My Lady Marzipan (Rare Confectionery Book 3)

by Sydney Jane Baily

  He opened his mouth, and she did the same, their tongues immediately dancing, sliding against one another. She tasted of treacle and butter from the toffee, a heady, delectable sweetness.

  He could retrieve the keys and let them back in. The insane notion flit through his desire-soaked brain. He yearned to possess her, this special woman. He wanted all of her in a way he’d never felt before. How could that be?

  But he wanted to make her his wife, and one didn’t take a wife against a door or on the floor of an empty room. That was the disrespectful way one treated a light-skirt.

  Charles broke away, stepping back, dragging in a breath as he heard her do the same.

  When he looked into her eyes, they were glinting from the light coming up the stairwell and they were not condemning him as he’d feared.

  He vowed to do better. He would tame his animal passion because she deserved better than to be mauled every time he got her alone.

  Swearing under his breath at his own lack of control, he bent down and picked up the keys.

  Offering her his hand, which he was grateful she took when she had every right to shy away from him, he escorted her down the stairs. At the bottom, he halted. “Let me leave first, then wait a few moments before coming out and locking the door.”

  She shook her head, about to protest.

  “Please, do as I ask. I have behaved terribly,” he insisted. “Let me try to protect you in this small way.”

  “All right. Leave and I’ll count to ten.”

  “Charlotte,” he said with exasperation, even while acknowledging a secret thrill at using her name so freely, and feeling, in his heart and soul, that she was his.

  “Twenty, then,” she agreed, “but that’s all, so you’d best dash like a fox at the hunt.”

  Her teasing smile was so becoming, he groaned.

  “Don’t forget,” she said. “We’re going riding on Sunday.”

  He certainly hadn’t forgotten, although he had thought to be showing off his new fiancée. Nodding, he slipped out through as small an opening as he could and hurried down New Bond Street without a backward glance, hoping she counted slowly.

  “ZOUNDS!” CHARLOTTE exclaimed when an axe head abruptly came through the ceiling. She’d had a ruder curse word in mind and luckily kept it from crossing her lips since Edward was in the next room.

  As promised, his uncle had shown up the following morning. After Charles’s hasty departure the day before, she’d spent time dismantling the shelves and storing them upstairs, and then emptying the display cases of the last bibs and bobs. With the sign firmly attached to the front window, she wrote another one for the door, just in case.

  With everything ready, she’d been able to enjoy her dinner and her night, thinking of Charles Jeffcoat and how much she enjoyed being with him. Yes, she wanted to become his wife. Her heart was fully engaged. But she had done the right thing in halting his proposal. She wanted him to speak with words the way he kissed with his lips. For if he felt what was in his kisses, then he was half in love with her already. She was with him — more than half.

  With her heart pounding as she stared at the axe head, which disappeared in the next instant, leaving debris falling down onto the floor in its wake, she wished Mr. Tufts had laid down floor covering. After all, in a few hours, there would be a good chunk of ceiling on the polished wooden floor of the confectionery. Surely, it would be easier to clean up if he could drag it all out at once.

  “Mr. Tufts,” she called up to him, just as the axe appeared again. Shouldn’t he be using a saw?

  “Mr. Tufts,” she tried again.

  “Yes, miss?” he yelled through the ceiling.

  “Two things, can you cover the floor down here and will you soon switch from axe to saw?”

  Silence met her words. “Mr. Tufts?”

  “Yes, well, miss. I shouldn’t think you want me to go away now and get what we call a tarpaulin for the debris. It would take up time better spent on my working.”

  She sighed. He ought to have thought of that at the onset.

  “In any case,” he added, “dust is going to go everywhere. A tarpaulin isn’t going to hold it, and that’s no lie.”

  The axe struck again. “As soon as I get a big enough hole, I’ll start sawing,” he assured her.

  She’d already paid him half his fee, and was simply relieved when he’d actually strode in with his tools to do the job. But she couldn’t help wishing he would take a little more care with the existing part of the shop.

  “Edward, are you ready to make deliveries?” she called to him.

  His head poked through the curtain. “Nearly ready, miss.” Then he glanced up at the axe head sticking through the ceiling, rolled his eyes, and retreated. A minute later, he reappeared with two bags.

  “I’ll stop back for the rest, miss. But I can’t find enough sacks.”

  “Oh, Edward. That’s my fault.” She handed him the keys, just as the end of a saw appeared and began to move, back and forth. “I used them to carry the tins. Just go take the tins out of a couple of the sacks. I’ll think of something else to put them in later to keep them clean.”

  “Yes, miss.” And the boy disappeared out the front door and into the glass front door next to it. She could hear his feet trudging up the stairs.

  The stairwell in which she’d again allowed the viscount to kiss her. She really should have let him ask her to marry him since she intended to eventually. Suddenly, she heard raised voices from above. It was such an unfamiliar occurrence since for all the years of her daily working at Rare Confectionery, she’d never heard a peep from upstairs.

  “I will not,” came filtering through the small hole.

  “You will. Not another word, or you know what’ll happen.”

  And then the sawing started up again.

  Hm, Charlotte mused. Edward and his uncle were having a quarrel apparently. This time, she knew better than to ask the boy anything, since the more she’d tried lately to find out what was bothering him, the more stoic he became.

  “I’ll take these that are packed, miss, and fill the rest when I get back.”

  “All right.” Although with little to do besides make enough confectionery for the next day’s deliveries, she would surprise him and pack them herself. After that, what task could she set for him? He would be crushed if she had to cut his hours and his pay, but she wasn’t sure what she could use him for.

  Then she had an idea. She would create a notice announcing their expansion and send him to the printer. Edward could walk around New Bond Street, Old Bond Street, and all over Mayfair and then through Hyde Park handing out the notices.

  She opened the door for him and watched him head along the street. An unexpectedly loud crash behind her made her jump. Whirling to face it, her heart racing, Charlotte saw a large chunk of the ceiling had slammed to the floor.

  Gracious! Why hadn’t the builder warned her?

  “You all right, miss?” came his voice from above.

  “Yes, a little startled.” Good thing she didn’t have customers in the shop. Getting struck by plaster would certainly be bad for business.

  “More to come,” he said. “That tarpaulin wouldn’t have been a bad idea after all.”

  Rolling her eyes, she looked at the fine layer of white dust already covering everything. Maybe that would be Edward’s task over the next few days, keeping up with mess in the front of the shop.

  “Mr. Tufts,” she called out, but he was still sawing the great rectangle for the top of the staircase.

  “Mr. Tufts,” she said again and the sawing ceased.

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Your nephew and I will clean this up at the end of the day, but please bring a tarpaulin tomorrow. I fear we already may have some scratches or gouges in the floor down here, but we shall carry on.”

  “Yes, miss,” he agreed and resumed the sawing.

  “Yes, miss,” she muttered and went into the back room to pack up the rest of the de
liveries for the day.

  CHARLOTTE OPENED HER front door, heart pounding as hard as if Mr. Tufts were dropping plaster behind her. There was Charles, looking incredibly handsome in a tan coat and pants with black riding boots and his crop in his hand, which he raised as he doffed his hat.

  “Are you ready, Miss Rare-Foure?”

  “I am,” she said. She’d been pacing for the last half hour while looking out the front window, eager to get started. She had on her favorite shade of green with a full skirt for draping over the pommel and saddle and a smart-looking, brushed-cotton paletot. With her hat in place, a pretty feather protruding out the back of it and the weather holding up with brilliant sun, she was anticipating a wonderful ride.

  He turned around and gestured behind him. Not only did he have two horses but, as promised, he had a footman holding their reins and another one, mounted and holding the other footman’s horse. It was quite the gathering — two footmen as chaperones for a ride with the Viscount Jeffcoat. How could this be happening to her?

  In a few minutes, she’d been helped upon Trudy, a gentle chestnut-colored mare with a pretty white blaze on her forehead. Charles rode a slender gray roan. The horses moved at an ambling pace toward the Marble Arch and Hyde Park’s northeast entrance. Despite it being a new experience, Charlotte felt no trepidation, nothing but happiness. Thus, she was surprised when Charles turned to her and told her not to fear.

  “If anything happens on the crowded Rotten Row, Trudy will carry you safely through.”

  “Honestly, I am not worried. I never see the sense in fearing the worst.” It was true, and while it kept her from being an anxious or overly cautious person, she knew it sometimes made her act without considering all the consequences. But what could go wrong during an afternoon ride with Lord Jeffcoat? Or with expanding her mother’s confectionery, for that matter?

  They traveled in silence through Portman Square and along Oxford Street. Upon entering the park, Charlotte couldn’t help smiling as they took the path south to The Serpentine and the King’s Road beyond. She’d never seen it from this vantage, looking over the park from atop a horse. There were many people out, and every one of them seemed joyful. Children with hoops and sticks and balls, families picnicking, and couples strolling together. And there were many other riders, both on horseback and in carriages as well.

  “It seems to be the busiest place in London,” Charlotte said, having to raise her voice to be heard over the many park-goers.

  He nodded. “Very crowded, indeed. It is less so during the week when all the businesses and factories are open. Then you have only the nobility to contend with and not...,” he trailed off.

  Charlotte stared at him. He had been going to say something insulting. Of that, there was no doubt. The riffraff, perhaps? The regular, working-class people, of whom she was firmly one, were in his lordship’s way while he rode his horse on a Sunday.

  Plainly, the viscount was a pompous snout-nose, after all, and Charlotte wondered how on earth she could excuse that or even ignore it long enough to fall in love with him.

  Perhaps she shouldn’t go to the effort.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A spark of annoyance flashed through her. Beatrice had been lucky to fall for a man who was as ordinary as they come — except for being a strange American and wealthy, to boot. And while Amity had captured the heart of a duke, he had always seemed the most unassuming man. Obviously, he lived in the rarefied world of the aristocrats, and now her oldest sister did, too, but the Duke of Pelham had never made a single conceited comment that Charlotte could recall.

  Plainly, she and the viscount were from two different worlds and, undoubtedly, they saw London in vastly dissimilar ways. Today, for instance, Charlotte saw the beauty of all the city’s people enjoying the outdoors. How she wished she had a big bag of confectionery to give out.

  What if Charles saw them like rats swarming all over his precious park?

  “I apologize,” he said into her continued silence. “I’m sure that sounded impossibly arrogant.”

  “It did,” she said stiffly. “Although I take your meaning. You wouldn’t want to trample over some factory worker on his one day off and soil your horse’s hooves.”

  “Sharp-tongued comments don’t suit you,” he said. “A sweet kitten howling like a banshee. Anyway, I apologized. Of course, I don’t wish to trample anyone. I was only bemoaning the crowds that will prevent us letting the horses have their head for even a minute. Truth be told, I would rather be racing over a field at my country estate than anywhere in London.” He glanced around him. “At certain times of the week, depending on the weather, you can trot and gallop without running into anyone. But at my estate, I can run my horse without fear of collision or mishap. And I can wear anything I like rather than being dressed to keep up with my peers.”

  He gestured to his own clothing.

  She couldn’t help shaking her head. “You have to dress a certain way in case your peers see you and judge you lacking?”

  “In fact, I do,” he assured her. “Or there will be whispers my father and I have lost our fortune. Before you know it, my accounts will be closed all over town. People will say we’re practically bankrupt. I’ll read in the papers that the destitute lords of Bentley will be selling their townhouse any day.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “All that if your cravat is the wrong color, I suppose.”

  He shrugged. “Truly, I’m sorry if I offended. It was not well said of me. I don’t usually come here on a Sunday. And at this early hour, I was simply surprised by the throng of people.”

  “People outside of your class don’t waste their day off by lying abed,” she informed him. “For some, it’s the only day they can enjoy some fresh air.”

  He nodded and a moment later said, “I understand. I am sorry for speaking without thinking first.”

  They rode on. She never held a grudge, and he had sincerely apologized. Nevertheless, she would be on the watch for any similar statements. She didn’t think her parents would be particularly disposed to her saying she’d fallen for a snout-nose.

  “I don’t come to the park often,” Charlotte admitted, “but I must say I like the view from atop a horse.” Leaning forward, she patted Trudy’s silky neck and ran her fingers through the coarse reddish mane. “It gives one a different perspective. Down on the ground, you can’t see past the person in front of you, but up here, I can see all the way to the Carriage Drive.”

  “I’m glad you like riding. Some people, if they haven’t done it much as children, find it frightening.”

  She wondered if he had someone particular in mind, like a former lady-love, the person who’d caused Charles’s heartache to whom the duke had made reference.

  “It would make me happy to show you my estate and my horses,” he continued. “If you like flowers—”

  She laughed. “Who doesn’t?”

  “Flowers make some people sneeze. Anyway, we have a particularly skillful gardener and our gardens are superb. Visitors drop by unannounced just to stroll through them.”

  “And you don’t mind?” She had a feeling he must be referring to visitors from the aristocratic class, as she couldn’t imagine he would welcome hoi poloi wandering around his property. Perhaps she was being judgmental.

  “I’m not there enough to mind,” he said. “Not often enough for my liking, at any rate, but usually three times a year.” He cocked his head. “Are you entirely enamored of Town, or would you be happy with extended stays in the country?”

  “I would very much like to see your country home,” she said, then realized how presumptuous that sounded. She hadn’t let him propose but she was already installing herself at — “Where is it again?”

  “In Wiltshire, between the mysterious Stonehenge and—”

  To her amazement, the viscount’s words were unceremoniously cut off when a ball hit him on the side of his head, making him flinch sideways, losing his hat before unseating himself entirely. His roan r
eared at being suddenly without a rider, and then took off, although it couldn’t get too far along the crowded path.

  As promised, Trudy gave no more notice than a flick of her ears and kept plodding along as if nothing had happened. It was probably a good thing Charlotte hadn’t screamed, but it had happened so quickly, by the time she drew breath in astonishment, the incident was over.

  Drawing back on the reins and halting her docile horse, she looked down to see Charles scrambling to his feet and brushing himself off, his face a distinct shade of red.

  One of his footmen had dismounted and was rushing after the roan.

  “I haven’t fallen off my horse since I was four years old,” Charles said through gritted teeth. “And now I’ve done it in front of half of London.”

  He bent down and retrieved his hat, which was not only dirty but crushed beyond repair.

  “Look on the bright side,” she said, after ascertaining he was uninjured. “At least most of the people here are not of the nobility and don’t know who you are, nor care.”

  He glanced around for a second to see she was right. Except for a moment’s pause when it happened, mostly to discern if they were in danger, the park-goers near them had gone back to their own business unbothered.

  “Think how much worse if you’d fallen from your horse on one of the days when this park was cleared of all the low and middle-class workers,” she reminded him. “Then you would have performed such a perfectly mortifying dismount before your peers.”

  The footman had returned Charles’s horse to him, and after handing his servant the ruined hat, he remounted with a light, swift movement.

  “No,” he corrected her. “I wouldn’t have because there would not have been some miscreant throwing a ball at my head.”

  They both looked around, but the child, as most assuredly it was, had long vanished along with his or her ball.

  “It’s not funny in the least,” he protested at the expression on her face.