Page 92 of Miss Delectable
“If you don’t kiss me in the next thirty seconds, I will make you—”
He kissed her. Gently, then with a combination of heat and tenderness that had Ann longing to take off far more than her gloves. She let go of him reluctantly long minutes later, because even she would not arrive at her aunt’s house looking tumbled.
“Are you nervous?” Orion asked as Ann finger-combed his hair back into order.
“Yes. I’ve never partaken of the banquets I prepare or plan. My aunt is right about that. I’m torn between wanting to simply enjoy good food and wanting to keep paper and pencil handy to note any room for improvement.”
“Enjoy the food, Annie. God knows you’ve earned the right. If Melisande is merciful, you won’t be seated too far away from me, and I can enjoy you enjoying your creations.”
Orion’s entrance into the guest parlor was met with some raised eyebrows and a few murmured asides, but then Emily Bainbridge took him by the arm.
“We have an expert, ladies,” Mrs. Bainbridge said, drawing Orion to a group of women. “Colonel, you can settle a dispute. We are debating the meaning of the French verbcourtiser.You must translate it for us.”
A lull in surrounding conversations coincided with the lady’s question, and more eyebrows went up. As the gentlemen exchanged glances, and Melisande’s expression edged close to a grimace, Orion smiled down at Mrs. Bainbridge.
“The verb does mean, in present French parlance, to court, tracing its origins to the courtiers who paid their polite attentions to the sovereign and thus attempted to win his or her favor. That is a very fetching fan, Mrs. Bainbridge. Do you recall how you came by it?”
Conversation resumed, and Melisande was soon pairing up her guests to process into the dining room. Ann found herself on the arm of a magpie lieutenant, one who patted her hand needlessly and wore far too much Hungary water.
The lieutenant seated her, then moved around the table to take the place opposite, which ensured, at least for the early courses, Ann would hear him chattering, but would not have to engage him in conversation herself.
Orion was seated next to the lieutenant, surely a form of penance, though when Ann felt a boot nudging against her toe, she looked across the table to see Orion regarding her with the veiled humor so characteristic of him.
The canapés were brought out, and the conversation barely paused. Ann had agonized over the choices, weighing appearance, cost, flavor, ease of preparation, and availability of fresh ingredients. Mrs. Spievack—she’d nearly shouted her name to Orion—popped a little serving of ham, Dijon mustard, and cornichon into her mouth, all the while nodding vigorously at whatever Orion was saying.
Up and down the table, guests behaved similarly. The first course disappeared while the talk grew louder. Emily Bainbridge’s laughter occasionally sliced through the din, and those sly, measuring glances from the officers passed over Orion and occasionally rested on Ann.
Dexter Dennis, who’d accompanied his sister to the gathering, sent Orion a particularly venomous look, which Uncle and Aunt pretended to ignore.
Ann stuffed a canapé into her mouth—brie topped with chopped green olives and a garnish of parsley and ground black pepper—and wished she were back in the Coventry’s kitchens, melting butter for her white sauces.
All the pretty delicious courses in the world could not disguise the fact that something nasty and mean was being served up exclusively to Orion Goddard, and Ann had been wrong to insist he escort her into this company.
* * *
The food was glorious,the table magnificent, but most wonderful of all was the chance to sit and merely behold Annie Pearson amid the bounty she’d created. From the artful little canapés to the delicious soup, to fish in a sauce so scrumptious it defied description, Orion had never partaken of a meal half as impressive.
Ann belonged here, laughing and chatting with the officers, quietly outshining all the ladies in their formal best. She deserved to hear the occasional compliments regarding the food, including a rhapsody by Lieutenant Colonel Mornaday about the beef roast. He actually asked for the sauce recipe, and Orion waited for Melisande to acknowledge Ann’s contribution.
“The sauce isn’t that complicated,” Melisande said, smiling self-consciously. “I’ll send along the particulars before the week is out.”
“Send them to me too,” Mrs. Bainbridge said. “And I’m sure Mrs. Haines would like them as well. You have quite outdone yourself with this meal, Melisande, but then, you always outdo yourself with your menus.”
Across the table, Ann sipped her wine and said nothing. At a formal meal, one conversed exclusively with the dinner companions on one’s left and right, but the wine had been flowing for well over an hour, and this was a company of officers.
Formality was slipping by the wayside as each course was removed and more wine was poured.
“I commend Upchurch for inviting you, Goddard,” Lieutenant Haines said as the main dishes were taken away and the greens brought out. “The war is over, I say. We were all a little mad back then, all happy to flirt with anything in skirts, but we showed Boney our mettle, and that’s what ought to matter most.”
He lifted his glass of claret, toasting his own sentiments. Across the table, Ann had apparently heard him, her expression a cross between veiled curiosity and not-as-veiled ire.
Mrs. Spievack, a widow whose husband had been struck down by a carriage a year after Waterloo, leaned closer. “The military has always excelled at two things, fighting and talking, and the less it does of the first, the more it does of the latter. You seem a perfectly agreeable sort to me, Colonel. Heaven knows some of the younger wives weren’t always circumspect on campaign.”
Rye was spared a response to that odd comment by the arrival of the vegetable dishes, beautiful, colorful, spicy individual servings that put Rye in mind of the bakedtiansserved in his mother’s native Provence.
The meal went on, with conversation eventually flowing in all directions, and again, somebody offered a compliment, this time to the cheese course.
“Can’t say I usually care for fig jam,” a tipsy captain observed, “too grainy, but this is outstanding. Makes the Camembert… more cheesy. My missus loves the fruit-and-cheese bit and would love to have the recipe.”
