“Very well,” she said. “I accept your terms.”
Her capitulation should have made him feel victorious. Instead, his head immediately filled with all the ways this ill-advised plan could go horribly wrong.
Allegra was right. He had dreamed of an opportunity to bring the pleasure of excellent food to the greatest number of people possible.
He also knew what a nightmare it was when good intentions did not go to plan.
On Wednesday, he would not merely be proving himself to the lords and ladies of Brighton. He would be proving himself to Allegra. The last thing he wished was to tarnish his image in the eyes of the woman he loved.
His silverware clattered to the table. God help him. He was in love. As if an audience of six hundred was not quite enough pressure. If everything went absolutely, positively perfect…perhaps then might Allegra see him as more than a stand-in for her fictitious suitor?
John’s blood pounded. He was going to have to spend every moment between now and Wednesday night at Mr. Young’s bedside, writing down the injured chef’s every word of wisdom about the idiosyncrasies of the unfamiliar kitchen and its accompanying staff.
“Ready for dessert?” John moved their empty plates onto the tray and uncovered the last of the silver lids, revealing two delicate glass bowls filled with sweet orange flummery, drizzled with reduction of juniper berries and garnished with a sprig of mint.
Her eyelashes fluttered as she took the first bite.
“Does it meet your approval?”
“Everything you’ve ever done has exceeded my expectations.” She took another bite and sighed happily. “Men have waged wars for treasures half this divine.”
“If you’d like another flummery tomorrow,” he told her, “I could put in a good word with the chef.”
She smiled at him and his pulse pounded.
“Thank you again for putting me up for the night.”
“The night?” He set down his spoon. “Was I unclear? You can stay with me for as long as you want. You can have anything you want.”
A different kind of hunger filled her eyes. “Anything I desire?”
His voice was hoarse. “Everything you desire.”
She pushed the flummery aside. “Then I want you.”
Chapter 19
Before she could so much as draw breath, Allegra was out of her seat and enveloped in John’s warm embrace.
He tasted of tart berries and sweet citrus, but more than that, he represented all the contradictory things she’d ever longed for and never dreamed would come to pass. His arms promised both adventure and safety, unrestrained passion and gentle comfort, unpredictability and certain pleasure.
If she could have her pick of all men, real or imagined, with whom to share a night or twelve of carnal abandon, there was no one she would rather be with. His was the only name on her list. This was the moment she would recall, again and again, for the rest of her life. The memory of this holiday would accompany her through every lonely night forevermore, infusing her music with melodies she would never have known.
He dragged his mouth from hers over to the lobe of her ear. “Just so we’re both explicitly clear on how far you want to go…”
His voice was a rasp of desire that brought chills to her arms and pebbled her nipples.
“I want to go everywhere and do everything. I want to make love, and I want it to be with you.”
He kissed her deeper, hungrier, then drew in a ragged breath. “I can’t take your virginity.”
“Because I’m supposed to save it for a future husband I’ll never have, who likewise would not have bothered saving his for me?”
“Er…” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t say it was a fair rule.”
“To the devil with the rules! They only apply to participants of that game, and I refuse to take part. I want passion. I want you. Unless…you don’t want me?”
“I want you more than life or air,” he growled. “I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you, and my want doubles with each new beat of my heart.”
A delicious thrill rushed through her at the erotic words.
It could not be true. He had first glimpsed her bearing down on him from a runaway carriage. With her hair wild, and her patchwork gown woefully out of place beside her younger, fashionable cousins. But she could pretend it was true. Just for tonight, or until reality intruded on their holiday, sending them both back to their real worlds.
“That sounds very Captain L’Amour of you,” she said lightly. Only a slight tremor in her voice betrayed the fluttering of her heart. “No wonder we have a scandalous carnal love affair.”
His thumb brushed her cheek. “No.”
She blinked up at him in confusion. Had she somehow misinterpreted his passionate declaration? “No, we shan’t have…a scandalous carnal love affair?”
“No, I’m not Captain L’Amour, and have no wish to masquerade as him in this of all moments. If we’re to finally make love, we do so as our true selves.”
Her pulse skipped. “And who are you, exactly?”
“John Sharp, solicitor from London.” He kissed each corner of her mouth before settling a long, sweet kiss in the center. “I am pleased to formally meet you at long last.”
“No,” she murmured against his mouth.
He lifted his lips a fraction. “No, you’re not pleased to meet a solicitor from London?”
“I haven’t done so. You are John Sharp, London chef.” She smiled as she kissed him. “I am very pleased to meet you, and have been so since the moment you came to my rescue.”
“Even though I wasn’t actually the man of your dreams?”
“You’re much better than my dreams.” She wrapped her arms about his neck. “You’re real.”
“Let me show you how real.” He scooped her up and into his arms.
She held on tight. “Where are you taking me, John Sharp, London chef?”
“To my bedchamber, posthaste. Or do you prefer yours?”
“I don’t know what I prefer,” she admitted. “I imagine you’re going to tell me there’s One Right Recipe for lovemaking?”
“There is a traditional order of events, particularly when taking virginity into account, yes.”
“Then let’s not do it.”
“Let’s not make love?”
“Let’s definitely make love. But let’s do it all out of order and write our story our way. If the first step is to choose a bedchamber, then I choose…the dining room.”
“The dining room doesn’t have a bed.”
“And yet you implied quite convincingly that you would have been perfectly capable of ravishing me at my supper table, had our privacy been assured.”
“I’m capable,” he assured her. “I just don’t think—”
“Good.” She kissed his jawline. “Don’t think. Just ravish.”
At first she thought he would not do it. That John Sharp, London chef, might be constitutionally incapable of deviating from whatever he perceived as the One Right Recipe for deflowering a virgin.
But then his mouth trapped hers, hungrily. He turned from the corridor leading to the bedchambers, and carried her back to the supper table. His elbow grazed a wall. Her slipper tumbled from her foot when it banged against a bookshelf. Neither of them noticed or cared. All of their attention was centered on the promise of this kiss, and the passion blooming between them.