The Wedding Cake (The Wedding Series)

by Dorsey, Christine

  The Wedding Cake

  Christine Dorsey

  Publishing History

  Print edition published by St. Martin’s Paperback

  in the anthology The Ways To A Man’s Heart

  as “Sumptuous Bliss”

  Copyright 1997, 2013 Christine Dorsey

  Digital Edition published by Christine Dorsey, 2013

  Cover design by Kim Killion

  Digital formatting by A Thirsty Mind

  All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, may be reproduced in any form by any means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Table of Contents

  Cinnamon’s Wedding Cake

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Excerpt: Déjà Vu

  Other Books

  Reviews

  Meet the Author

  Cinnamon’s Wedding Cake

  1..........cup unsalted butter

  1 1/4....cups superfine sugar

  4..........eggs, separated

  4..........cups all-purpose flour, sifted

  1/4.......teaspoon cinnamon

  4 1/2....cups dried fruit (apricots, currants)

  1..........cup candied orange peel

  1/2.......cup walnuts, chopped

  1..........ounce compressed fresh yeast

  2/3.......cup milk

  Cream butter and sugar. Beat in egg yolks. Mix together flour and cinnamon and add in small portions (to prevent lumping) to the sugar mixture. Then beat in dried fruit, candied peel, and nuts, again in small portions.

  Cream yeast with small amount of milk and add to cake mixture. Then add enough of the remaining milk to form a thick paste. Beat the egg whites until frothy and blend them into the cake mixture. Cover and let stand in warm place for 1 hour.

  Preheat oven to 325 degrees. Butter a 9-inch springform cake pan and line the bottom with parchment paper and butter the paper. Work the batter with hands to form stiff paste. Turn it into the pan and bake for 2 1/2 hours, or until skewer pushed into center comes out dry. During baking, cover cake with baking parchment if it is getting too dark.

  For graduated layers use different size pans and multiply recipe accordingly.

  Blissful Frosting

  1 1/4....cups buster, softened

  4..........cups powdered sugar, sifted

  2..........teaspoons rose water

  1 1/2....cups heavy cream, whipped

  3..........candied flowers

  Combine butter, 1 cup of sugar and rose water, beating at medium speed. Add remaining powdered sugar alternately with whipping cream, beating well with each addition. Beat at high speed until smooth.

  Ice cooled cake and decorate with candied flowers.

  One

  Massachusetts, 1886

  “For heaven’s sake, Biddy, would you hush up?” Cinnamon lifted a towel above her head and resumed slapping at the small fire on the kitchen floor. “Do you want the entire household to crash down on us?”

  “Move back, lass.”

  “What?” Cinnamon’s head turned at the sound of the unfamiliar male voice. “Who are you?”

  “As I said, move out of the way.” The man delivered the words as he tossed water from the pantry bucket onto the burning mess.

  “Ohhhh!” Cold seeped through Cinnamon’s petticoats, wetting her legs, soaking through her new kid boots. “What are you doing?” She looked down to see the stranger grabbing the hem of her sodden skirt. When she rapped his shoulder, he glanced up, giving her a smile that made her wet toes curl.

  “Not much harm done, then,” he said in a voice softened by a Scottish burr. “Only scorched the outer layer.”

  Not much harm done? Her gown was ruined—and her new boots with the ribbon lacings. “Look at me. I’m all wet!” Then something he’d said hit her. “Outer layer of what?” But the man, still kneeling at her feet, had turned his attention to the tumbled baking tins not far from her on the floor.

  “Yer skirt,” he tossed absently over his shoulder.

  She glanced down at the front of her gown. “It’s ruined.” She pulled at the soaked fabric. Who was this impertinent man?

  “Better a bit of silk and lace than yerself, I’d say.” He stopped examining the charred concoction on the floor and looked up at her again, inquiry shadowing his deep blue eyes. “Ye are all right, aren’t ye?”

  “Of course, I’m all right.” She just wished she could say the same for her gown, her new boots, and her creation. “Why shouldn’t I”—she started to say as he stood—“be,” she finished after swallowing. Goodness he was tall and broad-shouldered, dwarfing her not petite height which, of course, was no reason for her tongue to trip over itself.

  “Yer hem was afire,” he said simply.

  “I don’t understand how that could happen.” She bent forward, gathering up yards of silk. “I was so careful not to get too close to the flames.”

  He shrugged as if to say she could see the proof herself which she did in the form of wet, seared yellow silk.

  “Well, it must have happened when you came toward me. When I looked around,” she added.

  Again he just shrugged, a gesture she was beginning to find annoying. He used her fire-fighting towel to lift one of the pans containing the burned remains of her afternoon’s work.

  “What was it?” he asked, giving her that smile again.

  “A cake,” she answered, grabbing the pan and burning her palm. She did her best to muffle her gasp of pain.

  “ ’Tis still hot,” he told her... a bit too late in her opinion, but she thanked him anyway. The tilt of his head showed he doubted her expression of gratitude.

  “Here, let me see.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m fine.” But her words did not stop him from prying her fingers open to examine her palm. His hands were large, sun-darkened, and surprisingly gentle.

  “Doesn’t look too bad, a bit red is all.”

  “Are you a physician, then?”

  He surprised her when he threw back his head and laughed, a deep booming sound that made Biddy, cowering by the doorway, look up. “Hardly,” he answered. “Just a man who’s seen his share of burns and scrapes.”

  Cinnamon managed a half-smile. “How interesting.” He still held her hand, which wasn’t unpleasant but was highly improper, as was this meeting. She pulled her hand free, then surveyed the puddled, soggy, burned cake with a sigh.

  “I wouldn’t think they’ll be too angry with ye.”

  She lifted her wet skirt as she stepped around him, then paused and caught his eye. “Who?”

  “Why, your employers, lass. Though I’ve been told Mrs. Murphy can be a bit demanding, the old captain seems right enough.”

 
Cinnamon lifted her eyebrows. “Oh, really? That’s what you’ve heard?”

  “Aye.” He smiled down at her. “But then ye would know better than I.”

  “Yes, I imagine I would,” she agreed, amused despite his forthright comments about her parents. He thought she was the cook—in a silk gown and kid boots?

  “And perhaps they won’t find out,” he said, waving aside some lingering smoke. “I know for a fact that Mr. Murphy is not at home, or at least he wasn’t ten minutes ago.”

  “And just how do you know that about my... my employer?” Cinnamon ignored Biddy’s startled gasp.

  “I have an appointment with him in the library,” he added a bit pompously. Then his eyes widened as if he just realized what he’d said. He muttered a curse, then a quick apology. “I’d like to stay and help ye clean up the mess”—he ineffectively swiped at the water stains on his trousers—“but I fear I may be late for my appointment. Even though it was Mr. Murphy himself who was tardy to begin with. But I suppose schedules are different for the wealthy,” he said, grinning.

  “You’re probably right.” Cinnamon gave him her best smile. He really was handsome. She couldn’t help adding, “You won’t be telling Mr. Murphy what I did now, will you? I mean the fire and all.”

  “Well, I suppose I could be persuaded not to mention what I know—for a price.”

  “A price?” She cocked her head, looking at him through her lashes. Did he mean to extort money from her? Perhaps he did know who she was. Perhaps he had finally realized that no cook would be wearing yellow silk and kid boots. “Whatever could that be?”

  He rubbed his chin as if deep in thought. “A kiss would no doubt seal my lips.”

  “A kiss?” She certainly hadn’t expected that. Her smile faded.

  “Miss Cinnamon ain’t no—”

  “Good at baking cakes,” she finished for her hapless maid, who unfortunately had picked that moment to regain her tongue.

  “But, miss—”

  “A kiss it is,” she said, quieting Biddy. Despite the fact that she’d never see this man again, she didn’t want him to know she’d been making light of him. She saw no reason to embarrass him. After all, he had tried to help her. Perhaps a bit overzealously but still...

  Besides, what could it hurt? She’d let him give her a peck like her fiancé, Lord Alfred, had. Then he’d be off to see her father, none the wiser.

  She took a step closer and lifted her cheek. She caught the hint of a wicked grin moments before she was swooped against his broad chest. “Oh my...” The words were barely out of her mouth before firm, sensually chiseled lips covered hers. Heat raced through her—and tingles. The same sensation she’d felt in her toes at his smile now zinged through her body.

  His tongue ventured along the seam of her lips and her mouth opened. When her tongue met his, pure pleasure sent her spiraling. Dizzy, she lifted her arms, grasping his shoulders for support. But soon even that wasn’t enough and her hands curved around his strong neck, twining in the black curls at his nape. Delicious...

  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.