The Wedding Cake (The Wedding Series) by Christine Dorsey Page B

dinner invitation. A silly error on her part, and one she would not commit again.
    As a matter of fact, she was beginning to wonder if she should give up the idea of baking it altogether. Resign herself to failure. Resign herself period.
    “It is difficult for me to believe that tomorrow evening we will finally meet your duke, Cinnamon. How excited you must be.”
    “What? Oh, yes, Mama, I am.”
    “Is he very handsome, Cinnamon?”
    “Yes, Lucretia. Very.”
    “And he’s very rich.”
    “I suppose he is, Cornelia.”
    “Will we have to call you Lady Cinnamon?” She laughed.
    “I don’t think so, Philomela.”
    “Do you love him, Cinnamon?”
    Her fork clattered to the plate as she turned to stare wide-eyed at her father.
    “What a silly thing to ask, Mr. Murphy. Of course she does. The very idea. Our Cinnamon is marrying a British duke.” Her mother squared her shoulders. “A man of impeccable lineage. A man who will do our family proud. Open doors for all our daughters.” Her corseted body quivered. “How could she not love him?”
    That said, her mother stood, her chin high, and announced it was time to retire to the parlor. “We must leave the gentlemen to their cigars.” Her eyes narrowed on her husband. “And their discussions.”
    As Cinnamon followed her sisters from the room, she heard Count Lorenzo launch into a soliloquy of his own heritage, and she hurried her step.
    When the parlor doors opened a half-hour later, Philomela had plowed her way through most of Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto no. 1. Papa entered, Count Lorenzo by his side, followed by Captain McGregger. Cinnamon waited until everyone’s attention returned to her sister’s playing, then slipped from her seat to walk toward the far window.
    Spreading her painted silk fan, she sank into the closest chair, knowing Captain McGregger would come to her. Through her lashes she watched as he pretended interest in the music, then backed away. He appeared almost surprised to see her when their eyes met.
    “Miss Murphy,” he said, bowing. “I wish to thank you for your invitation to dinner.”
    He sounded stiff and formal... and more than a little angry. She’d refused to see him several times since their tour of the India Queen . Each time he visited, she had instructed James to say she was not at home, and she had little doubt that the captain had seen through her ruse. On Wednesday he’d ceased calling.
    “You’re more than welcome, Captain McGregger.” She glanced at the group across the room. Her sisters listened with an obvious lack of enthusiasm to the count. Philomela pounded stirring chords from the piano, and her father seemed intent on keeping Mama occupied, appearing to hang on her every word as she prattled. Cinnamon supposed it was either about tomorrow’s distinguished visitor or her plan to move the family to Back Bay. Whichever, she was glad for her mother’s lack of attention.
    “I wish to speak with you,” Cinnamon said, keeping her voice low.
    “Ye can’t say I’ve not given ye the opportunity,” he countered, anger coloring his tone. He stood very close to her now as he lifted aside the heavy drape to peer outside. The tulle of her skirt brushed against his pant’s leg.
    “I—I’ve been quite busy.”
    “Preparing for the arrival of yer duke?”
    “Among other things, yes.” She softened her tone. She didn’t want to argue with him. “I think you should accept my father’s proposal. You are more than qualified to run Murphy Import and Export.”
    When he said nothing, and only looked down at her, she continued, “Certainly, this cannot surprise you. Your attributes are obvious. There really never was any question of your competence.” She breathed deeply. “You are familiar with sailing and the marketing of goods. You—”
    “Why are ye telling me this now?”
    “Why?” She fluttered her fan, feeling the need for a bit of air. His scrutiny seemed to raise the temperature in the room to