“You’re welcome, Miss Donovan. See you tomorrow.”
“I know that boy,” Tye said, frowning. “Casey Tate Katrina told me Emma is sweet on him.”
“Really?” she murmured, reading the front page. “That’s nice.”
Tye didn’t think it was nice. Emma was too young to be looking at boys. And that boy had no business sampling Claire’s Magic. “You shouldn’t give him food like that. It probably ruins his supper.”
She ignored him. Her attention was focused on the paper. “You are not going to like this. Wilhemina Peters simply cannot leave the McBride family alone. You want to read what she has to say about you in today’s ‘Talk About Town’ column?”
“Not particularly.”
She glanced up at him. “You need to know this, my friend.”
Scowling, Tye tugged the paper right out of her hand and scanned the page for Wilhemina Peters’s column.
ROYALTY VISITS FORT WORTH.
This columnist has learned that the citizens of Fort Worth have been mistaken in their address of Mr. Trace McBride’s brother, Tye, during his visit to Fort Worth. The handsome bachelor is no mere mister. He is a cousin to Queen Victoria herself and owns a real, honest-to-goodness castle in England. A great big Texas howdy to Lord Tye McBride.
The newspaper slid from Tye’s hands and fluttered to the floor. “Oh, Lord.”
“Cousin to the queen, Lord McBride?” Claire asked, scooping up the newspaper.
“God, no,” he replied, closing his eyes. That blasted Wilhemina Peters was showing her ignorance again. “I’m not a royal cousin and my title is not my surname.”
Claire sounded as if she had her tongue planted firmly in her cheek as she said, “Of course it isn’t. As much as I love Texas and her people, I’m afraid we are a bit too far removed to know the ins and outs of British aristocracy. You are not Lord McBride, you’re Lord…?”
“Wexford.”
“And your title is…?”
He didn’t answer.
“Earl?” she guessed. “Duke?”
“Viscount of Wexford,” he grumbled grudgingly. He said no more, staring unseeing at the crate that contained Claire’s cups and saucers as slowly, one by one, the ramifications of Wilhemina Peters’s gossip column made themselves known to him.
He obviously wasn’t the only person whose thoughts drifted that direction because after a moment, he heard Claire make a noise that sounded suspiciously like a choked-off chuckle.
“What!” he demanded sharply.
She cleared her throat and looked up from the newspaper, meeting Tye’s glare with sparkling blue eyes and luscious pink lips. Twitching pink lips.
“What’s so funny?”
Smothered laughter hung in her voice. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be unkind. It’s just that your expression…it’s so…male. My brothers would look exactly like you do, under similar circumstances.”
“Well I’m not one of your brothers, so don’t be laughing at me. This title business is all nonsense, anyway. This is Texas, not England. I don’t even know if it counts here. I might not even have one.”
“Oh, you have a title.” Claire’s smile broke like sunshine from behind a storm cloud as she waved the paper in front of him. “As of this afternoon, you sir, are the Most Eligible Bachelor in Texas.”
To end a run of bad luck, throw three shakes of salt over your left shoulder during a full moon.
CHAPTER 4
THE WOMEN BEGAN ARRIVING shortly after daybreak.
Accustomed to a baker’s early hours, Claire was halfway through her day and hard at work washing the storefront window when the first female bearing gifts appeared. Muffins, she decided, her experienced nose detecting the aroma of cinnamon and baked blueberries wafting from the napkin-covered basket that dangled from the woman’s arms. Possibly a coffee cake.
“Good morning.” Claire beamed a friendly smile. “It looks to be a beautiful day.”
“Yes, I have high hopes for it.” The woman paused, fiddled with the strings on her bonnet then lifted her chin. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped into the Rankin Building vestibule and rapped on Tye McBride’s door.
Claire polished her way closer, making certain to work quietly. She didn’t want to miss a word.
Inside the building, a door swished open. Katrina McBride spoke in a sleepy voice. “Hello. May I help you?”
“I’d like to speak with Lord McBride.”
After a pause, the littlest Menace replied, “Oh. If you’re looking for the Lord, you should try across the street at the church. Ask for Sister Gonzaga. I think she’s got an extra good connection to Him.”
“Your uncle, child,” the visitor replied, her voice tight. “I wish to speak with your uncle.”
“Well you should have said so.” With every word the girl’s voice grew stronger, as though she were shaking off the effects of sleep, preparing herself to launch into the mischief of the day. “Wait here. I’ll go get him. Unless he’s still asleep, and then you’ll have to come back later. Uncle Tye gets really grumpy when we wake him up before he’s ready, and after the trouble during supper at Miss Loretta’s, my sisters and I need to be extra good today. Part of that is letting him sleep as long as he wants. What do you have in the basket? It smells good. Maybe I should take it upstairs with me now.”
The woman protested, but little Kat must have gotten her way because the basket was gone when Claire stepped into the vestibule and then into her shop, pausing to prop her door open with a decorative stop made of cast iron and shaped like a butter churn.
Claire couldn’t help but wonder what kind of devilment the girls had contrived the night before at the Davis’s supper table. Not that it was any business of Claire’s, but she couldn’t help being curious. It was in her nature.
The predilection to snoop wasn’t the most flattering of traits, but Claire had come by it honestly. She’d learned early on that if she wanted to know any of the juicier secrets her family shared, she’d need to listen at keyholes and spy in windows. Her parents never told her anything, and her brothers were just as bad. After all, they said, Claire was a girl. She need not trouble herself with troubles. So, barred from family meetings of one sort or another, she had learned to adapt. Such ingrained habits were hard to leave behind.
Claire ducked into the back of the shop for her recipe books, then grabbed a pencil and paper for a grocery list. She could pretend she chose that spot because the light was better or the chair more comfortable. But in fact, when she poured herself a cup of coffee and took her seat, Claire Donovan was settling in to eavesdrop. She felt only slightly guilty for doing so.
Within minutes, she heard Tye’s scratchy rumble. “Uh, hello.”
In a simpering tone the visitor said, “Lord McBride, my name is Eliza Ledbetter. I wanted to welcome you to Fort Worth with a basket of blueberry muffins, but your niece already took them upstairs.”
Blueberry. I knew it, Claire thought smugly, marking flour down on her list.
“Well, ah, thank you, Miss Ledbetter. It’s nice to meet you. And please, just call me Tye. I appreciate the welcome. Kat showed me the basket, and we surely will enjoy those muffins.”
“It’s my special recipe.”
After a pause, Tye asked in a suspicious tone. “Did Claire Donovan provide any of the ingredients?”
“I don’t believe I’ve met Miss Donovan.”
“That’s good. Well, then, I’ll look forward to sampling your baking.”
Claire broke the point on her pencil.
Eliza Ledbetter continued, “Lord McBride—”
“Tye.”
“Tye. And you must call me Eliza.” She twittered then, and Claire rolled her eyes. “My mother has decided to hold a small soiree on Friday night, and we’d be honored if you would attend.”
Again, there was a moment’s pause. “Well, I thank you for the invitation, Eliza, but as you probably know, I’m here caring for my nieces. I don’t feel good leaving them.”<
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“You’d be welcome to bring the Mena—I mean, your nieces. Perhaps they could assist in the evening’s entertainment. I understand young Katrina has a beautiful voice.”
“Yeah, Kat can sing, but I’m afraid she’s useless when it comes to sitting still. I took the girls with me to supper last night, and I’m afraid it turned out to be a rather unpleasant experience for all. Please, give your mother my thanks and pass along my regrets. Maybe next time.”
“Couldn’t you leave them with your brother’s housekeeper or Mrs. McBride’s mother?”
Tye’s voice sharpened. “Mrs. Wilson is in Dallas and Jenny’s mother, Monique, is in Europe, so neither is available to baby-sit. Besides, I told my brother I’d care for them. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Oh.”
Claire couldn’t tell if Eliza Ledbetter was embarrassed or disappointed. The way she tied up the conversation and hurried off made Claire suspect it was a little of both.
Eliza might have been the first woman Tye disappointed that day, but it soon became obvious she wasn’t to be the last. By the time the girls left for school Claire watched women deliver seven more baskets of muffins, four cakes, three loaves of bread, a roasted turkey, and five proposals of marriage. When she spied the woman toting the roasted bird pass her window, Claire had to peek around the shop’s door to observe Tye’s reaction. His panicked expression when he accepted the turkey had her biting the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing aloud.
Shortly thereafter she heard the children call their good-byes as they hurried off to school. Tye followed quickly on their heels, ducking out the back door wearing a beat-up straw hat and a hunted expression. “I’d bet a dozen bottles of Magic he’s going somewhere to hide.”
Watching him go, Claire felt torn between sympathy and amusement. Normally she wasn’t the type to hold a grudge, but she couldn’t forget the snotty comment McBride made to Eliza Ledbetter in reference to Claire’s ingredients. What did he have against her cookies, anyway?
She pondered the question for some time without arriving at any answer. Then, shortly before noon, as she prepared to mix up a Snow Cake, a knock sounded at her back door. Tye McBride stood on the stoop, his hands cupped against the glass as he peered inside. The moment she opened the door, he ducked into the kitchen.
“I am so glad you are here. It’s getting dangerous out there.”
Claire took a good look at him and decided the danger factor in her kitchen just hiked up a notch itself. Dressed in a blue chambray shirt, worn denim britches, and a help-me look, Tye McBride appealed to the caretaker in her. It was all she could do not to set him down at the table and ply him with baked goods.
When he flashed her a grin and sank into a chair with a grateful sigh, it was all she could do not to sit in his lap and ply him with kisses.
Why, Claire Donovan. Where did that come from?
Flustered, she walked to the window and threw it open. “It’s getting hot in here,” she muttered inanely.
“You think this is hot you should see it upstairs. It’s wall-to-wall women up there.”
He looked so appalled that she couldn’t help but laugh. With that, her tension eased. “What’s the matter, Lord McBride? You don’t like being popular?”
“Popular, hah,” he scoffed. “These gals look at me and see one thing. Some silly bit of inheritance that doesn’t mean a dam—darned thing. I’m glad you’re not like that, Claire. It’s reassuring to know that not all women are feather-heads. I’d hate for the Blessings to grow up that way.”
Claire smiled weakly and turned back to her cake. He was right about one thing. When she looked at him she didn’t see an English title, she saw a handsome, virile man. Which put her right in there with the feather-heads after all.
Glancing down at her bowl, she saw she’d beat the butter to a cream without awareness of the effort. “So why are you calling on me? Are you hiding?”
“Darned straight, I am. At last count there were ten ladies up there offering to help baby-sit the Blessings. Each one of them had rounded up a kid of some sort— a niece, a nephew, a neighbor’s child—to come play at our house. Even Mrs. Wilson showed up since she ended up staying in town overnight and now has time to kill before her train leaves for Dallas. The girls are in heaven, but for me it was pure hell. So I escaped. Told Mrs. W. I’d be back before her train left. What are you making?”
“Snow Cake.” She added arrowroot to the mixture, then a half-pound of flour, trying her best to ignore her visitor. She wasn’t having much luck.
He rose from his seat and began to pace the small kitchen. He made her feel like a cook in a lion cage. “You’re making me nervous, McBride,” she said as she stirred in her flour. “Go in the front and pace if you must.”
“No, they might peek in the windows and see me.”
“Then find something to do.” She gradually added a half-pound of sifted white sugar to the mix, sensing the weight of his gaze all the while. At least he’d quit marching.
When she laid down her wooden spoon and reached for an egg, he approached her, saying, “I’ll help you with the cake. Except the poison part, that is. I won’t contribute to that.”
She fumbled the egg. “Poison?”
“That potion of yours. The Magic. Here,” he grabbed the egg from her hand, “you’re fixing to make a mess. I’ll do the eggs.” He cracked the shell gently against the rim of her mixing bowl.
Claire stopped him just in time. “No, not in the batter. This recipe uses only egg whites. I’ll do it.”
She tried to take the egg away from him, but he dodged her reach. “I know how to separate eggs. Get me a bowl.”
“No. I—”
“You told me to find something to do. I’m going to help.”
That she sincerely doubted. He’d already proved to be a distraction to her. Now that he’d taken up a position at her side, it only grew worse.
He smelled delicious. She tried to put a name to the scent. Spicy, certainly. Hot, zippy spices. Maybe cayenne or red pepper. But savory, too. Like warm sweet cream. And—she leaned a little closer to get another whiff— manly. Musky. Yummy. Figure out this recipe and you can forget all about Magic.
“How many?”
His voice jerked her back to the present. “What?”
“How many egg whites?”
“Oh. Um…” She couldn’t remember. She’d made this cake a thousand times and now she couldn’t remember. Disgusted with herself, Claire checked the recipe.
“Six.”
He whistled while he worked; a jaunty, bawdy tune. It bothered Claire. Having him around bothered Claire. The fact that she was bothered bothered Claire. “Oh, bother!”
She set her mixing spoon down with a bang and moved away from him, taking a seat in the chair he’d so recently vacated.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I’m taking a break. I’m the boss, I can do that.”
He nodded and cracked another egg. Despite her best intentions, she couldn’t help but watch his hands as they gently juggled the yolk from half-shell to half-shell. “You have good hands.”
The quick grin he shot her dripped wickedness. “So I’ve been told.”
Feeling her cheeks burn, she rushed to make conversation. “So where did you learn to separate eggs? Do you do much cooking?”
Those green eyes wore a devilish twinkle as he opened his mouth to reply. Claire realized she’d fed him another line and winced. He chuckled, then, and said simply, “It’s about like you and sewing. I cook only if I have to. But since I like to eat, sometimes I’m forced to fend for myself. I love meringue so I got my grandmother to teach me how to make ‘em. I’ll have you know I can bake a molasses pie with the best of them.”
“You put a meringue on a molasses pie?” She shuddered at the thought. “Like sugar, do you?”
“Love it.”
“Then you must be in heaven with all the baked goods your harem is providing.”
He cut her a chastising look. “C’mon, Claire. Be nice. I told you those women are dangerous. That’s why I’m hiding out here.”
“And I’m safe?” She sniffed and folded her arms. “Gee, thanks for the compliment. I am a woman, too, you realize.”
“Oh, I realize, all right” Appreciation gleamed in his gaze, which raked her from head to foot. “But you’re engaged, so that makes you safe.”
That’s what you think, boyo. She’d like to show him just how “safe” she was, but she knew such action wouldn’t be at all prudent. She feared the road to danger ran both ways in this case. Instead, she changed the subject “So tell me about your grandmother and the rest of your family. The McBrides are from where, Atlanta?”
“Charleston.” While he beat the egg whites, he told her of Oak Grove, the family plantation now overseen by his sister Ellen and her husband, Scott. She learned his parents died in an accident when he and Trace were but youths, and that the boys and their three sisters had been raised by their grandmother, Mirabelle McBride.
“She’s a pistol. I’m afraid we won’t have her for much longer, and that haunts me. It made it difficult to leave South Carolina and come here.”
“So why did you?”
He took a long time to answer. “Family dirty laundry. I did something really stupid and I couldn’t put off dealing with the repercussions.” After a moment’s pause, he said, “That’s enough about me. What about you? Tell me about your family, and especially the part of why you’re here and your fiancé is not.”
Claire did not want to talk about Reid Jamieson. Nor was she of a mind to discuss her family. Too much dirty laundry in the kitchen might curdle the milk. Instead, she walked to her pantry and perused the ingredients. Anything to distract him, she thought. Maple syrup. Corn syrup. “Blackstrap molasses.”
“What?”
She snagged the bottle and carried it to the worktable where Tye had just finished adding the frothy egg whites to the cake batter. “I’m experimenting with this recipe. In honor of your fondness for molasses pie, I shall add half a cup of the syrup to see what that will do to our cake.”
The Bad Luck Wedding Cake Page 5