You May Kiss the Bride(22)

It would be easy, now, to blame everything on Cecily.

Why did she have to be so spiteful and unpleasant, anyway? She already had everything in life, didn’t she?

And she’d almost had Gabriel Penhallow.

Livia thought back to Cecily’s happy words in Aunt Bella’s drawing-room.

They say he’s one of the most eligible men on the Marriage Mart! He is so wealthy, too! Only think of my jewels and carriages! I shall move in quite the highest, most fashionable circles!

Into Livia’s head flashed the image of Cecily’s beautiful kid slippers, and those pink rosettes she’d envied. Cecily’s fashionable gowns, Cecily’s exquisite slippers and gloves, Cecily’s elegant bonnets.

Cecily moving in the highest, most illustrious circles, a wealthy, cosseted bride.

Suddenly there was a crash, and Livia jumped.

The Spotted Hare’s cook had dropped a just-cleaned plate, and she released an interesting volley of words, none of which Livia had ever heard before. Probably if she were more ladylike, she would have plugged her ears, but she didn’t. Instead she pulled her hands out of the dishpan, dried them on the none-too-clean apron she’d been given, and said calmly:

“I’ll pick up the pieces.”

“Oh, would ye, love? I got these puddings to tend to!” answered the cook, and hastily turned back to her stove.

Livia crouched down and with her fingers swept the chipped pieces of china into a little pile. All at once she stopped. An idea of staggering audacity had occurred to her. Did she dare . . . ?

The door to the kitchen swung open and in sauntered Timothy, the waiter, who slipped up behind the cook and pinched her backside. She yelped and bawled some more incomprehensible things, swinging at him with her big wooden spoon. Nimbly Timothy dodged the spoon and then came purposefully toward Livia.

“Touch me and I’ll stab you with a shard of china,” she said, not bothering to look up at him. Ten long hours in his company had given her an all-too-clear understanding of his temperament.

He laughed. “Oh, you’re a funny one.”

“Yes, as funny as a tourniquet.”

“Here now, Timothy, get along with ye!” said the cook scoldingly. “I got three plates here a-waitin’ to be served, and they ain’t gettin’ any warmer, is they?”

“But she’s such a joy to watch, old Cookie.” Timothy leaned against the wall as if he had all the time in the world. He didn’t even move when Mr. Bagshawe came hurrying into the kitchen.

“I heard a noise—Cook, where are those puddings?—another customer’s in the courtyard and I’ve no one to hold his horse—Timothy, I’m not paying you to stand around, am I?—go help him and I’ll bring out the puddings. What have you done to my fine plate, girl? It will cost you!—Timothy, out! Cook! Puddings!”

Fine plate? Ha. Livia placed several bits of china onto a larger piece. Goodness, but her hands were red. And just then her stomach rumbled loudly with hunger. No, this certainly wasn’t how she had envisioned her glorious dash for freedom. If Cecily could see her now—how she would laugh!

It was then, imagining Cecily’s annoying tinkling laughter, that Livia made up her mind. She was going to do it after all. She’d just finish up here and then—

The kitchen door swung open again.

As Livia reached for another shard, into her lowered line of vision came a pair of exquisitely crafted, shining black topboots, looking extremely out of place on the dull, grubby floor of the Spotted Hare’s kitchen.

“Sir!” exclaimed Mr. Bagshawe. “We don’t let customers into the kitchen!”

“I can see why. Else they’d never eat your food.”

Well. What perfect timing.

Livia took a deep breath, and looked up at Gabriel Penhallow, her gaze traveling up from the black boots, up long muscular legs clad in soft yellow buckskin, an elegant ivory-colored waistcoat, and an intricately tied white neckcloth, still immaculate despite the distance he would have ridden: all visible between the open folds of his heavy greatcoat.

He looked impossibly tall, his face set in cold implacability. My, she thought, wasn’t he clever to have found her. He grasped her arm and a little roughly brought her upright. Brown eyes, hard and framed rather attractively by black lashes, met her own.

She cleared her throat and in a voice that was only a little shaky said:

“Good evening, Mr. Penhallow.”

“It is not a good evening, Miss Stuart,” he replied in a freezing tone. “Let us leave this kitchen at once. I do not in the least care to step on mouse droppings.”

“Come now, sir!” puffed Bagshawe, outraged. “I’m sure I never—”