Miss Delectable: Mischief in Mayfair Book One

by Burrowes, Grace

  That choice was easy, but for Orion, the choice between winter in Provence and anywhere with Ann Pearson was much more difficult.

  * * *

  The agencies had responded to Ann’s inquiries swiftly: Nobody sought to hire a cook.

  London was shifting into winter hibernation, when those able to do so left the capital for country abodes, and those who could not socialized much less than in other seasons.

  Ann was seeking employment at the worst time of year. And that realization had made the need to review the officers’ dinner menu with Melisande all the more pressing. Over a pot of unremarkable China black, Ann presented the dessert options.

  “The syllabub is so…” Melisande made a face. “So pedestrian, and cranachan is Scottish.”

  As was some of the best whisky, and Ann doubted very much that the brigadier would quibble over its nationality.

  “The pear compote has been very popular at the Coventry,” Ann said, “and you could have it brought to the table in a flaming sauce.”

  “Flaming dishes always create an impression,” Melisande said, considering the recipe. She would no more be able to grasp the result of following the instructions than Ann could imagine battle tactics given a map of unknown terrain, and yet, Melisande dithered.

  “And tell me, Ann, what of a wine pairing with the pear dish?”

  “Champagne would go very nicely and make an unusual choice.”

  “Emily Bainbridge never serves champagne.”

  Which had exactly nothing to do with completing a meal on a spectacularly sophisticated and delectable note of sweetness.

  “Mrs. Bainbridge certainly avails herself of the free champagne on offer at the Coventry.”

  Melisande sent Ann a considering glance. “She does?”

  “That champagne is a hallmark of the club’s late-night hospitality, and Mrs. Bainbridge enjoys a liberal portion.”

  “I am so glad you won’t be working there anymore.”

  Ann took the pear dessert recipe from Melisande and added it to the stack of recipes brought for Melisande’s consideration.

  “I have learned what I could at the Coventry, and I will surely find another post come spring.” Very likely at a gentleman’s club, where Ann would spend her evenings mashing turnips and beating eggs for meringues.

  “You should spend the winter with me, Ann.”

  Ann tucked her recipes away in her reticule. They were more precious than rubies, did Melisande but know it.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, if you aren’t working,” Melisande said, pouring herself another cup of tea, “then you aren’t earning any coin, and unless you want to dip into savings—the brigadier disapproves of dipping into savings—then you will be hard put to make ends meet. Stay with me, and you can oversee the preparations for the officers’ dinner yourself.”

  Clearly, Ann was supposed to be delighted at that prospect. “I am not needed in your kitchen, Aunt.”

  “But you could mess about there, nobody the wiser. If you were on hand, I could be certain this dinner would keep people talking until Yuletide. I would like to see more of your recipes, Ann, truly I would. Speaking of Yuletide, there’s always some socializing around the holidays, open houses and at homes, and you could accompany me and see what other hostesses are serving.”

  Melisande sipped her tea with the satisfied air of a cat who’d just spied an unguarded bowl of cream.

  “You want me to plan a menu for your holiday open house?”

  “And my at homes. I have them twice a month, and half the regiment shows up, but I’d like to offer more than sandwiches and dry cake.”

  On the one hand, Ann wanted and needed to cook, and Miss Diana and Miss Julia had no appetite for rich or expensive dishes. On the other hand, Ann was a professional with years of experience, and Melisande expected her to work for free and pretend all that effort and expertise was an indulged peculiarity.

  An eccentricity. Messing about.

  “I will consider your offer,” Ann said, “and thank you for your generosity. I have been careful with my wages and need not pinch pennies just yet.” Then too, Ann liked her life, but for Jules’s petty games.

  She liked Miss Diana and Miss Julia, liked being able to trot around London on her own without maids, footmen, or a chaperone. She liked being able to set foot outside her door and, with a single sniff, know what had come from the bakery’s ovens that morning.

  She liked very, very much being free to spend time with Orion Goddard in private.

  “Ann, I know you think my existence frivolous,” Melisande said. “I have but the one daughter, and she’s too young to need much from me besides kind governesses and the occasional outing to the park. But I do socialize, and I can give you the opportunity to see your cooking from the perspective of those who enjoy a meal.”

  Vain, self-absorbed, and shallow Melisande might be, but she wasn’t stupid. “Go on.”

  “You spend all this time choosing and testing recipes, then sampling the results,” Melisande said. “You are never seated with the guests to see the impression your dishes make when the footmen set them before the host or hostess. You never experience the aromas at the table, all blending as the wine is poured. You never eat the portions the guests are offered, never assess the whole meal as a progression of courses.”

  Ann wanted to argue—she knew her recipes—but Melisande was right. To cook a meal was like directing a play, a very different exercise from sitting in a theater box with friends and enjoying the performance over the bustle and chatter of the pit and gallery.

  Melisande had decided that having a free chef for the winter suited her ambitions, while for Ann…

  Orion Goddard had made her no promises, and Ann had been very clear with him that larking off to France did not suit her plans.

  She wished now she hadn’t been so clear. “I will consider your invitation, Aunt. If you are content with the selections you’ve made for the menu, I will calculate the portions needed to feed thirty for supper. Your cook will have the recipes by tomorrow.”

  Melisande’s frustration showed in a pinching of her lips. “You are so stubborn, Ann. I despair of you. I offer you an opportunity to frolic to your heart’s content in my kitchen, to make connections in polite society, and you turn up difficult. What is so blessed precious about chopping leeks all day that you’d hesitate to join this household?”

  My freedom is so precious. The respect of the staff at the Coventry. Access to a kitchen larger than all your public rooms put together. The privilege of enjoying Orion Goddard’s intimate attentions without fretting that I’ll cause a scandal.

  So much that was so dear hinged on remaining independent from Melisande’s household. “I will take you up on your offer to attend the dinner, Melisande. Let’s start there.” Ann rose, lest Melisande wheedle and browbeat her into a greater concession.

  Melisande got to her feet as well. “You have suitable attire for a formal dinner?”

  “I am your spinster niece who has been rusticating for years, as far as your friends know. I’m sure I can dress myself adequately to uphold that fiction.”

  “I will have to find another fellow to make up the numbers,” Melisande said, walking Ann to the door. “The brigadier might know somebody.”

  “I will bring my own escort,” Ann said, “a former military man who has at least a passing acquaintance with Uncle Horace.”

  “This is an officers’ dinner, Ann. Don’t show up with some infantryman-turned-groom from the Coventry’s stable.”

  “It might surprise you to know, Aunt, that at the Coventry, we enjoy the custom of the occasional duke and even George himself from time to time. I will bring an officer, you need not worry about that.”

  Melisande passed Ann her cloak and then her bonnet. “You aren’t thinking of bringing Jeanette Dorning’s brother, are you?”

  Such enthusiasm. “The last time I checked, colonels were included among the officers’ ranks, and y
es, I might well bring Colonel Sir Orion Goddard as my escort. He is a gentleman and acquainted with Uncle Horace. Perhaps you also knew him in Spain?”

  Melisande passed Ann her parasol. “I did. Why he was knighted, I do not know. There was talk and a board of inquiry if I recall correctly.”

  “That board absolved the colonel of any and all accusations of wrongdoing, and thereafter, he was knighted. Can your other guests claim that honor? I thought not. I must be going.”

  “I’ll find you somebody other than Goddard,” Melisande said. “He’s not good ton, Ann.”

  He is my friend and my lover and better ton than you can aspire to be. “Don’t bother. I’m sure the colonel is free to accompany me. If you want me to consider biding with you this winter, Melisande, you will accustom yourself here and now to the notion that I see whom I please and do as I please. I am not a schoolgirl who can be scolded into submission with threats of your disapproval.”

  Melisande smoothed the drape of Ann’s cloak. “Were you ever?”

  “Yes.” For too long—but thank heavens the lure of the kitchen had been sufficient motivation to put aside that foolishness. “Please give my love to Horace and Daniella.”

  Melisande kissed Ann’s cheek and let her go, then stood at the window and watched her progress down the steps and onto the walkway. She was still watching when Ann offered her a parting wave.

  The whole conversation had been uncomfortable, probably for both parties, and a lingering disquiet stayed with Ann as she made her way home. In girlhood, Ann had told herself that school wasn’t so bad, that the other students weren’t so unbearable, that an occasional afternoon pestering the school’s cook was enough indulgence of a little hobby.

  Leaving Mayfair for the busier and more commercial neighborhoods abutting it, Ann made up a similar litany about a winter spent in the Upchurch household.

  It would be for only a few months.

  Melisande meant well.

  Not even Carême had the opportunity to partake of the banquets he planned.

  And just as when she’d been a girl, Ann’s list of considerations felt like so many lies told to pour the sauce of patience on a dish of flaming misery.

  * * *

  Orion wished Ann lived several miles more distant from his house, because he needed the walking time to rehearse his confession.

  Confessions, plural. Informing Ann that Horace Upchurch had been Rye’s commanding officer shouldn’t be too awful. She’d wonder why Rye had dissembled, and he could explain: He’d simply been surprised and then uncertain about how to broach a difficult topic.

  Explaining to Ann that France was becoming an inevitability was a more delicate discussion. Rye was essentially blowing retreat without sighting the enemy. One name for that behavior was cowardice. That half of London thought him a spy was annoying and unjust. That Ann might think him a coward was unbearable.

  To stand and fight was brave, to walk into an ambush—into more ambushes—would be stupid. Rye had considered a retreat to avoid stupidity, and yet, leaving London now felt all wrong. He was knocking on the blue door before he’d reasoned himself into a worse muddle yet, and then there was Ann, looking dear and delicious, as she welcomed him into her home.

  “That is an apple tart,” she said, taking the parcel from Rye and kissing his cheek. “A French apple tart.” She gently peeled away his eye patch and tucked it into a pocket of his cloak.

  “I patronize a bakery that my French friends prefer. I had Monsieur Roberts make up a special order for an older lady with whom I’ve long been acquainted, and I hoped you might enjoy a sample of the same treat.”

  Ann set the parcel on the sideboard and unwound the scarf from Rye’s neck. She sniffed the wool and took his hat next.

  “Monsieur Roberts’s bakery is gaining quite a reputation,” Ann said. “Miss Julia and Miss Diana like to stop there on fine days and treat themselves to his profiteroles. I confess I have a weakness for his eclairs.”

  I have a weakness for you. Rye was happy just to hear Ann’s voice, to see her bustling about her domicile. He wondered if that lifting of the spirits was what a married man experienced when returning home at the end of a workday.

  Somebody glad to see him, somebody happy to share the day’s events. Somebody to kiss his cheek and assess whether he was full of good news or merely relieved to be home. The cat stropped himself against Rye’s boots, adding to the sense of domestic welcome.

  “Shall we enjoy the tart with a pot of tea?” Rye asked, unbuttoning his cloak.

  Ann’s gaze went to the steps. “Later?”

  Or maybe married men had other reasons to hurry home of an evening. “Annie Pearson, are you eager to have your way with me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I am flattered.” Also torn, because they had things to discuss, difficult things.

  “Only flattered? Not eager?” She took his coat and hung it on a peg next to ladies’ cloaks and bonnets.

  Rye stepped close enough to take Ann in his arms. “When it comes to you, my dearest, most delectable Annie, eager is an understatement. I’m a-boil with longing for you, but a fellow doesn’t just take off his hat and unbutton his falls.”

  She burrowed closer. “Some fellows don’t bother taking off their hats.”

  “Such a fellow would be an idiot, when he could instead spend a moment reveling in the pleasure of your embrace, when he could allow himself the joy of anticipating the coming interlude. Kiss me before I forget what language I’m babbling in.”

  A smiling kiss was a lovely way to begin a tryst. Rye had made Ann smile, and that made him smile, and the damned cat—winding himself between their feet—was probably smiling too.

  “I’ve missed you,” Ann said, subsiding against Rye’s chest. “I have things to tell you, but they can wait.”

  She fit him perfectly, and the feel of her was luscious, all warm, feminine, sweet, and sturdy. “I have things to tell you too,” Rye said. “Not particularly cheerful things.”

  Ann chose then to run her hand over his falls. “My mood is growing more cheerful by the moment, Orion. Will you please take me upstairs?”

  He ought to kiss her nose, step back, and tell her he was leaving London for a time—possibly a long time. He really should explain that his situation was growing more difficult by the week, and that his business prospects, never very impressive, were dwindling apace.

  Instead, he scooped her into his arms and all but charged up the steps.

  “Every lady should be carried off by a dashing swain at least once in her life,” Ann said, looping an arm around his neck. “You make me want to cook banquets for you to keep up your strength.”

  “You make me want to…”

  “To be wild?” Ann asked as Rye set her on her feet in her bedroom.

  “That too, but also to be close.” To have his bum patted in the odd moment when nobody was looking and to be hugged when he walked through the front door. Whatever the opposite of war was, he wanted that with Ann.

  To love, to build a shared life both humble and precious.

  Ann slipped from his embrace, and his rosy anticipation suffered a chill. What things could she have to tell him? Gossip from the Coventry, perhaps? News of Hannah?

  “Ann?”

  She shut the door and locked it. “For this one hour, Orion, let’s be both close and wild. I have looked forward to your next visit more than you can possibly know.”

  Her honesty caused more heartache than she could possibly know, for this might well be their last encounter. He would miss her, worse than he’d missed home when he’d gone to war. A soldier knew that some fine day he might return to his loved ones and to the familiar haunts of his peacetime life.

  As Rye undid Ann’s hooks, tapes, bows, laces, he was hit with the realization that to part from Ann would wound him as no battlefield ever had. He gathered her close so her back was to his chest and buried his face against her shoulder.

  “You are precious to me, Annie
Pearson.”

  She turned in his embrace and wrapped her arms around his waist. “And you to me, Orion Goddard. Make love with me.”

  He gave himself up to making pleasure with her, to cherishing her caress by caress and kiss by kiss. By the time he had her naked on the bed beneath him, her braid was coming undone, and her gaze had taken on a heat that frayed his self-restraint.

  “Someday,” she muttered, locking her ankles at the small of his back. “Someday I will find the discipline to make you as overwrought and muddled as you make me.”

  They weren’t likely to have that day. Rye shoved that sorrow aside and teased at Ann’s sex with his cock.

  “You are muddled, Miss Pearson? It seems to me you know exactly what you want.”

  “I know exactly who I need, Orion, but you are maddeningly—”

  He pushed forward. “Yes?”

  “Maddeningly delicious,” Ann said, closing her eyes. “Why must you feel so wonderful inside me?”

  “What comes after wonderful?”

  Her breath hitched, telling Rye that he’d found the angle needed to answer his own question.

  “I don’t…” Ann moved in a luxurious undulation. “Angels defend me. This is better than last time, and I didn’t think anything could surpass that pleasure.”

  Oh Lord, she was too much. Too honest, too enthusiastic, too perfect for him. A skirmish ensued, between Rye’s determination to make his lady happy and his body’s need to share in the joy. Determination won by a narrow margin as Ann shuddered out her satisfaction while clinging to Rye in a desperate embrace.

  He stilled rather than tempt himself beyond reason.

  “That was…” Ann sounded dazed and happy. “That was well past wonderful. That was spicy and sweet and rich and hot and… I’d say sinful, except with you, nothing of wrongness applies.”

  She battered him with dearness, and Rye retaliated by sending her over the edge again, this time in a blaze of passion as explosive as it was intense. When she was drowsing in his arms, he withdrew and spent on her belly, then tucked close and let himself drift.