For a moment, the only sound was the cat’s purring and the soft crackling of the fire. Contented, peaceful sounds. Ann was far from at peace, but this conversation was helping to organize her thoughts.
“What does Jules want from you, Ann?”
“He might simply want me to leave, a vanquished foe who will never trouble another chef with her upstart ambitions. He might also want me to admit defeat, to apologize for my clumsiness, my incompetence, and my stupidity. To meekly accept all the deductions he makes from my pay as a result of my many shortcomings…”
Orion petted the cat, who squinted serenely at Ann. “And if you left, where would you go?”
And therein lay the real problem. “To my aunt. I am not yet of an age to credibly claim spinsterdom. I have some property from my father, but I cannot bide there on my own. Not yet. I’d have to hire a companion, and my aunt’s feelings would be hurt, and she is all the family I have.”
Then too, Melisande was an ally of sorts, disseminating Ann’s recipes and menus in a strata of society Ann had eschewed.
“It seems to me,” Orion said, “that you face two bad options: You can fight on and hope that the next skirmish doesn’t involve a lethal or disfiguring mishap. You can quit and go to your auntie, all your years of hard work, your considerable expertise, for naught. What about going up the chain of command?”
“Jules is my commanding officer.”
“And Dorning is the general in charge of the whole army. Can you go to him?”
That course of action had not occurred to Ann. “Go to him and ask him to fire one of the most renowned French chefs in London? The customers adore Jules, and he makes certain to keep the kitchen drama out of Mr. Dorning’s sight.”
“Are you sure of that? Dorning regularly grouses about the chronic uproar in the Coventry’s kitchen. He intrudes on Jules’s domain from time to time, according to Hannah, and sees the pandemonium first hand. My guess is, if Dorning had to choose between injury to you or turning a blind eye to Jules’s tactics, Jules would be the one looking for work.”
“That is your guess. In your own situation, has going up the chain of command served you well?”
The question earned her half a smile. “Not exactly, but then, if my immediate superior won’t receive me, that leaves only Wellington himself as a court of appeal. His Grace and I have not been introduced. A mere knighthood wasn’t sufficient to effect that miracle.”
And yet, there Orion sat, the picture of calm. “You don’t care?”
“Why should I? I have champagne to make, boys to keep out of trouble, and a lovely woman haunting my dreams.” The half smile became something softer and sweeter. An invitation, perhaps, or a memory of simmering desire.
“You raise an interesting point. I had not considered taking my situation to Mr. Dorning.” That would require assembling witnesses and proving that accidents had instead been ambushes. Not an easy case to make.
“Consider it, and be careful, Annie. If anything were to happen to you…”
“Yes?”
“I would take it very much amiss, and with your permission, I will convey that sentiment to Monsieur Delacourt.” The threat was all the more reassuring for being conveyed softly, between one languid stroke over Boreas’s fur and the next.
“Please don’t antagonize Jules on my behalf,” Ann said. “Not yet. Do you truly dream of me?”
Orion gently deposited the cat on the hassock nearer the fire, took Ann’s hand, and pressed a kiss to her wrist. “Je te désire.”
Not quite I want you. Closer to, I yearn for you. “I should lock the door.”
“No, you should not.”
That Ann was also facing a campaign of undeserved ill will drove Rye nearly to shouting, except that if he marched over to the Coventry and beat some respect into Delacourt, the result would be more danger and hardship for Ann.
Rye might consult Jeanette, however, or even have a word with Sycamore Dorning. At present, considering strategy that far ahead was beyond him. Ann had removed her slippers and drawn her feet up under her shawl. He adored that she’d be so informal with him, but the sight of her stocking-clad toes peeking out from beneath the fringe of her shawl stole his wits.
Now she offered to lock the door, and Rye had to think.
“This is a parlor, Annie, and while I will cheerfully enjoy whatever liberties you grant me wherever you grant them, might another location serve us better?” He ran his thumb over the smooth skin of her wrist, feeling the pulsebeat of her life’s blood.
He could pleasure her on the sofa, in a chair, or against the damned wall, but if it was pleasure she wanted from him, then a bed would be ideal. Besides, he wanted to see her bedroom, to know the scent of the sachets she hung from her bedposts, to learn what tales she read before bed.
Tales of Hollandaise sauce and bœuf à la Bourguignonne, perhaps, or maybe she treated herself to novels of adventure and far-off lands.
“You want to come upstairs with me?”
“I most assuredly do, but only if you want that too.” How shy they had both become. Rye marshalled his courage and laced his fingers with hers. “I want to take you to bed, Annie, to make sweet, passionate love with you, to lie spent, amazed, and grateful in your arms. I think of you when I ought to be attending to my ledgers and correspondence. I lie awake…”
She was watching his mouth, and that threatened Rye’s dwindling store of self-restraint.
She rose and settled in his lap. “You lie awake?”
How good and right she felt in his arms, how precious. “I lie awake, and I ache, Annie Pearson. I ache and enjoy the ache, which is surely the sign of a man who has lost his wits if not his heart.”
Ann sighed, her breath a soft breeze against his cheek. “My bedroom is to the left at the top of the stairs.”
Rye let the joy of that announcement sink in, then rose with Ann in his arms. “Top of the stairs, to the left,” he muttered.
She looped an arm around his neck and managed the door latches. As Rye traversed the house, he wondered if this was how a bridegroom felt, carrying his true love across symbolic and literal thresholds.
Hopeful, nervous, proud, and aroused.
He sat Ann on a comfy four-poster bed and stood before her, pleased to find the room warm. “You kept the fire going?”
She leaned her forehead against his middle. “I hoped you would call.”
If she’d kept her bedroom warm, she’d hoped he’d do more than call. She’d hoped for more than a quick tup in the parlor, too, and she deserved more than that. Rye’s nervousness abated, replaced by a sense that he was exactly where he was meant to be and exactly who Ann wanted to be with.
“Will you valet me?” he asked, though he hadn’t needed assistance undressing since he’d been breeched. He made the request because he suspected Ann would be less nervous if her hands were occupied.
She hopped off the bed. “Of course. Your eye patch first. You have lovely eyes, and I want to see them both.”
He passed her his eye patch, feeling oddly exposed by that simple gesture. She’d seen him without it before, but this was different.
“I need a moment to adjust after I’ve taken it off,” he said. “What next?”