She pulled her hand from his to cup his cheek.
“You’ve always been enough, John. You were larger than life from the moment I almost trampled you, and you’ve become a bigger part of me every day since. I want to play the pianoforte in your tea room. I want to stir your sauce even if the walls crumble down around us. I want to spend forever by your side and in your bed.”
“You know I want all those things too.” His voice was husky. “Your counter-offer sounds quite similar to my original proposal.”
“With one minor difference.” She took his hands in hers and dropped to one knee. “Mr. John Sharp, London chef, for whom my love will forever crescendo… Will you marry me?”
Epilogue
One month later
Mrs. Allegra Sharp was forced to station her phaeton a full three streets from her husband’s corner tea room because there wasn’t a free inch any nearer to the door. Although the tea room salon was scarcely larger than the Old Ship Inn’s music room, half of Brighton crammed themselves between John’s four walls from dawn to dusk, eager to sample the wares of the day.
Allegra had planned on making John direct her dowry toward the purchase of the tea room as a contractual condition of their marriage, but in the end the argument hadn’t been necessary. Thanks to her and her husband’s newfound fame at the assembly room ball, the owner of the pretty corner building had changed his mind about renters.
John was now leasing the property, with each monthly installment going toward payment in full. Within the next ten years, he would own it outright—if not sooner. In the meantime, the restaurant of his dreams was fully his to control.
She pulled open the door to the crowded tea room and was greeted by delighted whoops and a round of applause.
Her appearances here were sporadic. She came when she felt like it. Played what she felt like playing, for as long as she felt like playing it. Left whenever she wished for a quiet moment away from the hustle and bustle.
Instead of vexing the patrons, the unpredictability of her presence made their fanaticism all the more rampant. Tourists were known to drop in for tea two or three times in the same day, in the hopes of being able to say they not only ate at the famous tea shop, but also were invited to bang a few random keys to see what sort of melody Mrs. Sharp might make of it.
Before Allegra swooped over to the piano, however, she waved at her cousins and headed to the kitchen to steal a kiss from her handsome husband.
His cravat was askew and a bit of lemon curd dripped inexplicably from one side of the cupboards, but he wrapped her in his arms and gave her a searing kiss of such heat to rival the flames shooting out of the brick oven.
Rather than show concern, he waved a hand in the direction of one of his many competent assistants, who were already taking care of both the oven situation and the decorative lemon meringue.
Every person in John’s employ was given a fifty-page handbook, in which every aspect of the kitchen was detailed. Who and what went where, how to perform each task, mistakes to avoid, what to do in case of any number of unlikely emergencies—several of which had already occurred, and were quickly snuffed out, thanks to the attentive preparation of his staff.
“What time are you closing today?” she murmured against his lips.
His smile was slow and sensual. “What time do you want to go upstairs?”
“Five songs from now.” She kissed him and winked. “I’ll switch the sign to Closed after song number four.”
She strode back into the crowded salon to renewed cheers from the patrons and settled herself at the piano.
“Now, then.” She looked around the room. “Who has a request?”
A chorus of, “I do!” rose from all corners.
“You, in the pinafore. Come and tell me what you’d like to hear.”
The ruddy-cheeked girl dashed forward, beaming over her shoulder at her parents, and smashed down six keys at once. “Pistachio ice!”
“Pistachio ice it is.”
To the child’s delight, Allegra placed her palms just where the girl’s had been and smashed the same discordant keys, before launching into a lively syncopated melody that sounded just like—well, if not pistachio ice, then certainly something a child might dance to. Already there were half a dozen children bouncing in their seats.
Portia and Dorcas came up to the pianoforte to greet her.
Uncle Townsend was nowhere in sight. He was miffed at Portia for having eloped with her Mr. Mayhew a fortnight ago, but the happy couple was no worse for the wear, and the loss of pretty Portia from the marriage market did not appear to cause Mrs. Oswald any undue distress. Her daughter Enid now had no fewer than three handsome fish on the line.
Meanwhile, it appeared Dorcas would be next in front of the altar. The first banns had been read just yesterday morning. Mr. Voss gazed at his betrothed soppily over the rim of a forgotten cup of tea gone hopelessly cold in his hands.
“You make such a lovely couple,” Allegra told her. “Would you like me to play at your wedding breakfast?”
“Absolutely not,” Portia said before Dorcas could answer. “At least, not alone. You’re to split pianoforte duties with me, so that we both have plenty of opportunity to dance.”
Dorcas raised her brows at her sister. “Have you been practicing your Haydn and Rossini?”
“I have not,” Portia answered pertly. “I’ve been practicing my Allegra Originals.” She grinned with satisfaction. “This time, neither of us will be part of the background.”
“But only one of you will have married a sailor,” Dorcas teased.
Allegra pulled a face. “I’m sorry I said John was Captain L’Amour when he clearly was not. I should not have let you believe that fiction for so long.”
“Oh, we knew he wasn’t Captain L’Amour within hours of meeting him,” Portia said breezily.
Allegra stared at her. “You did?”
“We fathomed it out at the ball,” Dorcas informed her. “In formal breeches, it was clear that John’s articulated joints were two perfectly intact ankles.”
“That…is a very good clue,” Allegra admitted. “Were you very angry at our deception?”
They both stared at her in bafflement.
“Angry? At the most dramatic displays of love we’d ever seen unfold in our lives?” Portia heaved a romantic sigh. “Obviously you were meant to be together. Only a man one thousand percent smitten would dare risk the wrath of Captain L’Amour by impersonating a vengeful pirate.”
Dorcas nodded. “If Captain L’Amour ever does pop into your life again, he’ll discover he waited too long to claim your booty.”
“And then John will skewer him with a rapier,” Portia added.
“John will do no such thing,” Allegra said firmly.
“He might on accident in the midst of one of his kitchen calamities,” Dorcas said.
“He won’t,” Allegra said, “because the dreaded pirate Captain L’Amour is not even…”
Was there any point in telling them? Maybe they already knew. Perhaps they’d guessed the truth of that fable within hours of its first appearance, too. Maybe all three of them had wanted to believe in a world of love and happy-ever-after.