Miss Susanna Finch.
Good God. Miss Finch was the spinster hive’s queen bee? Her molten-bronze hair was a flash of wild beauty in the room’s bland prettiness. And her scattered freckles did not fall in line with the otherwise ordered calm. Despite all his intentions to remain indifferent, Bram felt his blood heating to a quick, rebellious simmer.
“Why, Lord Rycliff. Lord Payne. Corporal Thorne. What a surprise.” She rose from her chair and dipped in a curtsy. “Won’t you join us?”
“Go on. Let’s at least eat,” Colin muttered. “Where two or more ladies are gathered, there will be food. I’m fairly certain that’s in the Scriptures.”
“Do have a seat.” Miss Finch waved them toward some vacant chairs at a table near the wall.
“You’re the infantryman.” Colin nudged him forward. “You first.”
Bram eased and edged his way to an empty chair, dodging low ceiling beams as he went, feeling like the proverbial bull in the china shop. All around him, fragile females held highly breakable cups in their delicate grips. They followed him with saucer-wide eyes set in porcelain complexions. Bram suspected that with one sudden movement, he could shatter the whole scene.
“I’ll fetch you some refreshments,” she said.
Oh no. She wasn’t leaving him alone with all this daintiness. He pulled the chair out, then held it for her. “My cousin will do it. Have a seat, Miss Finch.”
A flicker of surprise crossed her features as she accepted. Bram took the adjacent chair for himself. Between the morning’s observations and Colin’s dire warnings . . . he knew something very strange was going on in this village. And whatever it was, Miss Finch would sit down and explain it to him.
Of course, once she did sit next to him, he found his powers of concentration immediately diminished. The dwarfish size of the table forced them so close, her shoulder rubbed his arm. From there, it was all too easy to imagine sweeter sources of friction. To recall the feel of her body under his.
The music resumed. A cup of tea appeared on the table.
She leaned close, bathing him in her hothouse scent. In a hushed murmur, she asked, “Milk or sugar?”
Bloody hell. She was offering him tea. His body responded as if she’d stood naked before him, balancing cream jug in one hand and sugar bowl in the other, asking him which substance he’d rather lick from her bare skin.
Both. Both, please.
“Neither.” Bracing himself against temptation, Bram removed the flask from his breast pocket and added a generous splash of whiskey to the steaming cup. “What’s going on here?”
“It’s our weekly salon. As I told you yesterday, here in Spindle Cove we ladies have a schedule. Monday, country walks. Tuesday, sea bathing. We spend Wednesdays in the garden, and . . .”
“Yes, yes,” he said, scratching his unshaven jaw. “I recall the schedule. On Thursday, I hope you foster orphaned lambs.”
She went on, unruffled. “Aside from our group activities, each lady pursues her own interests. Art, music, science, poetry. On Saturdays, we celebrate our individual accomplishments. These salons help the young ladies develop their confidence before they return to wider society.”
Bram couldn’t imagine why the lady currently playing the pianoforte would ever lack for confidence in society. He had little musical ability himself, but he knew true talent when he heard it. This young woman coaxed sounds from the instrument he hadn’t known a pianoforte could make—cascades of laughter and plaintive, heartfelt sighs. And the girl was pretty, too. Watching her in profile, he observed thick chestnut hair and delicate features. She wasn’t Bram’s usual sort, but she possessed the kind of beauty with which a man could pose no argument.
And while the girl played, Bram nearly managed to stop lusting after Susanna Finch. Nothing short of musical genius could accomplish that.
“That’s Miss Taylor,” she whispered. “She’s our music tutor.”
Colin arrived, plunking a serving plate in the center of the table and helpfully dispelling the tension. “There,” he said. “Food.”
Bram eyed the refreshments. “Are you sure?”
The plate was lined with rows of tiny pastries and bite-sized cakes, each iced in a different pastel shade. Little piped rosettes and sugar pearls topped the dainty morsels.
“This isn’t food.” Bram picked up a lavender-iced cake between thumb and finger and stared at it. “This is . . . edible ornamentation.”
“It’s edible. That’s all I care about.” Colin shoved a bit of seedcake into his mouth.
“Oh, these lavender ones are Mr. Fosbury’s specialty.” She nodded toward the cake in Bram’s hand and selected an identical morsel for herself. “They’re filled with his own currant jelly. Divine.”
“A Mr. Fosbury made these?” Bram lifted the lavender cake.
“Yes, of course. He’s owned this place for a generation. It used to be a tavern.”
So, this place used to be a tavern. With pints of proper ale, one would assume. And kidney pie. Steaks so rare, a man could still hear the cow lowing. Bram’s stomach gave a despairing rumble.
“Why would a tavern keeper turn to baking teacakes?” He cast a look about the place, so cheerily furnished and refined. In the window, lace curtains fluttered gaily, mocking him and his lavender-iced petit four.
“Things change. Once the inn became a ladies’ retreat, an alteration of business strategy only made sense.”
“I see. So this place isn’t a tavern any longer. It’s a tea shop. Instead of real, hearty food we have this assortment of pastel absurdity. You’ve reduced a hardworking, decent man to piping rosettes to earn his keep.”
“Nonsense. We haven’t ‘reduced’ Mr. Fosbury to anything.”
“Like the devil you haven’t. You’ve . . . shriveled the man to currants.” Bram threw away the cake in disgust, looking for somewhere to wipe the lavender icing from his fingers. In the end, he smeared violet streaks on the damask tablecloth, enjoying Miss Finch’s gasp of dismay.
“That’s a rather medieval view,” she said, obviously affronted. “Here in Spindle Cove, we live in modern times. Why shouldn’t a man make currant jam or pretty lockets, if such things please him? Why shouldn’t a lady pursue geology or medicine, if she takes an interest?”
“The women aren’t my concern.” Bram looked around the place. “So where do all these ‘modern’ men congregate of an evening, since they’re deprived of a tavern?”