The Marquess of Cake (14 page)

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—or 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.

More shuffles from behind the pot. A low curse.

“Florence!” shouted the man behind her.

Alys pressed herself against the stone wall of the house as a disheveled woman crept around the pot.

“Malcolm?” ventured the woman timidly. “Done with your card game so soon?”

“Get back into the house,” the man said sharply.

She squealed, a thoroughly silly sound, and dashed back in.

Malcolm lit a cigar and puffed on it. Alys pressed back against the clay pot. She found a small opening, too tiny for a man, between the planter and the house. He dropped his match to the ground. As the match flared and died, she recognized Malcolm as Lord Mews, who held some government position.

“I know you’re still there,” Lord Mews said in a conversational tone.

Alys was about to step forward, but then she heard steps from the other side of the planter.

“What of it?” said a belligerent, slurred male voice.

“Do not presume to make sport of my wife and get away with it, sir.”

The other man laughed. Alys could only see them as dark figures.

The cigar illuminating Lord Mews’s arm made him seem a bit demonic.

“Laugh, will you? I can stop that laugh, make you remember to stay away from us.”

A rustle of clothing, a couple of running steps. The light from the cigar vanished momentarily. Then a man screamed.

“You bastard!”

“Fool!”

The light fell to the ground. The cigar must have dropped out of Lord Mews’s hand. She smelled something burning, heard a slap, then the sound of a fist meeting flesh. A grunt. Then, both bodies were on the bricks, rolling around. The men barked at each other, throwing punches.

What should she do? Stay hidden? Try to break up the combat- ants? Surely, Lord Mews had been provoked, but if, as she thought, he’d burned the man with his cigar he was scarcely an innocent.

Hatbrook. She had to fetch him. It was his mother’s party, after all. Swiftly, she crept along the house until she found the doors and opened them. A corridor stretched parallel to her. Where would Hatbrook be? She must be mindful of His Royal Highness. No scenes, no hysterics.

Swiftly, she went in the opposite direction of the ballroom, searching for the card room. After a couple of turns, she found herself in the main entryway. Sniffing, she hunted for cigar smoke, wasting precious moments.

“Can I help you, miss?” A footman came toward her from the direction of the ballroom. Tall, with sandy hair, his livery was impeccable.

“It is urgent that I speak to the marquess immediately.”

“Miss?”

“I know it is highly unusual, but I’m trying to prevent scandal.

Take me to him, please?”

The footman regarded her for a moment. “Scandal would be bad, miss.”

“Yes. There’s a fight.”

He raised his eyebrows, then gestured to her. They walked toward the back of the entryway and he pushed a panel to the left of a grand staircase. It revealed a hidden opening and she followed him down a narrow passageway. Then, he pushed another panel and they were in a gaslit corridor.