An Affair by the Sea, page 12
Her mouth tasted of spiced wine and the sugar-almond macaroons. He would never tire of her taste, of her scent, of her soft body. Her kisses were sweeter than spun sugar and more addictive than opium. The real melody wasn’t the recipe he’d been forced to improvise in the kitchen. It was every moment he’d shared with Allegra these past weeks. Every stolen kiss, every line of trochaic tetrameter, every ridiculous claim made by or about Captain L’Amour, every secret glance and shy smile.
He didn’t want it to end. Not in three hours, not in three months, not ever.
“Let me court you,” he murmured against her lips. “Not in jest as Captain L’Amour, but in truth, as John—”
She leapt to her feet as though he’d thrown a bucket of barberry ices onto her lap.
“No courting. I have the rest of my life mapped out just as I like it, and am so close to finally—”
“What about improvisation?” he asked. “What about making new recipes when the ingredients unexpectedly change?”
She shook her head. “I know you cannot possibly understand—”
“‘No’ is remarkably easy to understand,” he said wryly. “And I did promise to play this game by your rules. If you are uninterested in extending our holiday to a lifetime, I will not pester you with arguments.”
“I just…the inheritance is almost mine,” she said desperately. “Mine. I’ve never had two guineas to rub together, or two days without responsibilities. I’ve dreamed of this for more than a decade and it’s almost within my grasp.”
He nodded slowly. “I respect and understand wanting the thing you’ve always dreamed of having. If there’s any way I can help you to secure it…”
She shook her head. “It’s all spelled out in the will. Uncle shall have no choice in the matter.”
“Have you seen the will? An original copy?”
“Seen it? I sleep with it tucked beneath my mattress. I would ink it onto my skin if I knew how.”
“You have an actual copy lying around?” he said in surprise. “Might I view it?”
Her expression indicated he had asked her to part with one of her limbs.
“Make a copy, if you like. I don’t care about the parchment. I care about the words written upon it. I’d like to study the terms, if you don’t mind.”
She looked worried. “Do you think my uncle will try to find a way not to pay me my portion? What exactly do you expect to discover?”
“I don’t know,” John answered honestly. “But if there’s anything to uncover, I am the man who can find it.”
CHAPTER 16
At eight o’clock sharp the next evening, Allegra and her family strode toward the residence of Mrs. Oswald, a well-heeled widow with a daughter Portia’s age, and hostess of tonight’s highly anticipated soirée.
“Best behavior, all of you,” said Uncle Townsend, though his hard eyes were only on Allegra.
“This is the widow Father has been wooing,” Dorcas whispered behind her ivory fan. “In addition to a terrace in London, she has a large country estate not far from our home in the Cotswolds.”
Uncle Townsend turned his gaze to his daughters. “The beau monde may be in attendance tonight. Try to find suitors.”
“They have suitors,” Allegra reminded him. Both young ladies were as enamored of their gentlemen as their charming beaux were of them.
Uncle Townsend rolled his eyes. “Appropriate suitors. Titled suitors. Not sailors.”
“But Mr. Mayhew and I—” Portia began.
“Over my dead body,” Uncle Townsend said flatly, then held up a stiff finger toward Allegra. “This is your fault and you know it. Putting ideas into their heads. I don’t need them to think, and I definitely don’t need them to feel. I need them to do as they’re told.” He shifted his accusatory finger toward each of his daughters in turn. “Marry well.”
Dorcas opened her mouth to respond, but before she could do so, the quartet arrived at Mrs. Oswald’s front walk, which was already full of other party-goers.
“Did you hear?” tittered a young lady just in front of them in the queue. “She has hired the Castle Inn’s master of ceremonies for the night. This soirée will be almost as elegant as the grand ball at the Old Ship Inn next week.”
Everyone within earshot eyed the open doorway with interest. Only the butler was visible for now, but all eyes would be peeled for signs of Mr. Neilson, the master of ceremonies, as much an institution of Brighton as the Old Ship Inn and the Castle Inn themselves.
In short order, guests were divested of their outerwear and welcomed into a grand chamber lit by four glittering chandeliers. The carpet had been rolled away, turning the rectangular hall into an enormous dance floor. Small, round tables featuring food or drink dotted the length of the far wall. At one end of the room sat a cluster of armchairs, for anyone who would not be mingling or dancing. On the opposite end stood an elegant pianoforte.
Allegra eyed it with hunger. Perhaps this was the style she would purchase for herself once she came into her inheritance. The finer the pianoforte, the less would be left over for anything else, but what besides a room to live in could she possibly need? She’d never had luxurious gowns or expensive leisure activities before, and could continue on without it just fine.
The only luxury she needed was the utter relief of achieving independence at long last. Once she experienced the joy of true freedom, everything else would be minor details in comparison. Though she could not help but remember the kisses she and John had shared. The memory of his embrace seemed unlikely ever to fade.
She followed her uncle and cousins to greet the hostess, who was indeed standing next to the master of ceremonies. Mrs. Oswald placed her hand in Uncle Townsend’s at once, and seemed to sparkle at his fawning attentions.
“Why, yes, this is Mr. Neilson,” she cooed. “I tried to acquire Mr. Young, the Old Ship Inn’s famed chef for tonight as well, but he suffered a bad fall this morning and is confined to his bed with a broken leg.”
“It is a disaster,” said Mr. Neilson. “The lower cooks can manage day-to-day fare, but Mr. Young was to personally cater next week’s grand ball. He spent a decade serving the French royal court, you know. Utterly irreplaceable. Without him, the ball will be positively common.”
Allegra’s spine straightened. “I know someone who—”
“Oh, and here’s my daughter,” said Mrs. Oswald. “Don’t play with your ringlets, darling, they’ll lose their bounce.”
“But if you need a chef—” Allegra tried again.
“Enid, these dear souls are Mr. Townsend, Miss Portia Townsend, Miss Dorcas, and their…aunt, was it? Serving as companion?”
“Cousin,” Allegra bit out. There was no sense explaining that she held no post as paid companion because she wasn’t paid at all.
While Portia and Dorcas greeted Enid, Allegra turned to Mr. Neilson.
“I know a chef who is fabulous at French cuisine,” she said in a rush before anyone could interrupt her. “He happens to be staying at Siren’s Retreat on holiday.”
“Oh?” Mr. Neilson arched his brows. “And who, pray tell, is this paragon?”
Blast. Allegra did not actually know John’s surname, nor could she blurt it out in front of her cousins even if she did.
“It’s Captain L’Amour,” Portia piped up. “He’s a pir—”
“—perfectly good option,” Dorcas corrected smoothly. “Allegra’s betrothed is a wonderful man. Makes excellent sauces.”
“Honestly,” Allegra said, “if your guests notice any difference, it will only be to compliment the chef for a superlative performance.”
Mr. Neilson gave a dismissive sniff. “I’ve never heard of him.”
“There, there,” said Mrs. Oswald. “It’s very sweet that you girls want to help, but please, leave important matters to experts like Mr. Neilson. The rest of us are here to dance. Enid, why don’t you play a country-dance to get us started? I’m sure the other young ladies will be eager to take turns performing once they see how accomplished you are.”
“Might I be so bold as to claim this first dance?” Uncle Townsend asked Mrs. Oswald.
The widow giggled girlishly and placed her hand in his. “I was hoping you would.”
The moment the first strains of music filled the air, guests flooded the dance floor. Allegra selected a segment of wainscoting between the piano and a table of canapés to watch.
Contrary to Uncle Townsend’s wishes, Dorcas and Portia accepted their suitors’ invitations to dance. Mr. Mayhew might be “just” a sailor, but he was clearly besotted with Portia. Mr. Voss, her sister’s fellow untitled suitor, was equally as enamored of Dorcas. Allegra had never seen her cousins so giddy and glowing. These were love matches in the making.
Uncle had warned his daughters to “marry well”. What could be better than being happily in love with one’s spouse?
Allegra reached for another canapé. The hostess’s daughter Miss Enid was respectably competent at the pianoforte. As predicted, the mothers of a dozen other debutantes had already dropped by to hint that their very accomplished daughter ought to be next in line to impress the crowd.
Allegra was unconvinced that the bachelors in attendance would choose their wives based on their ability to play a reel, but there were few other feminine accomplishments permitted to a young lady. It was not as though the girls could explode into a sword-fighting competition or debate the Crown’s foreign policies or even confess they could identify other countries on a map.
Perhaps there was a gentleman in the audience who yearned for a bride with a head for sums and a penchant for ale. How was he to find her if she could not admit to the things that made her who she was?
It was a miracle, really, that Dorcas and Portia had been raised by an orphaned child who had absolutely no idea what she was doing. They were outspoken and imaginative and confident and kind. The sort of young women who would present their wonderful, imperfect, true selves without hesitation, and accept nothing less than a matching puzzle piece in return. It did not matter what sort of picture the box thought they should be, but rather how well their odd-shaped piece meshed with the odd-shaped piece courting them.
Allegra could not possibly have been prouder.
She was hiding an indulgent smile behind a third canapé when she felt a small shift in the atmosphere of the room. A sharp breeze, a whiff of saltwater, the booming of loaded cannons. Or perhaps that was her heart rattling her ribs at the sight of her favorite Not-Pirate swaggering rakishly into the ballroom.
John looked brilliant, as always. Every inch the dandy, but with an edge of danger. As though the sharp folds of his cravat had indeed been used to kill a man on three different continents, and the sword stick in his hand only one of forty-three razor-sharp blades hidden upon his person.
He paid no attention to anyone else in the ballroom, and instead strode straight up to Allegra to make a deep bow.
“May I have this dance?”
“One moment. I’m very busy.” She held up her canapé.
He stared at it. “What, might I ask, is that?”
“A canapé. It’s my third.”
“And you’re still alive to tell the tale? God save us all. I cannot possibly whisk you onto the dance floor when my services are so obviously needed elsewhere.”
She took a bite. “I tried to offer your culinary skills to a man in need.”
He looked horrified. “Can you not recognize a jest when you hear one?”
“The canapés meet your approval?”
“The canapés should be dumped in the sea. But I will not be the one making new ones. Not until I’ve a kitchen of my own. I barely survived the last two times—”
“You acquitted yourself brilliantly. Dorcas and Portia are still talking about each of those courses in tones of nostalgic rapture. When they return to the Cotswolds and people ask what the best part about Brighton was, every item on their list will be a dish you cooked.”
“Will they return to the Cotswolds?”
Allegra swung her gaze back to the dance floor, where both cousins were glowing in the arms of their smitten swains. “I wouldn’t be surprised if both of those gentlemen present themselves in the morning to beg uncle for Dorcas and Portia’s hands in marriage.”
“Then I look forward to felicitating them on their good news.”
She winced. “Dorcas’s gentleman is the younger son of a lord, and may meet Uncle’s approval. Portia’s sailor, on the other hand… Uncle upbraided us both on the way over. We’re to do better.”
John staggered backwards, clutching his chest in full Captain L’Amour outrage. “Do better than a sailor?”
“It cannot be done,” she assured him. “Anyone with sense can see that. Just look at how happy they are.”
The country-dance came to a close, but her cousins lingered beneath the adoring gazes of their beaux.
“Might I have the next dance?” John asked. “If you’re quite finished consuming a substandard mockery of proper puff pastries?”
“I could be convinced to pause for a few moments.” She curved her hand on his arm and turned toward the dance floor.
Uncle Townsend and Mrs. Oswald were just arriving.
“Shall I play a reel?” asked Miss Enid from behind the pianoforte.
“You shall dance,” Mrs. Oswald said firmly. “All young ladies must dance tonight.”
“We cannot all at once.” Miss Enid stared at the dance floor wistfully. “One of us must stay behind to play the pianoforte.”
“Nonsense,” said Uncle Townsend. “Allegra isn’t doing anything. She’ll play for the rest of the night.”
Allegra pressed her lips together in a tight smile. At least he hadn’t said she wasn’t a young lady.
Maybe he thought some truths were self-evident.
John didn’t release her arm. “I have just asked Miss Allegra to dance.”
“Enid would love to dance with you.” Mrs. Oswald nudged her daughter from the pianoforte and pushed her toward John. “She is very in demand this season,” she added meaningfully. “It is an honor to have the opportunity to dance with her at all.”
Miss Enid blushed up at John. The size of her dowry was no secret.
The fact that John hadn’t immediately genuflected to her in a flutter of rose petals probably made him seem a refreshing change from the avaricious fortune-hunters eager to increase their coffers.
“It’s all right,” Allegra said. “I’ll play.”
“It’s not all right,” John said. “Your uncle didn’t ask before offering you up like a spare handkerchief. He cannot put you to work for someone else as though you were his servant.”
This was not the time or the place where Allegra wished to confess that that was exactly what her uncle had the power to do. Until her thirtieth birthday a month from now, maintaining Uncle’s good humor was the only way to ensure she would not be tossed out into the street.
Uncle Townsend already looked apoplectic at John daring to suggest Allegra needn’t immediately acquiesce to her uncle’s every whim. There was little left to take away from her, but Allegra did not want her uncle to try.
She slipped her hand from John’s arm and tilted his elbow toward Miss Enid. “Dance. I’ll be fine.”
Reluctantly, John led Miss Enid onto the parquet. Mrs. Oswald followed, taking the arm of an older guest.
“Classics,” Uncle Townsend warned Allegra. “Don’t you dare embarrass me.”
She nodded and began a common reel. Dancers immediately took to the floor.
“That man of yours is no gentleman,” Uncle Townsend added. “Don’t think for a second he’s interested in you. It’s your dowry that has attracted him.”
“You don’t know that.”
“He left your side for the skirt with the larger dowry, didn’t he?”
“You told him to.”
“A man in love would not have listened. As I told you, there’s no such thing as a love match. One has to be practical.”
“Then I can see why you’re after Mrs. Oswald. But what earthly reason has she to marry you?”
Uncle Townsend’s face mottled. “Of all the ungrateful—”
“Father!” Portia bounded over and looped her arm through her father’s. “Come and dance this reel with me.”
Allegra sent her a grateful look, which was matched by an apologetic one. She shook her head. It was not Portia’s fault that her father felt Allegra to be of no more consequence than a handkerchief. Or an hourglass. Abandoned on the shelf, except when it suited him to turn her upside-down for an hour or two.
Her gaze sought and found John on the parquet.
Was he after her dowry? Was that the reason he’d requested a copy of the contract? To see for himself whether she was worth the bother of courting?
It didn’t matter, she reminded herself. She was not marrying him or anyone, regardless of motives.
Except…it did matter. She liked him, blast it all. When the holiday ended, leaving him behind forever was going to destroy her. And if he didn’t want it to end because he was fortune-hunting…that would destroy her, too.
There was no way to win. And when there was no way to win, all she could do was the thing she had always done: keep her focus firmly on the morning she would wake up to full freedom. That shining moment had been enough to light her way these past twelve years. It would be enough to last the rest of her life, too.
Wouldn’t it?
CHAPTER 17
When the reel ended, John deposited Miss Enid with her mother and hastened back to the pianoforte. Before he could so much as speak, the question burst forth from Allegra’s mouth:
“Does your interest lie in my dowry?”
He looked startled, then chagrined. “I don’t know how to answer that question without offending you.”
Splendid. She started a quadrille. Did she want to know if her dowry seemed the most efficient path to his tea room?
