"I hate caps," he said. "Come to think of it, I hate bonnets, too, or anything else that covers that glorious hair of yours."
Molly's cheeks warmed. "It's not fair your talking like that."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not able to think sensible when you do!"
He grinned. "And it's important to think sensible?"
"With you it is."
Letting go of her, he put his hands behind his back. "That better?"
Molly tried to retie her apron, but her fumbling hands managed to tangle it with the spoon. Letting out a frustrated breath, she tossed the spoon aside and tore off the apron. "No, it is not better—here you come waltzing in, saying you've bought an hour of my time and I don't know why you're here or what—"
"I'm here because I couldn't stay away."
She stared up at him, her heart beating faster. "Oh."
He stepped closer. "And I would have come sooner, only I didn't want to show up empty handed." She glanced at the leather pouch on the table, but he reached out and turned her chin so that she had to look at him. "Not to bring you money, my Molly-may."
She held utterly still, shocked. "What did you call me?"
Mouth crooked, he dug into his waistcoat and pulled out a folded letter. "Molly-may—it's what you're uncle called you."
Hands trembling, she took the letter and unfolded it to scan the lines. She recognized the scrawl at once, even though it had been years. Her uncle's hand—or at least how it had been after the fever had him and he could barely write.
"Where did you get this?" she asked. She looked up at him, excitement bubbling in her. "Lady Thorpe? She is my aunt!"
Theo shook his head. But at her dismayed, he gave up teasing. "Not your aunt—your godmother. She and her sister, Amy, seem to have been neighbors and best-of-friends with your mother, Amelia, and her sister. I think there's a blood tie of some sort, but I couldn't wade through all that. She had that letter tucked in her bible—it came to her through your mother's sister who didn't dare defy her family and go to meet you herself. And I'd wager, your family were the kind souls who also disclaimed knowledge of your mother and father!"
"But she never did—meet me, I mean. Oh, gracious, was she ill even then and forgetting?"
With a shake of his head, he gestured to the letter. She looked again and saw a torn section of newspaper as he said, "Look what ship is circled."
She glanced at the paper—it gave the names of the East India merchant ships docking in London. "The Armiston? But I sailed on the Carmathen."
Her cheeks paled and she looked again at her uncle's letter. She wanted to sit down. It had all been a mistake. A dreadful mistake. The wrong ship met, for with her uncle's scrawling hand, even she could barely make out the proper name of the ship.
Eyes swimming and throat tight, she looked up at Theo. At least it had come right—years late, but not too late. "I'm her goddaughter, you said?"
He grinned and nodded.
With a scowl, she pushed the papers at him. "I suppose that makes me tolerable now! So that's why you could bear to come to see me. Now that you know I've got decent blood in me, I'm good enough, am I? Well, you may just take yourself off again!"
Turning, she stalked around the table, intent on leaving, her cheeks burning. Of course he hadn't wanted her when she was just a cook in a bawdy house. But did he have to come to her now that he thought her nearly acceptable and tempt her with himself?
He rounded the table before her and placed himself between her and the door. "I've not had my full hour yet! And I've not had what I came for—which is you, my sweet Sweet."
"Oh, stop calling me that."
"Then what should I call you?" he asked, advancing toward her. "My Molly-may? My delight? I've come to London for you and I'm not leaving without you."
"Why?" she demanded, hands on her hips.
He stopped and blinked at her. "Why what?"
"Why have you come for me and why do you want me? Is it because you think I'm almost respectable now that I have Lady Thorpe for a godmother?"
"Of course not! Blazes, as if I would!"
"Well, then why?"
He glared at her. "You're going to make me say this, aren't you?"
She let out a sigh and rolled her eyes. "Of course I am. I spent enough time with you Winslows to see how you like to keep unsaid all the things you ought to be saying—you expect everyone to just know. Well, I want more. I want to hear you say for yourself why you—"
"Because I love you, damn it!"
She stared at him and began to smile. "You do?"
"Of course I do!" In two strides he had hold of her hands. "Why else would I spend all that time with Lady Thorpe—enough, I may say, that Bedlam was starting to seem a nice place to visit! I wanted to bring you something—something you'd value. And I couldn't think what you'd want more than to know that someone tried to meet you—that someone wanted you."
"Oh, Theo!"
His eyes darkened. "I want you as well."
She stared up at him, trembling inside, feeling as she had years ago on the London docks with an unknown world waiting for her. "I—I want you as well. But you can't marry a cook who dreams of owning an inn."
"And why can't I? Buy your inn, if you like. Blazes, buy a dozen of them—Lady Thorpe'll probably leave you enough for it. Or make your own fortune by writing one of those fat books on cookery like that one that jeweler's widow put out."
"What do you know about cookery books?"
"I'll have you know that I know a good deal—Sylvain Harwood's sister married a fellow who prints books. Poetry mostly, and Sylvain's forever saying they make nothing on them, and keeps telling them to put out books on animals, travel, or cooking." He grinned. "I like the thought of Domestic Cookery by Mrs. Winslow."
"Mrs—?"
His grin widened and he pulled her into his arms. "Yes, Mrs., if that's your wish. Marry me, or be my mistress—whatever suits your fancy. I'm the one who's unworthy of you—you said it yourself that we wouldn't suit. But I want us to. For I like how you fit in my arms. And—well, before you came along, I had no idea what love even was, or how it was lacking in my own life. I don't want to lose that. I don't want to lose you. So what must I do to have you?"
She stared up at him, wanting to believe in this and in him, and half-afraid of it. But hadn't she just promised herself that with the first fellow who showed interest, she'd find the interest, too?
Still, she had to settle one thing more.
"But with my past—what of the scandal? And I won't come between you and your father!"
He tightened his hold on her. "You won't—he swears you make an excellent panda. Just what in blazes is a panda?"
"It's a drink—and why did he say that?"
"Because he just about told me I'd best come and fetch you back. I'm not the only Winslow you've enslaved. I think he might even curb his temper a little for you—but only a very little, so don't get your hopes up there. But I do fancy having a wife who looks lovely with flour on her cheek."
She put a hand to brush at her face. It came away clean. "I haven't, you wretch!"
"Then let's put some there." With a wink he turned her, pushing aside bowls as he lay her down on the kitchen table.
She gave a laugh, and said, nearly breathless, "Theo, you can't!"
"I can—my hour's not gone, and Sallie promised me I'd not be disturbed. Besides, you wanted scandal."
"I didn't!"
"You did—you said 'what of it.' And it's best you get accustomed to it now anyway, for don't you know by now that the Winslows are always the talk of the neighborhood."
"You are a wretch," she said as he began to nuzzle her neck. She let out a sigh and her eyes drifted closed with the pleasure of it—of him.
"Yes, I am," he muttered just before his lips found hers.
And he settled in to show her just how scandalous a Winslow really could be.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
In the era of sail
ing ships it could indeed be tricky to know the exact day a ship might dock. Passenger lists were not always regularly kept, so it seemed quite possible that a girl, without someone to claim her, could slip into the workhouses of Regency England.
Researching the food and recipes for this book was a much brighter spot and I'm indebted to two main sources—an 1814 edition of Domestic Cookery by Mrs. Maria Rundell and The Art of Cookery made Plain and Easy by Hanna Glass, published in 1765. Mrs. Rundell, the widow of one of the famous jewelers of the Regency era—Rundell and Bridges—included in her book not just recipes but menus, advice for dealing with servants, and wonderful household tips such as "to dye white Gloves a beautiful Purple" and "to prevent the Rot in Sheep." Amazing what a woman had to know.
As for prostitution during the Regency, it had grown right along with London's population; there were indeed guides to brothels and to the various women for hire. Such activities were illegal. However, since there was no organized police force (Sir Robert Peel's "peelers" or "Bobbies" came along in 1829), it was difficult for the law to keep up with enforcing any sort of morality, which included illegal gambling, boxing, and other forms of vice.
In the Regency, really, it was not so much what you did as that you had to do it with style and discretion. Which is why it is not so much that Terrance runs off with the vicar's daughter that upsets his father, it's that he makes it into a public mess by abandoning her and not being the least repentant. Since a daughter was considered a father's property, a father could sue for damages to his daughter's person and reputation, as well as for breach of contract if a marriage was promised and not fulfilled. Terrance being Terrance wouldn't give a hang about such details—and all that's going get him in even more trouble in his story, Barely Proper, a title which pretty well sums up his character.
A Proper Mistress Page 20