you in my lap.”
“Orion,” Ann said, not turning loose of him, “Sycamore Dorning offered me the post of chef at the Coventry.” She needed to hold on to him while they had this conversation.
“You already are the only chef worth the name at the Coventry. What you mean is, he’s offered to pay you what you’re worth. Come.” Orion took Ann by the hand and led her not to the guest parlor, but to the family parlor.
“Orion, be serious.”
“You did not get enough sleep last night,” he said, closing the parlor door and scooping Ann into his arms. He settled into a wing chair with Ann in his lap and rested his cheek against her temple. “I apologize for that, but when we marry, you might occasionally go short of sleep. You can turn Dorning down, you know. Just because you will be family to him by marriage doesn’t mean you have to indulge his little dramas. There are other cooks in London who can put on a fancy buffet—though, of course, none as talented as you.”
“You speak as if I could accept his offer.”
“Do you want to accept his offer?”
The previous night should have made it plain that Orion Goddard liked to leaven complicated discussions with affection. He’d told Ann the details of Uncle Horace’s situation, including Aunt Melisande’s straying and Emily Bainbridge’s role.
“I thought you and I were to be married, Orion.”
“I desperately hope we are. But what has making me the happiest man on earth to do with making profiteroles to inspire envy from the angels?”
He did not sound as if he was being purposely obtuse. “This is not France. If I am your wife, people will expect me to stay home and have your babies.”
“I already have half a dozen babies of the half-grown variety, and no wife stays home with them. Melisande has a child in the nursery whom she doesn’t even see some days. What do you want, Annie? What would make you happy?”
“I love to cook, and I want to be your wife.”
“Then cook and be my wife. Dorning had better pay you what he paid that inebriated bouffon, or—”
Ann kissed him. “Gentlemen’s spouses don’t typically work for a wage.”
“I am not a gentleman. I am a humble wine merchant who wants his wife to be happy. I thought you dreamed of writing a cookbook? If last night’s meal is any indication, Annie, your recipes will sell better than Byron’s naughty poems.”
“I do want to write a cookbook, and I’ve had an idea.” This idea had come to her in the middle of the night, between bouts of loving and talking.
“Do tell. I’ve had a few ideas, too, and one of them involves a special license and a wedding journey to Provence.”
“I want to write a champagne cookbook. Meals for every occasion featuring champagne.” She braced herself for laughter, or for gentle teasing.
“A champagne cookbook?”
“Champagne and pineapple juice for breakfast with pear crepes and ham with orange glaze. The Dornings have a pineapple venture. Did you know that? Champagne with raspberry liqueur for a Venetian breakfast and a selection of cheeses to include—”
“Hush, or you will make me hungry. Did you know that Deschamps’s mama is a cousin to the King of France?”
“What has that to do with my cookbook?”
“With your brilliant cookbook? When I send along a case of my finest vintage to Deschamps’s dear mama, I could tuck in a copy of your book, signed by the author. The Coventry could feature your recipes and offer subscriptions to your second book. Your next project might be a book about sauces made with wines, and I suppose Fournier will want copies to pass around because the idea of such recipes is actually his. As your adoring husband, I will do your French translations. Mrs. Radcliffe’s husband managed all of her literary ventures, and—”
Ann put her hand to his mouth. “Then you can love a woman who wakes up dreaming of sauces? Who longs to cook all day? Who is a bossy and very-well-paid chef up at all hours and forever spouting ideas for new dishes?”
She took her hand away, and Orion regarded her with such tenderness, she felt as if she’d drunk a serving of the finest champagne a bit too quickly.
“Can I love such a woman?” Orion asked. “Annie Pearson, I already do.”
“But can you love her if she works at the Coventry, for a wage, with her hands?”
“Of course I can love such a woman. I will say it in