Engaged in Passion (A Bridal Favors Novella) (3 page)

"I-I remember you," she finally managed to push out.

"Excellent! But I'm afraid we never got a proper introduction. Happily, Thomas is here now to change that." Anthony turned to gesture beside him. But no one was there. Mr. Thomas Polton, newly engaged to Susan Rawlin, was busy chatting with Mr. and Mrs. Jenney four steps away. Anthony grimaced and reached out to grab his friend's arm. "Thomas—"

"No, no!" Francine cried. The last thing she wanted to do was have another gentleman—another person of whatever gender—between herself and Anthony. "Really, Mr. Pierce, that isn't necessary." She took a deep breath. "You are Mr. Anthony Pierce, aren't you?"

"So you figured that out, eh?" he said flashing a rueful smile. "Everyone says I favor my father. Since my mother's the real beauty, I don't think they are complimenting me."

He was plenty beautiful, and she flushed a mortified pink that she had thought such a thing of a man. Meanwhile, he kept talking, his manner friendly and sweet.

"And you are the Richards' cook, Miss...?" His voice trailed away, obviously asking for her name.

Francine blinked, startled that he didn't know who she was. Could it be possible? How could he be here and not know her name? But then, that was the problem, wasn't it? She was either notorious as the cit's daughter trying to marry up or invisible as the silent, fat girl in the chair. So now she was faced with a dilemma. Did she confess who she was or play as an anonymous woman for the first time in her life? Not the girl trying to lift her family out of bourgeois taint, but just a girl. Any girl. Perhaps an apprentice cook.

"I'm not really their cook," she said. "I'm still learning." He leaned forward a bit, and she couldn't stop herself from matching his pose and stretching toward him. "I'm... just call me Fanny."

His eyebrows shot up at the familiarity. Women, as a rule, did not introduce themselves by their Christian names. Certainly not at a party and not to an eligible bachelor. So again, she scrambled to cover.

"I'd like to pretend I'm a mysterious lady," she said. "Just for tonight. You can find out my name easily enough, but for the moment, will you allow me to pretend?"

He nodded, and she was pleased to see that his eyes seemed to sparkle with delight. "Very well, I shall call you Miss Fanny Mysterious."

She giggled at the name and was thrilled when he pulled up a chair to sit beside her. "Thank you," she said behind her hand.

"An easy enough game to play to pleasure a lovely lady."

She looked down, unable to believe he meant those words. She was as far from a lovely lady as it was possible to get. Neither lovely nor titled, but oh, she did love pretending with him. Meanwhile, he kept talking.

"I was devastated when I had to leave without sampling your tarts. They smelled quite mouthwatering."

She shook her head. "That was before I burned them to a black darker than your boots." She shrugged, embarrassed by her actions. "I threw them all in the trash."

"Pity. But I suppose things like that happen, though probably not often to you. You seemed quite at home in the kitchen."

She smiled, her mind leaping to some very happy moments there. "I suppose it is my favorite place, though don't tell my parents that. They're already scandalized enough that I like to bake."

He frowned. Of course he didn't understand. He didn't realize she was the daughter of a wealthy cit and not supposed to do servants' work. So she scrambled to give a plausible explanation.

"My parents don't like that I work," she said. "They want me to marry and give them grandchildren."

He smiled, and she lost herself for a moment in the novelty of having a man smile in such a way at her. "I suppose that is the way of parents. They believe they know best, when the reality is they are stuck in how it has always been." He sighed and she had the feeling he was struggling with this very problem himself.

"Does your father want something very terrible?"

He shook his head. "Only that I continue on as he has done. That I work for Mr. Richards in the same capacity as he has, beginning as a clerk or bookkeeper, and rising eventually to become the chief accountant." He flushed and looked slightly embarrassed. "That's a man who keeps track of the money. Like a clerk, but—"

"I know what an accountant is," she interrupted. She remembered many meals when her father ranted about thieving clerks. She even remembered when Anthony's father had proven his worth and been promoted to function as her father's second-in-command. "You don't want your father's position?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I do. It's an excellent job, and I need the pay. But I also have other ideas." He grimaced. "I'm cursed with an overabundance of business ideas, all of which require capital. So in addition to working for Mr. Richards, I am the bookkeeper for a number of other clients. That's how I came to be at this party tonight. I manage the accounts for our host and his father."

"But aren't they carpenters?"

He nodded. "Businesses aren't a simple matter of job and payment. If they wish to take on larger jobs, they must manage new employees or share pay with other carpenters. It can become very complicated, very fast. I help them manage that."

"It sounds fascinating," she said. It also sounded like a problem. As chief accountant for her father, he wouldn't have time to work with other businesses.

He chuckled. "I assure you, it's only interesting to men who wish to make money. And it certainly isn't an appropriate party topic."

"Do you think it is only men who wish to be rich? I confess a vulgar interest in how any business uses a man such as you." It wasn't a lie. Her father railed nightly about how hard it was to keep track of who sold what and for how much. Employee theft was rampant, according to her father. So Francine was very interested in learning what Mr. Pierce did to prevent those crimes. But also, she was simply interested in hearing him talk. About anything.

And so they did. She asked questions, and he answered. Soon they were having a lively discussion about what she suspected were extremely unusual ideas. He was an innovative thinker, she realized, and quite a brilliant one at that. He had wonderful ideas about how common businesses could be run better. Everything from her father's millinery to a new dress shop called A Lady's Favor. Sadly, that would not impress her father at all. As a rule, her father did not enjoy new ideas when it came to money. And he certainly wouldn't listen to anything from a simple bookkeeper. Indeed, she feared Mr. Pierce would be wasted working for her father. And to his credit, he seemed to know that as well.

Meanwhile, he must have realized how inappropriate their discussion was. Men did not discuss such things with ladies. So after a time, he flushed and turned the discussion back to her.

"Tell me how you began as a cook. Did your mother teach you?"

"Definitely not," Francine said with a laugh. "My mother is a terrible cook. Indeed, I began learning in defense against her burned gruel."

"Surely not."

"Surely so." There had been lean times when she was a child. Her father had not always been the success he was now. And in those times, her mother had been a disaster in the kitchen. "Fortunately, we didn't starve. No, I learned from..." She couldn't say from their first cook. He would wonder how her family had the money to afford a cook. "From a neighbor. She made the most heavenly lemon tarts. I started stealing them as soon as I could walk. Then one day, I said I wanted to make them myself so I could have them every day of the week."

"So she taught you?"

Francine nodded, her heart warming with pride. "She did. And mine were nothing like hers. It took years of practice."

He blinked, obviously startled. "Years? That cannot be."

"Years," she responded emphatically. "First off, I was very young when I started. But also, it's not so simple a thing." She gestured over to the sideboard where Amelia had laid out a modest array of cakes and tarts. "Those there, for example, are heavy with too much flour. The ones before had fruit that was not yet ripe. The oven fire is an art in itself, and obviously I haven't quite mastered that."

"Perhaps you have," he said, "but only when you are not interrupted by a gauche gentleman."

She laughed, suddenly breathless. "You were not gauche! And I'm glad you interrupted me. I'm... I'm glad of it." He was preparing to leave her. She could tell. The conversation was winding down and he was about to make his bow and leave. That was the way of things when gentlemen came to talk to her. They did the polite thing, then bowed and went away. And now he was about—

"Ah, they are removing the furniture," he said. "I believe we are about to have some dancing."

Francine looked around with dismay, seeing that he was right. She loved dancing. She really did, but she had a tendency to sweat and no gentleman appreciated that. And frankly, she hated it.

"Oh yes," she said, feeling misery well up inside her. "How nice."

"Will you join me for the first dance? I don't know what it is, and I have to warn you that I'm a terrible dancer. In fact, you will probably have to teach me the steps. But I swear I can make an effort if you will."

She flushed. Did she dare risk it? What if she tripped? What if she started to sweat so badly she smelled? What if—

"I would love to!" she forced out, silently chiding herself for being ridiculous. Lots of girls danced and lots of girls sweated. And as for smelling, gentlemen reeked all the time. She was just being ridiculous, she told herself quite sternly.

Meanwhile, she had to think of something charming to say, but nothing came to mind. Nothing polite that is. She had a million impertinent questions for him. Then before she could stop herself, one of them slipped out of her mouth.

"Was your business with Mr. Richards awful?"

His brown eyes narrowed in thought. "Awful? No. Why would you think that?"

She swallowed, abruptly embarrassed. "I'm sorry, that was rude. It's just that, well, when you left the kitchen I got the impression that... Well, you frowned at your father and..."

"You saw that I didn't want to go."

She nodded. "I'm sorry. Obviously I was wrong."

"Of course you weren't wrong. I hated leaving."

She frowned, not understanding. "But—"

"Because I wanted to stay and talk with you. Not because Mr. Richards was awful. The meeting with him went quite as typical for these things."

She smiled, feeling a happy glow that he'd wanted to stay and talk with her. "So you were hired?"

He nodded. "I am to start on Monday." He didn't sound happy about that, and she could guess the reason why.

"Will you have to give up your other clients? Will you have time to work for the Wensleys and the dress shop?"

"Not yet. I plan to handle the other businesses in the evenings. But Mr. Richards is an exacting employer, and I fear..." His voice trailed away, but the implication was clear. He was afraid that he would have to choose between what his father wanted—for him to continue and become chief accountant one day—or continue working with his smaller business clients as he clearly loved. "For right now I need the salary and the experience I shall receive working for Mr. Richards. I shall have to leave the future for later, after I have enough money and experience to strike out on my own."

"So you intend to run your own business?"

His expression grew wistful. "I should like that above all things, but it is not as easy as it sounds. I have plans, but no money. So for now, I will make my father happy and work at the millinery, saving every penny I earn."

She nodded, understanding the dilemma all too well. After all, she had no interest in marrying any of the aristocrats she'd met over the years. But that was what her parents clearly wanted, so she kept trying. Meanwhile, she dared to touch Mr. Pierce's hand.

"If you are honest, Mr. Richards will treat you very well. Many years ago, his partner stole everything, and he had to start over. It was winter and M—" She caught herself. She'd almost said Mama. "Mrs. Richards was pregnant."

His eyes widened, and she could see him figure out the rest of the tale.

"The babe was born in January and died soon after. He was too weak, the house too cold, and Mrs. Richards didn't have enough milk. He's never forgotten."

"I don't imagine he would."

The music was starting up. It was a lively country dance, one that would certainly make everyone sweat. Which, come to think of it, was perfectly acceptable since she would merely be one of many.

"Do you still wish to dance?" Francine asked hopefully.

"Most certainly," he said holding out his hand. She took it with a grin, her heart already beating rapidly with excitement. This was going to be the best night of her life!

That was when disaster struck. She wished she had seen it coming. Wished she had lifted her head to see Mr. Thomas Polton turn around with an apology on his lips. But she had been so absorbed in Mr. Pierce's smile that she had not seen their mutual friend turn around. And she certainly hadn't been able to stop him from destroying everything.

"My deepest apologies," Thomas said with a stiff bow. "I'm afraid I have been terribly neglectful. Miss Richards, please allow me to introduce you to Mr. Anthony Pierce. Anthony, this is Miss Francine Richards, the daughter of your new employer."