I are quicker than we look.”
Something wistful passed over Orion’s expression, and then he was offering Ann his arm and escorting her to the walkway.
“I borrowed the Dorning coach,” Orion said. “The occasion seemed to call for it. Do you mind?”
The conveyance was splendid, the horses matched grays. “Because we will travel in a closed carriage after dark without a chaperone?”
Had Ann any intention of pursuing the much-vaunted advantageous match, had she any aspiration to socialize with high society rather than to cook in its kitchens, she might have hesitated.
“As I keep telling my aunt, I am not a young lady new to Town intent on attaching the interests of a well-off spouse. We’ll keep the shades down.”
“Will we really?”
“Yes, and if anybody asks, your sister accompanied us, but nobody will ask.”
Orion handed her up and settled on the forward-facing seat beside her. “I will tell John Coachman to let us off before we reach the brigadier’s front door, in case anybody thinks to make a fuss.”
What does it say about me that I like even sitting beside this man? Like watching the light of the coach lamps turn his features stern—more stern—and complicated?
“I hope the guests make a fuss about the sauce velouté I devised for the fish and the sauce béarnaise to be served with the beef.”
Orion took her hand as the coach glided forward, and Ann wished they weren’t wearing gloves. “Are you trying to make me hungry?”
“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 verb courtiser. 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