Palace of Hofburg, Vienna. 1772.
Amongst the chaos of copper pots, moulds, burnt sugar, splattered chocolate and spent egg shells, which are strewn across the marble table, my confectionary shimmers in the flickering candlelight of the royal pastry kitchen. Each chocolate, cloud-like meringue and gossamer-thin macaron line up like a ballet ensemble inside an exquisite silver box. I smile because, like a true alchemist, I have turned dull and bitter cocoa into something exotic, beautiful and desirable. The ridiculous grin slides off my face, because if I can’t perform the same magic with my miserable life today, God help me, I’m royally fucked.
I step back on the black and white tiled floor, wipe my hands on my apron and scrutinise my work. It is without doubt fit for a queen. Well, it better had be, because that’s who I’ve worked day and night to impress. But the Duchess, queen-to-be could be my ticket to a new life in France.
‘Therese, darling?’ Mother’s voice chimes from the main kitchen. The click-clack of her shoes follows. I didn’t want her to accompany me to the most important meeting of my life, but she insisted. I snap shut the jewellery box lid and slip the illicit creations into my pocket before Mother sees.
Oh Lord, I sigh, ‘Yes Mother?’
‘I trust you haven’t wasted your time making your experimental nonsense.’ Mother peers down her nose, grey eyes flickering over the table. ‘Male chocolatiers are two a penny at court, my love.’ She touches my cheek. ‘Do not let that ego of yours get the better of you and reveal the work isn’t your father’s. God rest his soul.’ She whips her hand away and starts tidying. ‘Because, unless you can miraculously grow a penis, we’ll lose everything to our ridiculous misogynistic inheritance laws. Remember. It’s a hot chocolate maker’s assistant the Duchess requires. All you must do is to mix the royal hot chocolate. Nothing more,’ Mother says, poking her pointed nose into the chocolate pot.
Continued…