The Wedding Cake (The Wedding Series) (2 page)

A noise brought reason slapping back on her. At first she thought it was Biddy, but as she pulled away from him she realized it had been she... moaning.

Still dazed, no matter how hard she tried to gather her wits, Cinnamon stared up into his smiling face and cleared her throat. “Well,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “I suppose you should be on your way, Mr....”

“Captain Ian McGregger,” he said with a bow, and another dimple-revealing grin. “At yer service.”

“Yes, well, good day to you, Captain McGregger.” She turned away, busying herself with moving a wooden spoon from one spot on the table to another.

“He’s gone, miss.” Biddy crossed the kitchen and stood beside Cinnamon.

“Where did you find him, Biddy, and why in heavens did you bring him down here?”

“Well, like he said, miss, he was in your father’s library. I thought Mr. Murphy might be of some help with the fire, but he weren’t there, and that young man insisted I show him where it was. Grabbed my arm he did, and pulled me along.”

“Oh, really?” She laughed.

Biddy didn’t. “Miss Cinnamon, I don’t see what you think is so funny.”

Neither did Cinnamon, for that matter. But it was either laugh or try to explain to herself her reaction to Ian McGregger’s kiss. And that she didn’t want to do. Instead, she surveyed the damage on the floor.

“Poor Miss Cinnamon,” Biddy was saying. “Look at your cake, all ruined, naught but wet ashes.”

“It is a bit of a mess, isn’t it? As am I.” She plucked at her clingy wet skirts. “It’s just too bad I told everyone about this cake.” She gave the nearest blackened tin a kick with the toe of her ruined boot. “They’re expecting something wonderful for dessert at dinner.”

“Now, I’m sure no one will mind, Miss. You aren’t really expected to bake a cake now, are you?”

Perhaps. But she didn’t see why she couldn’t do it. How hard could baking a simple cake be? And as for no one minding that she’d failed, well, that wasn’t exactly true—for
she
minded a great deal.

~ ~ ~

“Oh, Count Lorenzo, do tell us another. You are so, so amusing. Don’t you think so, Cinnamon?”

“Yes, Mama. Truly,” she agreed, though she hadn’t paid the slightest attention to her sister Eugenia’s husband, who sat next to his wife.

Cinnamon had heard quite enough of the Italian count’s stories during their travels through Europe this past summer. Not that there was really anything wrong with her brother-in-law. He was learned, cultured, of impeccable lineage, if one didn’t count several wrong-side-of-the-sheet births which, of course, would never be mentioned in the Murphy household. And even if his pocketbook didn’t match his royal blood, he abided Eugenia fairly well. So all in all, he was a perfect catch. Mama was ecstatic that her eldest daughter was well married and in the autumn Cinnamon would be too.

Excusing herself, Cinnamon rose. Near the piano her younger sisters, Cornelia, Lucretia, and Philomela, took turns looking through the stereoscope and giggling. Taking a playful swipe at their posteriors with her fan, she bypassed them and headed for the window where her father stood. He had lifted aside the heavy velvet drapes and was looking out onto the gaslit street.

A large man, raw-boned and robust, he had gray hair and side whiskers and an honest, friendly face, still tanned from his many years standing beneath crisp white sails. Her mother had tried through the years to smooth his rough edges but had yet to succeed—at least to her way of thinking. Cinnamon thought her father nearly perfect, always had.

He tapped his foot absently now and rubbed at his whiskers—two habits her mother considered common.

Glancing up as Cinnamon approached, he gave her a welcoming smile. “So you’re tired of hearing how the count’s grandfather singlehandedly defeated Napoleon, are you?”

She hid a smile behind her hand-painted fan. “Do you suppose there’s any truth to that tale?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.” He let the curtain drop and lifted his wineglass, taking a sip. “But it does make him colorful.”

“And the center of attention,” she added. Cornelia, Lucretia, and Philomela appeared to have grown tired of the stereoscope and joined the group, chattering away like magpies, full of questions for the Italian count.

“Now, we mustn’t be too critical. Your sisters haven’t had the advantage of visiting the cream of European society as you have, my dear.”

If she thought for one moment her father was serious, she might have felt chastised. But she knew his opinion of her trip last summer, as well as the one Eugenia took the summer before when she had met Count Lorenzo.

“You seem distant tonight, Papa. Is something wrong?”

He set his glass on the ornately carved table, next to Caesar’s bust. “Wrong? No, I wouldn’t say that. But there is a matter I wish to discuss with you. Should have before tonight actually.”

“Why before tonight?”

“Cinnamon, Mr. Murphy, do come join us. Count Lorenzo is relating such a fascinating tale,” Mama called to them.

“He and Eugenia have met our queen, Papa.”

“Yes, I know, Philomela, though we must remember Victoria is not our queen.”

“Oh, Papa, don’t be such a fuddy-duddy.”

“Such language you use, Cornelia,” Mama said. “I can’t imagine where you get it.”

“Shall we join your mother, Cinnamon?” Patrick held out his arm. Her expression must have shown concern, for he patted her hand. “Don’t fret. We’ll talk later on this subject.”

“I’d be pleased to know what subject you’re referring to.”

“Later, my dear,” he said as they strolled across the drawing room toward the arrangement of scarlet settees.

Seated again, Cinnamon fluffed the folds of her wheat-colored silk gown with the Sevres blue velvet and black Chantilly lace, and wished she knew what was troubling Papa. Her lips thinned, then curved into a forced smile when her mother caught her eye. One of her daughters appearing vexed in public wasn’t acceptable as far as Kathleen Murphy was concerned.

When James, the very English butler Mama had imported from London, announced dinner, her mother rose, but Papa shook his head waving James aside.

“Whatever is wrong with you, Mr. Murphy? We are all assembled and quite ready to have our dinner, I’m sure.”

“I apologize for the delay, Mrs. Murphy. But I’ve invited someone else to join us.” Her father flipped open his pocket watch. “Someone I am eager for all of you to meet.” His eyes sought Cinnamon’s.

Her mother settled down onto the settee primly. “Where is this person?”

“He’ll be here.”

“Perhaps he was delayed,” added the count as he lifted his monocle.

“Delayed?” Cinnamon thought her mother said the word as if she’d never heard it before. “How utterly—”

“Ah, here he is now.”

The parlor doors opened, and before James could announce the visitor, her father rushed forward. He took the newcomer’s hand and shook it hardily, practically pulling him into the room.

“Welcome, my boy. Glad you could come. We are all assembled as my good wife would say. You must meet the family.”

Her father’s outburst hid Cinnamon’s gasp of surprise.

She watched, stunned, while her father presented her mother, sisters, and Count Lorenzo. Though their guest appeared slightly nervous, he was nonetheless gracious, making the appropriate comments—until his eyes met hers. Then his mouth dropped open, but no words emerged.

“C
innamon, my dear, let me present Captain Ian McGregger. Captain McGregger, my daughter, Miss Murphy.”

Cinnamon could almost hear the captain’s thoughts exploding inside his head. The cook! No, not the cook! The daughter.

Captain McGregger muttered something she didn’t quite catch. Then his gaze caught hers, and she had difficulty looking at him. She should have told him who she was before he had made those comments about her parents, before he had kissed her. Unable to stop herself, she glanced at his mouth, and heat crept up her neck.

He must have also felt embarrassed, for she noticed he tugged on his starched collar before he straightened his shoulders. It almost appeared as if he’d like to turn and walk out the door. But instead he offered his arm to her mother, who seemed hesitant to take it, and escorted her to the dining room.

The butler seated Captain McGregger between her sisters, Cornelia and Lucretia. They were pretty and young and pleasant company, so Cinnamon was surprised when the captain’s gaze kept straying to her, sitting directly across the lace-covered table from him.

“Have you been to Italy, Captain McGregger?”

He glanced up from his perusal of the array of silverware bracketing his bowl of chilled soup to answer her brother-in-law. “No, sir, I have not.”

“Pity. It’s a lovely country. My family is from there, you know. Near Florence.”

“Really.” His Scottish-accented voice was laced with polite curiosity.

“Yes, they own an estate,” Cinnamon added. “A villa that looks down over a lovely valley.” She smiled at the captain around an elaborate silver epergne laden with fruit, while lifting the round, bowled soup spoon slowly to her lips.

“I see.” The captain’s sun-tanned face pinkened, but he picked up the correct spoon nonetheless.

“Captain McGregger is one of the finest sea captains in my employ.” Her father set down his wineglass.

“Thank you, sir, but I’m sure I don’t deserve—”

“Why not? You are the best.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir, but—”

“Mr. Murphy, you’ve spilled wine on the tablecloth. How many times must I ask you to be more careful?” Her mother said, interrupting the captain. She then turned to Count Lorenzo. “I do apologize, dear Count. We don’t usually speak of business at dinner.”

“I’m certain Father was simply telling us a bit about our guest,” Cinnamon said in defense of her father, who simply shrugged.

The conversation then moved to other topics, mostly emanating from her sisters and centering around the count. Since her family had been in his company only briefly for Eugenia’s wedding last year, her sisters were full of questions, wanting to know every detail of the count and Eugenia’s recent arrival in Boston and of the round of parties and dinners planned for them during their visit.

“How long will you be in Boston, Captain McGregger?” This question came from Lucretia, who Cinnamon noticed was doing her best to flirt with the handsome Scotsman.

“I’m not certain.” Cinnamon saw him glance at her father, who was busy eating his lobster and didn’t meet his eye. “Until today my answer would have been simple. No more than a fortnight. Long enough to unload the shipment of spices, jute, linseed, and saltpeter, then fill the hull with manufactured goods.”

“And then you’d sail to...” Lucretia smiled at him as she raised her glass.

“India. As I’ve been doing for nearly fifteen years.”

What had happened today to change his plans? Cinnamon wondered. But before she could ask, Lucretia was inviting the captain to attend the ball being given in honor of Cinnamon’s betrothed.

“You must come, isn’t that so, Mama?”

“Of course, Lucretia. Captain, I shall see that you receive an invitation,” her mother answered, though the tightlipped expression on her fleshy face indicated that she hadn’t liked saying it.

“Thank you, ma’am. But I may be in the middle of the Atlantic by then.”

“Nonsense, my boy—Of course you’ll come,” her father said, obviously oblivious to Mama’s soured expression.

The table was cleared again, and Lucretia clapped her hands. “Shall we see it now, Cinnamon? I’ve been so excited all day.”

She turned to Captain McGregger before Cinnamon had a chance to answer. Leaning toward him, Lucretia whispered conspiratorially, “Dear Cinnamon baked a cake, if you can believe it. She tasted it the day she met her fiancé, Lord Westfield. It was at the queen’s daughter Princess Beatrice’s wedding. Cinnamon asked Queen Victoria’s own chef for the recipe. Now she’s determined to have it at her own nuptials. Isn’t that right, Cinnamon?” Lucretia leaned farther toward the captain as she eyed Cinnamon.

 “I didn’t bake the cake today,” Cinnamon said, shooting a look at Captain McGregger, daring him to contradict her. “I was too busy.” Not a complete lie. She had been busy working on her father’s business accounts, which was the reason she had forgotten about the cake and had left it in the oven till it caught fire.

“Oh...” Lucretia pouted. “I was so looking forward to tasting it. You made it sound just so...” She glanced at the captain through her lashes. “... Tantalizing. But then I thought it was perfectly absurd for you to make the cake yourself. Didn’t you, Mama?”

“I didn’t think she could manage it,” Eugenia piped in. “And why should she even try? We do have staff for that sort of thing.”

“Yes, I agree,” Philomela added, nodding her head till her golden curls shook. “It really wasn’t a good idea. I don’t care how much you wish to impress Lord Westfield.”

“I’m certainly not doing it because of that,” Cinnamon blurted.

“That’s excellent, because I doubt His Grace would care for his future bride slaving away in the kitchen like a common servant. Don’t you agree, Count?” her mother asked.