“And I need a wench,” Colin put in. “Don’t they have those in little seaside villages? Tavern wenches?”
“That must be the place.” He headed across the green, toward a cheerful-looking establishment with a traditional tavern sign hanging above its entry. Thank God. This was almost as good as a homecoming. Proper English pubs, at least, with their sticky floorboards and dark, dank corners, were the true province of men.
Bram slowed as they approached the entrance. On closer inspection, this didn’t look like any tavern he’d ever seen. There were lace curtains in the window. The delicate strains of pianoforte music wafted out to him. And the sign hanging above the door read . . .
“Tell me that doesn’t say what I think it says.”
“The Blushing Pansy,” his cousin read aloud, in a tone of abject horror. “Tea shop and confectionery.”
Bram swore. This was going to be ugly.
Correct that. As he opened the establishment’s red-painted door, he realized this scene was not going to be ugly at all. It was going to be pretty, beyond all limits of masculine tolerance.
Six
“Sorry, cousin.” Colin clapped a hand on Bram’s shoulder as they entered the establishment. “I know you hate it when I’m right.”
Bram surveyed the scene. No sticky floorboards. No dark, dank corners. No men.
What he found were several tables draped in white damask. Atop each surface sat a crockery vase of fresh wildflower blooms. And seated around each table were a handful of young ladies. Together, they must have numbered nearly a score. Befrocked, beribboned, and in some cases, bespectacled. To a one, bemused by the men’s appearance.
The pianoforte music died a quick, mournful death. Then, as if on cue, the girls turned in unison to the center of the room, obviously looking to their leader for guidance.
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.”