“I did not take it very seriously.” Though she should have, considering the Christmas gift. “I was never alone with him to discuss it.”
“It should have been discussed with me. You do not behave as you should.”
“I should have been a man,” she said softly. “I could learn the business from you.”
Her father waved a hand. “Oh, you have no head for business. You are happy with your cakes. Art and baking, female tasks. You have no idea what the rest of it is.”
“You never offered me the chance to learn.”
“Your sisters are far better educated than you are, and I can see they have nothing useful in their heads. I’m sure it would have been the same for you.”
Alys’s left hand shook. She tightened her fingers into a fist and pressed against the thick, black cloth of her dress. “I thought I was so valuable to you. I had so many ideas for the tea shop. My cakes made us popular at events of people with rank. And the Scotch trifle. I suggested we make it, and that brought you to the notice of the queen.”
He stood slowly. His short stature did not reduce the awful majesty of his anger. “Do not ever think you are responsible for my success, young woman. You are a reflection of me, nothing more.
Now leave here at once before I must consider further consequences to your disobedience and willfulness.”
She stood at once, both hands in fists. With difficulty, she held her chin high, kept her booted feet from stomping. Slowly, she walked out and took her garments from Ewan. If he ever showed up at her dinner table, she’d slap the smirk from his revolting face.
She went into the street without even putting on her coat. Stinging snowflakes pelted her skin until she pulled on her hat and shrugged into her coat. She wished she had a muff so she didn’t have to force her numbed fingers into gloves.
It took her much too long to walk home, but she couldn’t find voice for even the most basic human interaction it would take for a conveyance.
When she reached the square, she discovered she couldn’t enter her house and face her mother or sisters. Then, she saw her brother a few hundred yards away, in the middle of the square. She picked up her skirts and ran toward him, the cold air streaming from her mouth like smoke.
When she was a few feet away, she stopped and screamed at him.
“How can you not stop him? You could offer to buy it yourself with your army pay.”
Gawain, expressionless, dropped his cheroot to the ground and ground it under his heel. “He did sell it then?”
“Or close enough.”
“The tea shop means nothing to me.”
Alys knew he must be lying. He must hurt like she did. “It has our family name on it.”
He shrugged. “Arthur was the Redcake heir, not me.”
She put her hand on his arm. “You are the heir now.”
He tucked her hand more securely and began to walk again. “Father sent me into the army, to India. He didn’t train me for the business, but discarded me.”
Her brother’s limping pace was as measured as his words, as if no emotion rested underneath. “He doesn’t want Redcake’s anymore.
Shouldn’t that make you want it all the more?”
“Oh, I’ve played at figures to keep the peace, but I can leave it now. No need for any more charades. I’m pleased with the start of my tea import business.”
But not happy. She hadn’t seen him happy since he joined the regiment at seventeen. “Gawain.”
His mouth twisted. “While you were being a petted daughter, I was fighting villagers in the Black Mountains, losing my eye, damaging my hip.”
Her heart thumped in outrage. “I wasn’t petted! I worked. Things happened. Things I’ll never tell you.” Things she didn’t care to remember herself.
“And there are things I’ll never tell you.”
She sniffed. Her nose must be flaming red from the cold now, and surely these tears clouding her vision were from the wind. “We were so close once.”
“That was years ago. But don’t worry, Twin. I still love you.” He patted her hand and released her.
She found that he’d moved her in a circle that placed them in front of their house. “I don’t know who I am without Redcake’s. I’ll die in the country.”
“Then you’d better find a way to stay in London.” He smiled tightly and walked away across the square.
Chapter Eight
She knew she couldn’t stay here, not if staying meant marrying Ralph Popham. At least she didn’t think her father was serious about him as a suitor. He wouldn’t be so concerned with her new rank as the daughter of a knight if he was intent on the match.
She kicked at the remains of a snowman someone had built in the square, ignoring the damage to her boots as she ground the snow into grass. A scarf and disreputable top hat were soon all that remained.
She picked them up, thinking they ought to go to the vicar’s wife for her charities.
“Miss Redcake?” One of their matched pair of footmen approached. “Your mother would like to see you.”
She sighed. “Yes, of course.” One more lecture and then she’d need to get ready for the ball, assuming she hadn’t been too disgraced to attend.
She hoped this wasn’t the case. Other than the one wedding, she rarely had the opportunity to see her cakes in the setting for which they had been created. And, she must admit, she looked forward to The seeing Hatbrook. Would he like the special chocolate cake his mother had planned for him and his cronies?
Even more deeply hidden was her desire to simply see him. If only the handsome man who’d entered her cake room this morning could have been a Redcake’s employee, someone her social equal. If Ewan Hales or even Ralph Popham had his looks and manner she’d have been more inclined to favor them.
Once inside the house she went to her mother’s dressing room. A large watercolor portrait of her father as a young man, painted by her mother, stared suspiciously at her, from next to a wardrobe.
“Alys,” her mother said. “Your bath is ready in here, since Matilda is in your dressing room. Wash your hair, darling, you smell like the bakery.”
“I’ll never get it dry in time.”
“Sit in front of the fire. I’ve had Lucy bring in your book so you can relax.”
Alys narrowed her eyes. Her mother knew what she’d been doing this morning.
Edith cleared her throat and Alys allowed her mother’s maid to help undress her, even though her cakie’s uniform was easy to manage.
“Lewis packed his things,” her mother said.
“You spoke to him?”
“Yes. He said you informed him that you do not plan to marry at all.”
Her mother didn’t know. She’d always wondered why they had never pressed her to wed. Her mother so clearly loved babies and surely wanted grandchildren while she was young enough to appreciate them.
“Personal choice, Mother,” she said, as Edith unlaced her stays.
“I think there is more,” her mother said slowly. “Won’t you confide in me? You’re lovely, never doubt it.”
“You and Rose are positively beautiful,” she said. “I’m passable at best. And not young.”
“Fiddlesticks. Redheads can be lovely. We’ll find someone for you. You simply cannot go on like you are, Father won’t allow it.”
“Surely there are other options.”
“Like what? To live in Gawain’s home, a spinster sister? You would be much happier running your own establishment.”
Alys started to speak but her mother held up her hand. “Trust me as your mother, Alys. You would be happier wed.”
“You’ve often spoken of your art and how you have no time to paint with so many children.”
Her mother’s hands lifted to her pale throat. “You think I regret my children?”
“You sound wistful when you say it.”
“I wish to have more hours in the day, not fewer children,” she said. “You must have children of your own
to understand. Trust your father and me to know what is best.”
“You are a very good painter. You could have been great, I expect, with more time.”
“I’m happy, Alys, truly happy. I’d rather have joy than great art.”
She tapped her foot. “Enjoy your bath, darling. I know you don’t like extravagance, but I did order you a new dress based on your measurements for the reception gown. Edith will help you dress when it’s time.”
Two housemaids entered with cans of steaming water and poured them into the tub, already half filled with cold water. Her mother tossed in a handful of lavender salts and then the maids left her to bathe.
“I have a little secret to share with you,” her mother said.
“Yes?”
“While we are in the country, your father is going to have plumbing installed. Just cold water, since the heaters are so dangerous, but we’ll have a permanent tub and sink with running water at the end of the hall!”
“He’s keeping this house then?” Didn’t her mother know about Redcake’s? Maybe her father was only upgrading to make the house more valuable for sale.
“Of course. We’ll need to come in for the Season until Gawain and your sisters wed.”
Alys understood her meaning. She would be married off to someone very soon, probably before autumn. This house would never be her home again.
Michael couldn’t resist sneaking into the second ballroom for a look at Alys’s cake. The outside looked spectacular, of course, with The
its many, many threads of frosting and topping of numerals molded from paste, but he couldn’t wait to taste it. The top layer smelled like chocolate, which would be a nice change of pace. He didn’t eat it very often as it tended to make his tongue itch but a small slice would be something special for the taste buds.
As for the ball, he could do without it. A man in his position was expected to either dance with silly young debutantes if he was in search of a wife, or dance with whomever the hostess deemed necessary. Thankfully his mother didn’t plan this type of event often. The best people never came to her parties, unless he was known to be attending. She blamed the poor attendance on Hatbrook House, which had not been redecorated in a quarter century due to lack of funds.
One of the doors opened and shut behind him. Expecting to hear a footman’s boots, he was surprised by the swish-click of a lady’s shoe. His mother, come after him? Surely she had better things to do.
He turned.
The lady, dressed in a low-cut gown of draped blue-and-graystriped silk that made her legs look impossibly long, was not his mother. She was a siren. Her hair looked like spun copper, smooth at the top then braided into a basketlike box at the back of her head.
Gloves covered slim arms. The lady was a walking snare for gentlemen and he felt himself putting a foot into the trap. That small waist flared into hips made to cradle a man. His heart pumped furiously, sending blood south. He shifted, trying to think down a growing erection. Thank God for dim lighting.
She smiled tentatively. The slight movement had his focus moving from her hips to her face. That was when he realized this siren was Alys Redcake. The breath left his lungs so quickly that he coughed.
“Trying to sneak a slice, your lordship?” The accent was not aristocratic, but clear, bell-like. Pleasant and familiar.
He cleared his throat. “They haven’t brought out the serving knives yet.”
She stepped closer and he noticed her scent had changed slightly.
Yes, he could smell orange flower water, but something sharper lurked there too. In her hair, perhaps? He leaned closer.
Her chest moved as she took a sharp breath. He realized he’d been about to sniff her.
He cleared his throat. “My apologies, Miss Redcake. You normally smell like cake but something is different tonight.”
“And you like cake.” The statement brought back a little laugh to her voice.
“Yes, yes of course.” He put his hands on his hips, trying to restore some dignity. “Now you smell more like a woman than a cake, is all. Not a bad thing.”
“You are the very font of flattery, my lord.”
He gestured grandly. “I would venture to say you are more beautiful than this cake.”
“Well, that would be saying something.” She fluttered her arms as if not sure what to do with them.
“Do you remember that first day we met at Redcake’s?” he asked.
“The Scotch trifle?”
“The very same. I recall wondering what you would look like in a ball gown. Now I don’t have to wonder any longer.” Had his voice actually cracked? How could he find her so lovely? She wasn’t sweet or biddable.
“Do I meet expectations, my lord?” She stood still as he regarded her.
“I would not be surprised if someone carried you off before the night was through. You look positively edible.” Another hot rush of blood moved south as his gaze found her breasts.
“A pity Ralph Popham is not here then.” Her tone went sour.
He frowned. “Oh, you are not dressed to snare a Popham, Miss Redcake. Your lure is entirely above him.”
“Not a bakery manager then, but perhaps some entirely superior sort, such as a butler?”
Her words caught him by surprise. He laughed, too hard, and put his hand to his chest. “Poor Alys. Do you not know you are fit for a prince?”
She stared at him. “Are you all right, sir? I was worried about you this morning.”
He considered that declaration. “You never see me when I’m at my best.”
“No?”
He thought. “You always see me when I’m hungry.”
“Food can be very intimate.” She cleared her throat.
He found himself fixated on her pale, powdered chest as it rose and fell, a bit too rapidly for a calm mind. “You have freckles, Miss Redcake.”
Her hands moved to her breastbone. “It is not kind of you to mention them, sir.”
“I like them,” he decided. “You shouldn’t try to cover them with powder. I’d rather see your skin glow naturally under the lights.”
“This room isn’t lit.”
“Not by gas, perhaps. But candlelight is so flattering to a lady’s skin.”
She put her hand to her cheek. “Forgive me, but I’ve never spoken to a man like this before.”
He touched one finger to her chin. “You need more flattery in your life, Miss Redcake. You surely deserve it.”
Her large, nutmeg eyes stared into his. This was madness, but too much of his blood had found its way into a pulsating erection and there wasn’t enough left in his brain to make sense of this conversation. Should he try for a kiss?
The double doors burst open. Booted feet and lady’s heels sounded.
“Hatbrook!” exclaimed an irritable, high-pitched voice. “We have royal guests arriving. Come do your duty!”
Michael stepped back, before his mother could see he had his hands on a woman at her ball. He turned Alys slightly so she could not be recognized and moved toward his mother. When he reached her, he took her arm and guided her out.
Alys stayed in place for a moment. She wished she could sit here with her cake and try to figure things out, but obviously the room wasn’t as private as it had seemed when Hatbrook had called her edible.
He said she needed more flattery. Did that mean his words were empty?
It didn’t matter. The words of a marquess didn’t matter to someone like her. The only way he’d be truly interested in her was if he needed her father’s money, and he surely had his own fortune. Perhaps he simply liked her for herself?
It didn’t matter. Thankfully, she didn’t want to marry. She’d decided at fifteen that she didn’t ever want a man to touch her. But Hatbrook had put his hand to her chin and she’d leaned closer. Her body wanted something her mind was certain it didn’t.
She put both hands to her chin, turned in a circle. The room spun like her thoughts. Would she allow any man to touch her—o
r would only Hatbrook do? Could she let go of her past?
She rushed to the doors, opened one before her next thought. Hatbrook had left the immediate vicinity. She walked swiftly down the hall into the main ballroom, the light growing brighter as she reached the gaslit main ballroom. A succession of women was curtsying as Hatbrook walked by. As he came closer, she recognized the young man next to him—Prince Albert Victor, second in line to the throne.
Swiftly, she dropped into a curtsy too. When she lifted her eyes, her gaze met Hatbrook’s. Then his party passed by and entered the card room.
Any dreams she might just have begun to harbor must be dashed.
This man was friendly with a future king! The music, the people, the heat and smells, all seemed too much to bear. She wanted to sit in a quiet corner by a fire.
“He’s handsome, isn’t he?” said the woman next to her. “The prince? I wonder who His Royal Highness will marry.”
“Some foreign princess, no doubt,” said her companion. “I admit I never thought to be in the same room with him.”
“The marquess is said to be quite intimate with the royal family,” said the first with a sigh. “I wonder who he will marry.”
Alys looked more closely and thought the speaker was perhaps five years older than she was. In half mourning, for a husband perhaps, she might be on the lookout for another. But, she was too old for Hatbrook.
She heard a booming laugh, and recognized her father a few feet away. Turning, she went the opposite direction to look for her mother and sisters.
Ten minutes later she hadn’t spotted any of the three, so she decided to look for Gawain. Knowing him, he’d be smoking somewhere, so when she found French doors leading to a patio, she braved the winter chill.
The dark shocked her vision and blinded her for a moment. No lit cigars pinpointed anyone outside, but as her eyes sharpened she thought she saw tall planters on one side that someone could hide behind. She stepped forward.
A thud resounded against a clay pot.
“Gawain?” she said softly.
Next came a moan, then a shuffle. The door opened behind her and loud booted steps moved in her direction.
“Florence?” said the man behind her.
The Marquess of Cake Page 11
