by Joanna Shupe
Preston lifted his considerable legs and put his feet on the ground. “We’re here to toast him. It’s been a year.”
“Oh, shit,” Kit said, and dragged a hand through his hair. “A year already. Jesus.”
Forrest had been dead a year. It hardly seemed real sometimes.
Harrison poured clear liquid from a familiar-shaped bottle into three tiny glasses. Kit grimaced. “Is that what I think it is?”
Preston shrugged and stamped out his cigar in the ashtray. “I liked your story about the Irish and their wakes. I asked Nellie where she got the poitín.”
Harrison smelled it. “Christ, that’s strong. Am I going to regret this?”
“Most definitely.” Kit raised his glass. “To Forrest.”
“To Forrest,” the other two men echoed, and they all touched glasses before throwing the liquor down their throats.
Kit was prepared for the inferno that blazed in his mouth and stomach, but Harrison wheezed for a full five minutes. Preston laughed and shook his head. “You’re growing soft in your old age, Archer.”
“Fuck. You,” Harrison gasped.
“Kit,” Preston said. “Profits are way up, the club is doing well. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. Alice gets most of the credit, however.”
“I know, which is why I am worried about what happens in a month.”
“It’ll be fine.” Kit crossed his arms over his chest, not about to back down. “She won’t be gone long.”
“So you say, but I know how these things go . . .”
“She deserves it, after how hard she’s worked.”
Preston’s expression hinted that he wasn’t convinced, but he turned to Harrison, who’d finally caught his breath. “Shall we leave Kit to it? Then we may all go off and grieve in our own ways.”
“Sleeping with your women, you mean,” Harrison said. “You two will be consoled and coddled while I’m on a train headed west.”
“No one cares about your celibacy, Harrison.” Preston clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s not my fault you fell in love with a woman who travels more than a Pullman porter.”
Harrison shook Kit’s hand. “Good luck. I’ll see you when I return, hopefully.”
Preston was next. “Tell Alice I am twice as fond of her as I am of you.”
“She knows that already. Get out of here.”
He cleaned up after his friends departed and got to work. There were performers to secure, orders to be placed, members to bill and many more menial tasks he’d never imagined. Preston kept after him to hire a manager, and Kit thought the time may have arrived. He was not meant to tally ledgers and argue with suppliers. Besides, they could well afford it now.
An hour and a half later the door swung open. Alice had removed her apron and repinned her hair, but she still had a smudge of chocolate on her cheek. With a wan smile, she dropped onto the sofa. “I don’t know why, but these ladies’ luncheons take it out of me. Much more so than a regular dinner service.”
“Because you were up late last night.” He came to sit next to her on the sofa.
“And whose fault was that?”
“Guilty.” Leaning in, he kissed the chocolate off from her skin. “Delicious, as always.”
She sighed and dropped her head onto his shoulder. “Charmer.”
“I have a question for you.”
Snuggling closer, she said, “All right.”
“Do you want your anniversary present now or on the actual day?”
She pulled back, her eyes wide. “You bought me an anniversary present? I didn’t know . . . that is, I haven’t yet had time to get you anything.”
“There is no need for you to buy me anything. I wanted to surprise you, to do something nice for you considering how happy you’ve made me.”
“You’ve made me happy, as well.” She moved in to kiss his mouth. “Very happy, indeed.”
“I’m glad, sweetheart. So, tell me your answer.”
“Now.” She grinned, practically bouncing in her seat. “I definitely want it now.”
He knew she’d say that. Going over to his desk, he retrieved the tickets from the top drawer. He brought them over and sat down. “Here.”
She took the pieces of paper and studied them. “You’ve booked passage to . . . Plymouth, England. Oh, that’s lovely. I’ve never been to England.”
“We are going to Plymouth, but we aren’t stopping there.”
“We aren’t?”
“From there we’ll continue on to Paris.”
“Paris?” At his nod, her jaw fell open. “Is this real? You are taking me to Paris?”
“We leave in three weeks.”
“Oh, my God.” She threw herself against him and squeezed tight. “This is so exciting. I have always wanted to go.”
He was aware. However, she didn’t even know the best part yet. “Wait, there’s more.”
“More?” She drew back and searched his face. “Are we going somewhere else, too?”
“No, just Paris. You see, with Chef Franconi’s help, I’ve secured a week-long private training for you with Chef Mourier at—”
She pounced on him, pushing him down onto the couch, where his head smacked against the armrest. “Ow,” he murmured as pain spread through his skull.
His wife was too giddy to notice his discomfort as she stared down at him. “Chef Mourier has agreed to meet with me. The Chef Mourier from Maison Maire?”
“Yes, Alice. That Chef Mourier. He said he is excited to meet this protégé of Franconi’s.”
“I cannot believe it. Kit, this is the very best present I’ve ever received. Thank you hardly seems enough, but thank you. I’m beyond grateful.” She rained kisses all over his face.
He chuckled and wrapped his arms around her tightly. “You are welcome. Happy anniversary, sweetheart.” He rose up to kiss her mouth.
“I love you,” she whispered when they broke apart. “How will I ever give you anything as meaningful? You’ve chosen the perfect gift for me.”
“I don’t need gifts. Just my willing pupil by my side.”
She kissed him briefly, then traced his jaw with her fingers. “Speaking of, Nellie told me of some very nontraditional uses for a wooden spoon. Are you interested in hearing them?”
Based on his wife’s adorable blush, he had a very good idea of what they were. “I most definitely do.”
She pushed to her feet and gave him a saucy smile. “Why don’t I retrieve one from the kitchen? Then I can teach you a thing or two.”
Acknowledgments
The first example of a supper club I could find was the Vaudeville Club from 1893. A group of society gentlemen, including Stanford White, founded a private supper club inside New York City’s Metropolitan Opera House while it was being renovated after a fire. This club would later transform into the Metropolitan Opera Club, which still operates today.
Madame Durham is based on several Black opera singers and performers of the Gilded Age, including Matilda Sissieretta Joyner Jones and Marie Selika Williams. The first African American to sing at Carnegie Hall (then called the Music Hall in New York), Jones was the highest paid Black performer of her day, and she ended up performing for four American presidents as well as British royalty. Williams was the first Black artist to perform in the White House, and while in Europe she performed for Queen Victoria in 1883.
There are so many people I would like to thank here, but space constraints are a real thing. So to all the romance readers, bloggers, booksellers and librarians—you make writing a pleasurable endeavor when life gets very difficult. I am incredibly thankful for all of you! Your clever tweets and beautiful bookstagram posts never fail to make me smile.
I love, love, love to work on these stories with my editor, Tessa Woodward. She is as much a fan of the Gilded Age as I am, and she helps me fine-tune these crazy historical plots and characters into something that (hopefully!) makes sense. So thank you, Tessa! Also, my heartfelt thanks to everyone at Ha
rperCollins/Avon for all their hard work on my books, including Elle Keck, Jes Lyons, Sam Glatt, Alivia Lopez, Angela Craft, Guido Caroti and the rest of the folks behind the scenes.
Where would I be without the friends who help pick me up whenever I need it? Diana Quincy deserves some sort of medal for putting up with me, as do Sarah MacLean and Sophie Jordan (whose brilliant mind suggested a kissing lessons book!). I am beyond grateful for the wit, wisdom and support of these three ladies. Thank you also to Lenora Bell, Eva Leigh, Nisha Sharma (keep those book recs coming!) and the other writer friends who make me laugh and smile every day (you know who you are!).
I have to give a special shout-out to my softball partner-in-crime Damita (aka TeamBossBabe), who will never see this but deserves my gratitude all the same. Without her help in managing our daughters’ crazy softball schedules, I would legit never finish a book.
Lastly, thanks to my mom, who reads all my stories first, and the rest of my family for their support. Also, I could never do this without the husband who gladly makes dinner, does laundry, cleans and deals with everything else in equal measure, giving me time to write when I need it. Indeed, I am the lady who got lucky.
Want to make babka? It’s very easy and so delicious! My absolute go-to recipe for chocolate babka is here, courtesy of Lisa Kaminski: tasteofhome.com/article/how-to-make-babka. (Tag me if you try it!)
Announcement
Don’t miss the next romance in the Fifth Avenue Rebels series from Joanna Shupe,
THE BRIDE GOES ROGUE
On Sale Winter 2022
About the Author
USA Today bestselling author JOANNA SHUPE has always loved history, ever since she saw her first Schoolhouse Rock cartoon. Her books have appeared on numerous yearly “best of ” lists, including Publishers Weekly, The Washington Post, Kirkus Reviews, Kobo, and BookPage. She lives in New Jersey with her two spirited daughters and dashing husband.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Also by Joanna Shupe
Fifth Avenue Rebels
The Heiress Hunt
Uptown Girls
The Rogue of Fifth Avenue
The Prince of Broadway
The Devil of Downtown
The Four Hundred series
A Daring Arrangement
A Scandalous Deal
A Notorious Vow
The Knickerbocker Club series
Magnate
Baron
Mogul
Tycoon
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
the lady gets lucky. Copyright © 2021 by Joanna Shupe. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins Publishers. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
Digital Edition NOVEMBER 2021 ISBN: 978-0-06-304403-6
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-304505-7
Cover design by Guido Caroti
Cover illustration by Anna Kmet
Avon, Avon & logo, and Avon Books & logo are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
HarperCollins is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers in the United States of America and other countries.
first edition
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