Page 17 of Temptations of a Wallflower
Chapter 5
“It would take a great deal of convincing to prove to me that you weren’t a lady,” the highwayman said.
“Then step inside my carriage, sir,” I replied, tracing my fingers along the neckline of my bodice, where my breasts strained against the silk, “and I shall show you.”
The Highwayman’s Seduction
The smell of butter and vanilla perfumed the air, and the atmosphere was alive with the chatter of dozens of happy women—and a handful of men. The cakes themselves were works of art, elegantly frosted with flowers and curlicues, geometric shapes and elaborate fantasias constructed entirely from sugar. In the window was a tiny pastoral scene completely fashioned in sugar, and on a table was a reproduction of Vauxhall, everything edible.
It was impossible for Sarah to go to Catton’s renowned bakery and sweet shop and not have her imagination stirred. The owner and head baker was a woman, and Sarah couldn’t help but feel a certain kinship with any female who dared make her way in a male-dominated field.
Sarah sat at a little table with her mother, an array of cakes and tea spread before them like a jewel box laid open. Picking up one small frosted delicacy, Sarah admired its intricate piping.
“It’s almost too beautiful to eat,” she murmured.
“Nothing is too beautiful to eat,” the duchess answered. She bit into her cake, and Sarah did the same.
Though it was sweet, it didn’t overwhelm her with cloying flavor. Rather, the orange sponge cake slowly evolved with sensory detail, evoking Mediterranean skies, sun-filled courtyards, and the strum of a guitar as ladies drifted in and out of dusky shadows.
“We should have gone to Gunter’s,” her mother said, surveying the bustling shop. “It’s much more fashionable.”
Sarah glanced around. Catton’s could barely contain all of its customers. A queue formed out the door, and footmen bustled in and out with the shop’s signature pale blue boxes tied with brown satin ribbon.
“Catton’s is on the verge of stripping Gunter’s of its title as London’s most popular sweet shop,” Sarah pointed out. “Isn’t it better to be on the leading edge of fashion, rather than one of its followers?”
“I suppose so,” her mother sniffed. She took a bite of her lemon cake and couldn’t disguise her look of pleasure. “Well, the food’s superior here, at any rate.”
“Which reflects well on your taste,” Sarah added.
“Oh, enough,” the duchess said with a smile. “I know when I’m being patronized. And by my own daughter.”
“We’re nothing if not familiar with each other’s littletricks.” Sarah also smiled. Irritating though her mother might be, there were times they actually enjoyed each other’s company, like two shipwreck survivors finding a moment’s amusement in between trying to cannibalize each other.
Sarah gazed at the cakes displayed so magnificently along one wall of the shop. There were cakes of every sort—everything anyone could ever want in an alchemy of butter, flour, sugar, and eggs. Little placards described the filling and icing of each one. Orange and lemon, of course, as well as nuts, seeds, dried fruits. A flavor to suit every personality.
If I were a cake, what kind of cake would I be?
Something with a pale, fluffy icing. Hiding a rich, dark interior. Secretly decadent beneath an inoffensive exterior.
And what of her mother? Fruitcake—rich and sweet, sometimes a little too much to take. She’d have an elaborate icing, though, given Lady Wakefield’s taste for extravagant hats.
Sarah’s glance fell on a couple enjoying a fruit ice together while the woman’s maid sat nearby. A courting couple, still excited by the blush of newness. What must that be like? To look forward to seeing someone, to have each moment alight with anticipation and pleasure?
Sarah hadn’t seen Mr. Cleland in four days, though she had attended several social gatherings around Town. Each time she had hoped to run into him, but disappointment had inevitably followed. She shouldn’t expect a vicar to attend assemblies and tea parties—though he was an earl’s son, and he might have hadentree to these events. But he hadn’t been at any of them. She’d scanned the corners of rooms and chambers’ alcoves. All to no avail.
Instead, she would spend her time against the wall, alone save for her mother’s company, like always.
It was strange . . . this urge for something besides her writing. This need for more. More ofhim.
If Mr. Cleland were a cake, what sort would he be?
No, he wasn’t a cake at all. He’d be something savory and complex. Like a stew, full of many ingredients. Seemingly simple, but capable of complicated, intricate flavor. Something that seduced without trying, all through its own earthiness.
“What are you smiling about?” the duchess asked, breaking Sarah’s musings.
“Food,” she answered.
“What about it?”
