The Wedding Cake (The Wedding Series) (7 page)

She was forced to remind herself of those words as the coach rolled to a stop and Captain McGregger himself opened the door. She’d never seen him in his maritime garb and she had to admit he was a sight to behold in his deep blue jacket, double-breasted over his wide expanse of chest. No paunch there, generous or otherwise. He looked rugged and incredibly handsome, with his black hair curling around the sides of his captain’s hat.

Cinnamon felt as if the air were suddenly charged, like before a thunderstorm. But the sky was blue, with nary a cloud in the sky.

“Ah, Ian, my boy. I hope this doesn’t mean you’ve made up your mind to return to the sea.” Her father gestured at the captain’s clothing as he lumbered down the coach steps.

“No, sir. I merely thought I might show Miss Murphy... and ye, too, sir, the
India Queen
. Miss Murphy mentioned the other day that it has been years since she toured a clipper.”

“Excellent idea. Excellent. Don’t you agree, Cinnamon?”

`Yes.” For some reason she was having difficulty speaking. She delicately cleared her throat deciding she needed to forget all this nonsense about Captain McGregger. Her father was incapable of devising any plot to throw the two of them together, even if he desired it. He knew she was pledged to marry another as did Captain McGregger. So that was the end of it.

Except that after the three of them spent over an hour walking through the warehouse, inspecting shipments of jute from India, and after Cinnamon assured them that she would enjoy a tour of the clipper, her father pleaded fatigue and insisted they go without him.

“Papa, I really don’t think I should leave you here alone.”

“Alone?” His laugh didn’t sound fatigued. “I’ve all my workers about me. Oh, the years I’ve spent on these docks. No, Cinnamon, I’ll not be alone.”

But she would be. Alone with Captain McGregger. That was nothing new, of course. They’d been working together in her father’s library off and on for nearly a fortnight. They’d talked and laughed, and she’d discovered that contrary to his lacking a formal education he was extremely knowledgeable about many things. His awareness of geography and history amazed her.

But that didn’t mean she wished to walk with him steadying her arm as they crossed the gangplank.

They inspected the quarterdeck and cathead where the anchor was stored when not in use. He explained the importance of storing the sails correctly and of his fear that the days of sailing ships were limited. Cinnamon knew her father already had steamers traveling to the Orient. They were faster, could use the Suez Canal, and didn’t have to depend upon the fickle wind. All in all superior vessels, though not nearly as romantic as the clippers, they both agreed.

It wasn’t until they were belowdecks, in the captain’s quarters, that their talk grew more personal.

“I see ye wore it. The hat,” he added when Cinnamon glanced up from one of the charts spread out on his desk.

“Well, of course.” She tried to keep her tone neutral. “I had to wear a hat.”

“But ye didn’t have to wear that one, I’ll wager.”

“I happen to like this hat.”

“So do I. As ye well know.”

Her fingers fluttered to the brim, caressing the felt, before she looked away. “It’s just a hat.”

“That’s like saying the
India Queen
is just a boat, I’m thinking.”

“Well, no one could say that,” she countered, smiling. Their eyes met, held, before she forced herself to turn away. She picked up a brass telescope, put it down, then picked it up again.

“Don’t you think Lucretia is lovely?” she asked after a moment of tension-filled silence, which she couldn’t explain.

“Lucretia? Yer sister?”

“Yes. She’s very pretty, don’t you think?” She was watching him now, noting his shrug of indifference.

“Aye, I suppose she is.”

“Suppose? Why? What’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing wrong with her.”

“Then I don’t understand why—”

“Why I don’t find her appealing?”

She sighed deeply. “Yes.”

“Perhaps ’tis just that I’m not a man to appreciate dark curls. Maybe I’m fonder of hair the color of cinnamon,” he said, taking a lock of her hair and twirling it around his finger.

“You mustn’t do that.”

“What? Touch yer hair?”

“Yes... I mean no.” She could feel the whisper of his warm breath on the back of her neck. His nearness sent gooseflesh racing along her skin. “We aren’t talking about my hair.”

“I am.” His fingers curved down to her chin, applying just enough pressure to turn her to face him. “And yer eyes and yer mouth.” He leaned closer.

“We really shouldn’t.” Her body zinged with anticipation.

“Aye, ye’ve the right of it there.”

“I’m promised to another.”

“I’m all too aware of that.”

“Please don’t.”

“ ’Tis only a kiss.”

“Only a kiss,” she repeated, as his lips pressed hers. But somehow as her body melted against his, as her arms wound about his neck, she couldn’t think of what was happening as “only” anything.

His tongue touched hers and the earth seemed to tilt. His large hands molded across her back and she thought she might swoon. He whispered her name against her freshly kissed lips and she forgot all reason.

E
ggs.

A cake needed eggs.

Cinnamon stared at the pans of flat, gloppy goo and her shoulders drooped. Why couldn’t she get this right?

Lord Westfield was expected tomorrow afternoon. She’d spent the entire morning in the kitchen, working hard, only to pull from the oven another failure. Was it too much to expect that she could bake a simple cake?

Her gaze was drawn to the basket of eggs on the table. They were right there. Why hadn’t she added them to the batter?

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she muttered, whipping off her apron and tossing it to the brick floor. This was becoming ridiculous. She had an idea that she knew what the problem was—or at least what she’d been thinking about while she should have been beating eggs. Ian McGregger.

She stomped out of the kitchen. She couldn’t keep him out of her mind, and she couldn’t stop thinking of the kiss. But there was more. She hadn’t followed through on what she said she’d do.

He’d asked for her help, her advice, and she’d agreed. She’d even decided to tell him she thought her father very clever to have picked him to run the business. Captain McGregger was perfect.

Then came that kiss. The second kiss. And because of her silly female foolishness, which she had always prided herself on not having, she had been unable to do what was best for Murphy Import and Export. For a week now she had vacillated, unable even to face the captain.

Now in her room, she sighed, then sank onto the bench in front of her dressing table. Her elbows on the polished surface, she cupped her cheeks, staring into the looking glass.

After dinner tonight she would tell the captain that he must accept her father’s offer, and this would be the last time she saw him before Lord Westfield’s arrival.

~ ~ ~

Her mother’s excitement at the duke’s imminent arrival dulled her temper toward the unwanted guest at the dinner table. She had been tolerably polite when Captain McGregger arrived, Cinnamon noted, and she hadn’t even raised an eyebrow when Lucretia asked him if he had received the invitation to the ball for Lord Westfield.

When he told her he had, Lucretia batted her dark lashes at him. “Then, you will come, won’t you, Captain?”

“Aye,” he, answered, his gaze momentarily snagging Cinnamon’s. “ ’Tis my intent.”

“How wonderful.”

“Have you ever been to Italy, Captain? The region around Florence?”

Cinnamon paused, her fork midway to her mouth, as the captain answered. Her brother-in-law had asked him the same question the first time they’d dined together and the captain’s response had brought the same long dissertation on the count’s illustrious family.

Was that all he spoke of? Since he had been in residence in the Murphys’ Beacon Hill house, Cinnamon had heard little else from the count. Her eyes strayed to her older sister, wondering if she too had noticed this particularly boring habit and found Eugenia’s attention directed elsewhere.

Did all her sisters find Captain McGregger so appealing? Somehow the idea did not sit well with her at all.

Thankfully, no one mentioned the wedding cake, or lack there of, as the dessert of pastries and custard was served. She’d mentioned it to the captain in her dinner invitation. A silly error on her part, and one she would not commit again.

As a matter of fact, she was beginning to wonder if she should give up the idea of baking it altogether. Resign herself to failure. Resign herself period.

“It is difficult for me to believe that tomorrow evening we will finally meet your duke, Cinnamon. How excited you must be.”

“What? Oh, yes, Mama, I am.”

“Is he very handsome, Cinnamon?”

“Yes, Lucretia. Very.”

“And he’s very rich.”

“I suppose he is, Cornelia.”

“Will we have to call you Lady Cinnamon?” She laughed.

“I don’t think so, Philomela.”

“Do you love him, Cinnamon?”

Her fork clattered to the plate as she turned to stare wide-eyed at her father.

“What a silly thing to ask, Mr. Murphy. Of course she does. The very idea. Our Cinnamon is marrying a British duke.” Her mother squared her shoulders. “A man of impeccable lineage. A man who will do our family proud. Open doors for all our daughters.” Her corseted body quivered. “How could she not love him?”

That said, her mother stood, her chin high, and announced it was time to retire to the parlor. “We must leave the gentlemen to their cigars.” Her eyes narrowed on her husband. “And their discussions.”

As Cinnamon followed her sisters from the room, she heard Count Lorenzo launch into a soliloquy of his own heritage, and she hurried her step.

When the parlor doors opened a half-hour later, Philomela had plowed her way through most of Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto no. 1. Papa entered, Count Lorenzo by his side, followed by Captain McGregger. Cinnamon waited until everyone’s attention returned to her sister’s playing, then slipped from her seat to walk toward the far window.

Spreading her painted silk fan, she sank into the closest chair, knowing Captain McGregger would come to her. Through her lashes she watched as he pretended interest in the music, then backed away. He appeared almost surprised to see her when their eyes met.

“Miss Murphy,” he said, bowing. “I wish to thank you for your invitation to dinner.”

He sounded stiff and formal... and more than a little angry. She’d refused to see him several times since their tour of the
India Queen
. Each time he visited, she had instructed James to say she was not at home, and she had little doubt that the captain had seen through her ruse. On Wednesday he’d ceased calling.

“You’re more than welcome, Captain McGregger.” She glanced at the group across the room. Her sisters listened with an obvious lack of enthusiasm to the count. Philomela pounded stirring chords from the piano, and her father seemed intent on keeping Mama occupied, appearing to hang on her every word as she prattled. Cinnamon supposed it was either about tomorrow’s distinguished visitor or her plan to move the family to Back Bay. Whichever, she was glad for her mother’s lack of attention.

“I wish to speak with you,” Cinnamon said, keeping her voice low.

“Ye can’t say I’ve not given ye the opportunity,” he countered, anger coloring his tone. He stood very close to her now as he lifted aside the heavy drape to peer outside. The tulle of her skirt brushed against his pant’s leg.

“I—I’ve been quite busy.”

“Preparing for the arrival of yer duke?”

“Among other things, yes.” She softened her tone. She didn’t want to argue with him. “I think you should accept my father’s proposal. You are more than qualified to run Murphy Import and Export.”

When he said nothing, and only looked down at her, she continued, “Certainly, this cannot surprise you. Your attributes are obvious. There really never was any question of your competence.” She breathed deeply. “You are familiar with sailing and the marketing of goods. You—”

“Why are ye telling me this now?”

“Why?” She fluttered her fan, feeling the need for a bit of air. His scrutiny seemed to raise the temperature in the room to beyond bearable. “Well, you asked my opinion if you recall. I am simply giving it.”

“Ye wish me to stay in Boston, then?”

Hardly that. She didn’t think she could manage seeing him often and not... And not what? She wasn’t certain. But then she wouldn’t be seeing him anyway. She’d be in England, in some remote shire married to Lord Westfield. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, he had looked away, again staring into the night. His strong profile held her attention.

“Ye didn’t answer yer father ye know.” He glanced down at her.

“It was a silly question.”

“Yet one with a simple enough answer.”

An answer she couldn’t admit. Not to him. She lowered her head, watching as her fingers traced the fan’s spine. “I tried to bake the cake again today.”