Glittering diamonds and flounces of silk wouldn’t change a thing. He didn’t think she needed any adornments to become beautiful. He looked at her like she was the beautiful thing all along.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
She did not trust herself to speak, so she kissed him instead. Long and hard and a little bit desperate, as if she could make this moment, this embrace, this look in his eyes, stretch on forever.
But of course she could not. The night—and the ball—was not about her, or even about them. She would not see him for hours once they arrived at the assembly rooms. Tonight was about John Sharp, London chef, taking over the kitchens to cater one of Brighton’s biggest season-starting events, in front of the very people he yearned to impress.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
He tapped his lapel with confidence. “I have the recipes right here.”
While Allegra had been pouring her emotions into the rented pianoforte each morning, John had spent those hours at the bedside of the Old Ship Inn’s injured prior chef, Mr. Young, taking painstaking notes about the preparation of every dish, the location of every item in the pantry, the temperament of every worker in the kitchen, likely even the proper number of breaths to take whilst whisking up a roue.
The book was large enough to distend his coat a full inch, none of which detracted from John’s breath-stealing handsomeness. If, heaven forbid, a parsley sprig should appear past its prime on one of the plates, John need only alight from the kitchen and smile at the party to send the female half swooning, parsley forgotten.
It was too bad that he would be shuttered away for the entirety of the ball. Allegra did not at all mind his good looks setting female hearts a-flutter. When the music ended, he would be coming home with her.
Er, to his rented apartment, that was. This was not his home or hers. But until her birthday a fortnight from today, they could make believe.
She looped her arm through his. “Shall we?”
The invigorating sea-salt air whipped tendrils of her hair from her bonnet on the short stroll to the Old Ship Inn, but Allegra did not mind. No one would see her behind the piano, and besides, John liked her hair a little wild. He said it reminded him of how she looked after a good ravishing, and made him want to do it all over again.
She absolutely intended to let him. Tonight, she would ravish him.
“I wish I could give you a kiss for good luck,” she whispered.
“I don’t need luck when I have the secret to success right here in my pocket,” he murmured back. “But not a second passes when I don’t wish I were kissing you.”
They were welcomed through the doors and ushered into their respective posts without delay. Guests would not arrive for two more hours, but John was needed in the kitchen to begin the preparations.
Allegra crossed to the pianoforte at the far end of the empty ballroom. Two extra hours of music sounded like heaven. Or at least a way to take her mind off her uncle and away from her worries about the future.
Soon enough, lords and ladies in coattails and extravagant gowns began to arrive. Allegra held her breath and kept a close eye on the door. When Dorcas and Portia burst into the room, she leapt up from the bench at once, startling the milling guests.
Her cousins bounded over to her, threw their slender arms about Allegra, and held on tight.
“I’m so sorry,” Portia sobbed.
“Don’t cry,” Allegra said in alarm. “You are not to blame.”
“He’s my father.”
“And mine,” Dorcas added. “Though we left him two streets back when we ran ahead in the hopes you would be here.”
“You ran off and left Uncle alone in the middle of the street? He will not be pleased.”
“He’s not alone. He’s with our suitors.”
“Your suitor.” Portia’s eyes swam with tears. “Father has granted Mr. Voss’s petition for Dorcas’s hand, but refuses to accept Mr. Mayhew’s plea for mine.”
“Perhaps he’ll come around,” Allegra said, though she did not think this to be likely. Only men in possession of titles or money need apply, preferably both—and Portia’s smitten sailor had neither.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” Dorcas said.
“I would never leave you if I could help it,” Allegra assured her, though that was only partially true.
Her cousins were long aware of her plans to seek independence upon her thirtieth birthday. Uncle Townsend had merely beat her to it, sending her out on her own before she had the means to support herself.
“Here he comes.” Allegra shooed her cousins away. “Hurry, before he catches you talking to me.”
Too late for such precautions. Uncle Townsend was already storming this way, his face florid.
Allegra dropped onto the bench and launched into Portia’s favorite reel. It was not yet time for dancing—that would be after supper was served—but her cousins needed a distraction. They side-stepped their father and stepped onto the parquet with their beaux.
Beau and would-be beau, anyway.
Uncle Townsend paid them no heed. His angry footfalls headed straight toward Allegra.
“I must request you cease all communication with my daughters at once,” he seethed.
Allegra’s heart skipped, though her fingers did not falter. “You cannot mean to excommunicate me from my own family. The three of you are all that I have.”
“I can and do intend exactly that,” he snapped, his blue eyes enraged and…beseeching? “Promise me, Allegra. Just until their vows are spoken and the girls are safely married. And I as well. Mrs. Oswald has agreed to make me the happiest of men, but she wants to see our daughters settled before the banns are read.”
“You’re going to marry Mrs. Oswald?”
“I hope to.” He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth and let it out slowly. “We’re living on credit. We have been, for some time. Not only can I not afford to give my daughters multiple seasons, I cannot give them a proper one at all. This is it, Allegra. Their one chance, and mine, too.”
Her lips parted in wonder. Uncle Townsend was not furious, but frightened. For himself, and his children.
“You must have resented me for not offering you a season, but it was not within my power to do so. Any penny spent on you was a penny taken away from Portia and Dorcas. It wasn’t fair to you, perhaps, but life isn’t fair.”
“A lesson I learned very young,” she murmured.
“Dorcas has garnered the affection of a gentleman with a thousand pounds a year. It may not be riches, but she shall not want. As long as their betrothal results in marriage.” He gave her an icy look.
“I would never sabotage Dorcas’s happiness,” Allegra said hotly. “Or Portia’s.”
“Portia.” Uncle Townsend sighed. “If I thought there was any hope of you talking sense into her, I would allow you to try, but we both know what kind of influence you would be on the matter.”
“She and Mr. Mayhew are in love.”
“Exactly,” Uncle Townsend said bitterly. “Since when has love been a currency capable of paying the creditors? She must be practical.”
“So that you can marry an heiress?”
“What choice do any of us have? I cannot invest money I do not have—”