The Wedding Cake (The Wedding Series) (8 page)

“Yer wedding cake?”

“Yes.” She glanced up, a slight smile curving her lips. “I forgot to add the eggs. Can you imagine? It really didn’t turn out at all well.”

She thought he might say something. Make light of her culinary talents, or chide her for her poor memory. Something. But he only looked at her, his eyes saying more than words could ever convey. More than she could bear to face.

~ ~ ~

Cinnamon hardly recognized him and was stunned that her memory of the duke had faded so quickly. She remembered him as taller and more broad-shouldered. How silly of her.

“Do tell us about your trip, Your Grace. That is how I should address you, is it not? I do wish to be correct.”

“That will be fine, madame.” Alfred Westfield lifted his teacup. “The trip was tolerable, I suppose. Long.”

“I’m sure it was,” her mother agreed, sending a knowing glance to Cinnamon, who sat on the settee across from the duke. “But then I’m sure anticipation of what lay ahead kept you anxious.”

“Certainly.” He sipped the tea, then pursed his lips. “I’ve always wished to see the American West. Hunt the buffalo.” He leaned toward her mother. ”See the savages.”

“The savages? But... but...”

“Didn’t I tell you, Mama?” Realization hit her that she probably hadn’t. “Lord Westfield is taking a hunting trip before the wedding.”

“But... but it’s less than a month away.”

“There’ll be plenty of time.” Cinnamon tried to keep her voice calm in contrast to her mother’s agitated tone. She was beside herself, and Cinnamon felt a pang of guilt for not preparing her. She hadn’t kept her fiancé’s itinerary a secret on purpose. It had simply slipped her mind.

“But what of the ball? The parties I’ve planned? When will Boston meet you?”

“Ah, yes, the ball. I’ve already spoken with Miss Murphy concerning it. I will be in attendance,” he added with a benevolent smile.

And as for the parties, Cinnamon hadn’t been aware there were any. Though now that she thought about it, she should have known. Mama would never miss this opportunity to flaunt her royal son-in-law-to-be.

“There will be plenty of time, Mama. After we are wed.” Cinnamon tried to catch her betrothed’s eye, but he was busy choosing an iced cake. “Surely we won’t leave for England immediately.”

“What’s that?” He took a bite, pursing his lips again before pushing the plate on the side table. “Oh, yes, returning to England. Mustn’t stay away too long, you know. My chums want me back.”

“Chums?”

“Friends. The gents I hunt with. Charming lot. I don’t think you’ve met them. Oh, except for Lord Percy.”

“Yes, I remember Lord Percy.” Remembered and didn’t particularly like.

“Anyway, we go to Scotland every year to hunt. Frightful fun.” He went to pick up the cake, apparently thought better of it, and brushed his fingers on his napkin. “Of course this year we’ve had to delay the trip a bit, what with... this.” The sweep of his hand seemed to include Cinnamon, her mother, the parlor... perhaps all of Boston.

“Well, Your Lordship, I’m not certain my daughter will be up to a hunting trip so soon after the ocean voyage.”

“Miss Murphy? Hunting? Now that is rich,” he said with a laugh. “Wait till I tell Percy.” He sobered, then sniffed, wrinkling his long nose. “My dear Mrs. Murphy, there are no women invited on our hunting trips.”

“But... but what will she—”

“Do you dislike the cake, Lord Westfield?” Cinnamon asked, interrupting her mother who seemed befuddled. “You give it such foul looks.”

“It is a bit dry, Miss Murphy, now that you mention it. Nothing at all like the creme cakes at home.”

“They must be wonderful,” her mother gushed.

“Very.” His eyes crinkled. “I can almost taste them now.”

Had he contorted his face so much in England? Cinnamon couldn’t recall. She also didn’t know what imp took hold of her voice. Before she could stop herself, she was expounding the virtues of the cake she planned to bake.

“You? You are baking a cake? This is a joke, is it not?”

“No.” Cinnamon straightened her shoulders. “Actually it isn’t.”

He brushed her words aside with another wave of his hand. “Well, no wife of mine will ever work in a kitchen.”

“Oh, I’m sure Cinnamon would never dream of cooking once she’s Lady Westfield,” her mother hastened to say. “This is just a little amusement of hers. You understand how young girls can be, surely?”

The duke agreed with her mother, both chuckling, and as soon as Lord Westfield made his excuses and departed, Cinnamon rushed to the kitchen.

T
he ball was actually given by Matilda Cowen Randolph at her mansion in Back Bay, because the Murphy house on Beacon Street could not accommodate all the crème de la crème of Boston society. At least that’s what Cinnamon’s mother lamented over and over again.

Cinnamon wondered, during any spare moment she had, if Papa would end up relenting to her mother’s repeated demands that they move. Not that it affected her. She’d be far away... in England.

“Don’t sigh, Cinnamon. It’s unbecoming a lady.”

“Yes, Mama.” She nearly rolled her eyes but decided her mother would find that even more common.

They were upstairs in the bedroom Mrs. Randolph had set aside for their use. “It was so wonderful of my dear Mrs. Randolph to host this ball for you and your duke.”

“Yes, it was,” Cinnamon agreed, though she thought Mrs. Randolph’s generosity had been spurred more by the idea of receiving royalty than by friendship.

“Stand back and let me look at you, Cinnamon.”

“What about me, Mama?” Cornelia asked.

“And me? Cinnamon already has her duke. We are the ones you should be making sure look perfect.”

“Now, Lucretia, you all are as lovely as pictures.” Her gaze swept over Cinnamon and her three sisters. “And don’t any of you worry yourselves about husbands. Your older sister married a count. And now Cinnamon has Lord Westfield. Opportunities for you girls abound.” She fluffed the satin bow spilling over Philomela’s shoulder. “Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if, thanks to Cinnamon, you all wed noblemen.”

This pronouncement met with the expected titters of excitement from everyone but Cinnamon. She tried to disguise her lack of enthusiasm by turning toward the cheval looking glass. Leaning forward, she examined the mauve crescents beneath her eyes. She wasn’t sleeping well and didn’t like thinking about the reason. But she couldn’t help herself. How could she go through with this marriage to Lord Westfield? And why did thoughts of Ian McGregger confuse her so?

“I’ve already said you look lovely, Cinnamon.” Her mother peered over her shoulder, catching Cinnamon’s eye in the looking glass. “You were right to choose the apple green faille. Yes, yes,” she said, her hands fluttering. “I know I advised against it. But now that I see it on you I agree completely. Truly elegant, as befits a duchess.”

“I’m not a duchess yet, Mama.”

Her mother’s laugh was high and brittle. “Just a matter of time, dear. His lordship is obviously in love.”

A statement Cinnamon thought utterly ridiculous, but she said nothing. After all, she wasn’t in love with the duke. Or with anyone, she reminded herself when a pair of blue eyes and a devilish grin came to mind.

“Now come along, all of you. It’s time we go down to the ball. Where is that father of yours?”

~ ~ ~

Mrs. Randolph’s mansion was much larger than their own house and even more elaborately decorated, which Cinnamon usually found a bit distracting. However, tonight, bathed in candlelight and every available spot filled with greenhouse flowers, it did seem like a fairyland.

Cinnamon entered the ballroom, her mother on one side, her father on the other. Strains of a waltz played by an orchestra seated on the raised platform at the far end filled the perfumed air. As soon as they were announced, Lord Westfield excused himself from a group of young gentlemen and approached.

He looked handsome enough in his formal attire, and for a moment Cinnamon remembered how she had felt when they first met. He was pleasant, attentive, attractive. Had she really thought that that was all there was to a man?

She forced a smile, accepted his flatteries, and together they joined the other dancers. He twirled her about and she had to admit he was an excellent dancer.

“Of course we won’t be using such barbaric weapons as bows and arrows, don’t you know.”

“What?” Cinnamon blinked, realizing she hadn’t the faintest idea what Lord Westfield had said. Something about his trip, about leaving two days hence, but after that, she couldn’t say. She’d been too busy scanning the dancers as she moved. “I’m so sorry, Lord Westfield. What did you say?”

“Just speaking of the savages, but no matter. It is noisy in here. Can easily understand your difficulty.” He lifted his chin, glancing around in that superior way of his. “It appears our hostess did not know where to prune her invitation list.”

“I believe my mother provided the list.”

“Well”—he looked down at her—“there you are.”

She opened her mouth to ask exactly what he meant by that, but the music stopped, the duke returned her to her family, and she decided it was probably best she didn’t know.

Her father, who danced robustly, escorted her through the next set. Then her brother-in-law claimed his place on her dance card, and, still, she’d not caught sight of Captain McGregger.

Not that she was looking for him, she told herself. Yet she was surprised he’d failed to make an appearance.

The evening was warm, and more than once she glanced longingly toward the open glass doors leading to the terrace and beyond to the gardens. Hundreds of lanterns, strung from the trees, illuminated the grounds.

Her father finally suggested they step outside, and Cinnamon took her first breath of fresh air that evening.

“So, are you enjoying yourself, my dear?” Her father rested his thick hands on the balustrade and tapped his foot.

“It’s a lovely ball.”

“Which doesn’t answer my question, now does it?”

She leveled her father a look. “Yes, I suppose I’m enjoying myself. Is that the answer you want?”

He shrugged, “I was just looking for the truth.”

“You, Papa are trying to be difficult.”

His laugh shook his jowls. “I suppose you’re right.” He turned, lifting his head to view the mansion behind them. “Big, isn’t it?”

“Quite. Are you planning to have one like it built?”

“Well, now, I don’t rightly know. I’m kind of partial to the brick house on Beacon Hill, but I know your mama wants something like this.” He folded his arms. “Blames the fact that we don’t for some of the Brahmins not showing up tonight.”

“Those old-money snobs.” She laughed. “Well, they’re missing a grand time.” Her demeanor sobered. “I really don’t care. Do you?”

“No.” He leaned back. “But your mother does.”

“I know. But she’ll have her very own family duke soon.”

“Is that why you’re marrying Westfield? If it is—”

“Papa, no. My betrothal to—”

“What is it?” Her father turned to follow her gaze. “Ah, Ian, my boy, there you are. Didn’t think you were coming.”

“How are ye, Mr. Murphy, Miss Murphy?”

“We’re doing very well. Cinnamon and I were just discussing the ball. Would you call it a success?”

He chuckled. “For a lonely sea captain from the Highlands it seems grand enough.”

“And since you mentioned grand, I have to say, you look grand yourself, my boy. Doesn’t he, Cinnamon?”

“Yes.” An understatement if she’d ever spoken one.

“Thank ye both. And may I return the compliment, Miss Murphy. ’Tis obvious again that green becomes ye.”

Her smile reflected his own.

“Now look at you two young people standing here talking with me when there’s music playing and dancing to be had. Go along with you.”

“Papa, I believe this dance is promised.” Cinnamon fiddled with her dance card, nervous at what Captain McGregger must think having her foisted on him.

“Well, whoever it is hasn’t the gumption to come looking for you so I’d say ’tis his loss.”

“Would ye do me the honor, Miss Murphy?” The captain extended his hand and she had no alternative but to take it. He escorted her inside, placed a white gloved hand at her waist, and guided her into the circle of dancers.

“I fear I’m not very adept at this.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“Strong praise, indeed.”

Cinnamon raised her eyes from the front of his shirt and the corners of her lips lifted. It was hard to ignore him when his strong arm encircled her, when his scent enveloped her. And when he smiled at her that way. “Where did you learn to dance, Captain?”

“The same place ye learned to bake, I imagine. Self-taught.”

“Well, you must have had a better teacher than I. Last evening I did everything right... I thought.” She sighed. “But the cake flopped. Flat as a pancake.”

“Did ye open the oven before it was done?”

“I thought I should check.”

“Next time wait till ye can smell it.” He grinned down at her. “Good smells, mind ye. Don’t wait for the scent of something burning.”

She laughed, then abruptly became serious. “I can’t seem to get it right.” Her eyes narrowed. “And don’t tell me to stop trying. I want it perfect.”