A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(21)

“It’s our weekly salon. As I told you yesterday, here in Spindle Cove we ladies have a schedule. Monday, country walks. Tuesday, sea bathing. We spend Wednesdays in the garden, and . . .”

“Yes, yes,” he said, scratching his unshaven jaw. “I recall the schedule. On Thursday, I hope you foster orphaned lambs.”

She went on, unruffled. “Aside from our group activities, each lady pursues her own interests. Art, music, science, poetry. On Saturdays, we celebrate our individual accomplishments. These salons help the young ladies develop their confidence before they return to wider society.”

Bram couldn’t imagine why the lady currently playing the pianoforte would ever lack for confidence in society. He had little musical ability himself, but he knew true talent when he heard it. This young woman coaxed sounds from the instrument he hadn’t known a pianoforte could make—cascades of laughter and plaintive, heartfelt sighs. And the girl was pretty, too. Watching her in profile, he observed thick chestnut hair and delicate features. She wasn’t Bram’s usual sort, but she possessed the kind of beauty with which a man could pose no argument.

And while the girl played, Bram nearly managed to stop lusting after Susanna Finch. Nothing short of musical genius could accomplish that.

“That’s Miss Taylor,” she whispered. “She’s our music tutor.”

Colin arrived, plunking a serving plate in the center of the table and helpfully dispelling the tension. “There,” he said. “Food.”

Bram eyed the refreshments. “Are you sure?”

The plate was lined with rows of tiny pastries and bite-sized cakes, each iced in a different pastel shade. Little piped rosettes and sugar pearls topped the dainty morsels.

“This isn’t food.” Bram picked up a lavender-iced cake between thumb and finger and stared at it. “This is . . . edible ornamentation.”

“It’s edible. That’s all I care about.” Colin shoved a bit of seedcake into his mouth.

“Oh, these lavender ones are Mr. Fosbury’s specialty.” She nodded toward the cake in Bram’s hand and selected an identical morsel for herself. “They’re filled with his own currant jelly. Divine.”

“A Mr. Fosbury made these?” Bram lifted the lavender cake.

“Yes, of course. He’s owned this place for a generation. It used to be a tavern.”

So, this place used to be a tavern. With pints of proper ale, one would assume. And kidney pie. Steaks so rare, a man could still hear the cow lowing. Bram’s stomach gave a despairing rumble.

“Why would a tavern keeper turn to baking teacakes?” He cast a look about the place, so cheerily furnished and refined. In the window, lace curtains fluttered gaily, mocking him and his lavender-iced petit four.

“Things change. Once the inn became a ladies’ retreat, an alteration of business strategy only made sense.”

“I see. So this place isn’t a tavern any longer. It’s a tea shop. Instead of real, hearty food we have this assortment of pastel absurdity. You’ve reduced a hardworking, decent man to piping rosettes to earn his keep.”

“Nonsense. We haven’t ‘reduced’ Mr. Fosbury to anything.”

“Like the devil you haven’t. You’ve . . . shriveled the man to currants.” Bram threw away the cake in disgust, looking for somewhere to wipe the lavender icing from his fingers. In the end, he smeared violet streaks on the damask tablecloth, enjoying Miss Finch’s gasp of dismay.

“That’s a rather medieval view,” she said, obviously affronted. “Here in Spindle Cove, we live in modern times. Why shouldn’t a man make currant jam or pretty lockets, if such things please him? Why shouldn’t a lady pursue geology or medicine, if she takes an interest?”

“The women aren’t my concern.” Bram looked around the place. “So where do all these ‘modern’ men congregate of an evening, since they’re deprived of a tavern?”

She shrugged. “They go home, I suppose. What few remain.”

“Fleeing the village, are they? Not hard to believe.”

“Some joined the army or navy. Others left to seek work in larger towns. There simply aren’t that many men in Spindle Cove.” Her clear blue gaze met his. “I realize this makes your task more difficult, but to be perfectly frank . . . We have not felt it as a deprivation.”

She took a sip of tea. He was surprised she could manage it through that coy little grin.

As she lowered the cup, her eyebrows arched. “I know what you’re wanting, Lord Rycliff.”

“Oh, I highly doubt that.” Her imagination couldn’t possibly be so vivid.

She reached for another cake, balancing it between her thumb and forefinger. “You’d prefer we offer you a great, bloody slab of meat. Something you can pierce with your fork. Stab with your knife. Conquer, in brutish fashion. A man looks on his food as a conquest. But to a woman, it’s rebellion. We are all ladies here, and Spindle Cove is our place to taste freedom, in small, sweet bites.”

She lifted the iced morsel to her lips and took an arousing, unrepentant mouthful. Her nimble tongue darted out to rescue a stray bit of jam. She gave a little sigh of pleasure, and he nearly groaned aloud.

Bram forced his attention away, seeking refuge in the talented Miss Taylor’s performance. She’d cast such a spell over the assembly, a goodly pause elapsed between the final strains of music and the first claps of enthusiastic applause. Bram clapped along with the rest. The only soul in the tavern not applauding was Thorne. But then, did Thorne count as a soul? The corporal stood impassive by the door, arms folded over his chest. Bram supposed that for Thorne, clapping strayed too close to emotional display . . . along with dancing, laughter, and any facial expression more communicative than a blink. The man was a damned rock. No, not merely a rock. A rock encased in iron. Then, for good measure, glazed with ice.