Then there was nothing but time, seconds and minutes that went by unnoticed. Her fingers loosened their grip on his damp shoulders. Crushed rose petals drifted down to join the layers on the floor around them. Her heart still sped, and her breath still came in panting gasps, and just as it had before, the air smelled spring-sweet and autumn-musky. She let her head fall back against the door and just breathed.
She felt Alec stir against her, for the first time in many minutes. His hands relaxed their tight grip on her bottom and moved to her hips; then he slid his palms down to her knees and tenderly lifted them from around him, and her legs fell free. He slowly lowered her to the floor, her cheek sliding from his damp shoulder to the center of his chest where his heart pounded a rhythm in her ear that was almost as hard and strong as their joining.
He finally raised his head. She saw his face. He seemed to be clinging to some desperate sense of isolation he found necessary to his being. Let it go, my love, please, she thought. He was quiet for a moment. Then he stared at her mouth with avid hunger in his eyes. He kissed her again, parting her lips and tasting her before he moved his mouth to her ear and told her what she felt like inside and how he wanted to feel that again.
She smiled, but it was hidden by his warm damp neck.
He lowered his head to kiss her.
The door resounded with a firm knock.
The kiss continued.
The next rap was harder.
He pulled back, then whispered against her mouth, "Our rooms must be ready." He righted his clothing and stepped back, then helped her button her bodice and brushed the rose petals off both of them.
"My hairpins." Joy pointed at the rug, which was layered with rose petals.
He looked at her through heated eyes and reached out to lift a long hank of her hair. A stray petal fell, drifting down to the floor in the utter silence of the room. Now that he'd given in, it was as if he didn't care about anything but the two of them. It was a beginning.
The knock sounded again.
"Yes, yes! In a minute!" He dropped her hair. "Leave the pins and the petals. We'll finish this upstairs." Grabbing her hand, he jerked open the door and started to pull her along behind him.
Somewhat red-faced, Henson cleared his throat loudly. "Your Grace, the Earl of Downe and the Viscount Seymour."
Joy bumped into Alec as he ground to a halt. He muttered a swearword.
Stunned, she glanced up at him and followed his gaze to Neil's embarrassed face. Hers must have flooded just as red.
"Welcome to
London
," Richard drawled, leaning against one wall of the long entry hall, a knowing look on his cocky face.
Mortified, Joy glanced to Alec for help.
He stood as straight as a
Highland
pine. "How long have you been here?" Richard turned to Neil, whose sheepish stance told her exactly how long they'd been there, and he pulled out his pocket watch and gave it a cursory glance. "Ten minutes or so. Long enough."
No embarrassment showed on Alec's face, only arrogance and displeasure. He turned, blocking her from their view. "Go on upstairs."
"Where?" she whispered. She had no idea where their rooms were, but was almost willing to chance getting lost again just so she could get away.
"Fifth door on the right. I'll join you later."
Richard said something about his use of the word "join" that made Alec's hand tense on hers. She sucked in a breath. He released her hand. "Go."
She hurried up the stairs. Just as she made the first landing, she heard the earl's sardonic voice.
"That's fifty pounds you owe me, Seymour. That was definitely a door banger."
Chapter 19
The morning of the hiring fair dawned crisp and cold and icy. The ice prevented the physician from arriving at Belmore House until almost
—the ice and the measles epidemic. He departed an hour later, leaving instructions for poor Carstairs and two of the maids—the ones who could cook—to remain in bed until the spots faded. Since the duke had left even earlier, fate had given the new duchess her first duty.
Wedged between Fishmongers' Hall and the Wharf House was a small and drafty brown brick building where a straggly group of misfits stood upon a platform, each holding a sign proclaiming his or her occupation. Amid the prospective employers stood the Duchess of Belmore, her chin high, her small shoulders back, and her green-gloved finger pointing at a black man at the end of the line.
A bewigged Henson leaned toward Joy and said, "Begging Your Grace's pardon, but I don't believe that . . . uh . . . one"—he took a second look, frowning for a moment before he continued—"is exactly what
His Grace has in mind."
"You don't?" Joy eyed the huge man who dwarfed the scruffy and pitiful men and women standing on a platform before them. She tapped a finger against her lips. Except for the one man, the prospects did not look promising. If the truth be told, most of them were frightening. The men appeared hard-edged and dirty, and many looked at her as though they were intent on mayhem and murder. There were only two women, both slovenly, and they had eyed poor Henson with the same ferity with which Beezle eyed his hair.
She felt a gentle tug on her skirt and turned to her maid.
The girl looked at her in wide-eyed horror. "Oh, ma'am, you cannot hire that man! He's . . . he's—"
"The sign he's holding states he can cook," Joy said, trying to judge exactly how tall the man actually was. Despite the short black beard that framed his wide lips and covered his chin, the man was clean, and there was something about him that belied his massive size, something that said he wouldn't harm a soul.
Polly leaned over and whispered, "He looks like a pirate, ma'am, a huge black pirate. I read a book about pirates, and they're cruel. They drink rum and make people walk the plank—even womenfolk. And they kidnap orphans, they do."
Joy had to agree that the billowing white shirt, black breeches, and high black boots made him look dangerous, but she sensed this man had a good heart. "There haven't been any pirates in
England
for years, Polly. It's just the big gold earring that makes him look like one."
"But, ma'am, what about his hair?"
"Different, isn't it?" She raised a finger to her lips again and inspected him. "I don't think I've ever seen a man with a braid that long."
"But the rest of his head is bald."
"Quite possibly he's been with Her Grace's pet weasel." Henson eyed the man's shiny head, then fingered his own white periwig.
"I am so sorry about your hair, Henson."
"Quite all right, madam. I have always preferred a wig. Gives the livery more distinction."
Joy had wanted to conjure up some more hair for Henson, but Alec had loudly forbidden it. She turned toward Polly. "Didn't you tell me that at
Belmore
Park
the cook was always complaining about not being able to reach the tall shelves? This cook won't have that problem. Besides, he's the only one whose sign says he can cook. So we have no choice." Joy turned to Henson. "Do any of the others claim they can cook?"
"I believe Her Grace is correct." Henson tugged on the curled queue of his wig.
"And look!" Joy pointed. "See there? He's even got his own chicken. Do you suppose it's dead?"
A choked gasp came from her maid.
"Don't those look like chicken feathers to you, Polly?"
"Yes, ma'am, but I don't see a chicken—just the feathers, I do."
"There, you see. Let's go speak with him before someone else snaps him up."
"Somehow I doubt that will be a problem," Henson said, but Joy was already moving forward, leaving her two servants no choice but to follow. She reached the platform and turned back just in time to see Polly genuflect, mutter something, and cross herself.
"I didn't know you were a Catholic," she said when Polly joined her.
"I'm surely not, ma'am, but from the likes of him I'd say the Lord's Prayer isn't enough." She leaned closer to Joy and whispered, "What do you suppose he does with those feathers?"
Joy shrugged, then looked up at the man. Judging from the lack of lines in his face skin, she was positive he wasn't old, and he certainly looked able-bodied. He was even broader and taller than Alec. A yard-long braid dangled like a tail from high on his shiny black head. In addition to his pirate clothes, he wore a wide thick belt studded with metal. Small beaded gourds, a hank of hair, and a clump of feathers swung from one side of the belt. If she hadn't known that the world's last genie was tightly corked in a bottle somewhere in
North America
, she'd have guessed this man was he.
"Her Grace, the Duchess of Belmore," Henson said to the agent who stood next to the platform. "She would like to speak with that one." He nodded toward the black giant.
Joy shook out her skirt, raised her chin so as to look appropriately duchessy, and tried to make her mouth haughty, but it was difficult to purse one's lips when one's neck was so strained. Somehow she didn't feel like a duchess at all; she felt like a trout surfacing for flies.
The agent called out a number, and the man nodded, then stepped forward, the gourds rattling at his side.
Joy craned her head back to look up at him, and her attempts at haughtiness, lip pursing, and nose elevating were lost to the sheer wonder she felt when she took in his size. One deep breath and she found her voice. "The sign says you can cook."
The man nodded, pinning Joy with a stare that was serious but held no malice. "I cook with the ship
Black Magic
five year." His voice was as deep as a barrel and heavily accented.
"Where are you from?"
"The Caribbees."
"You need to address the duchess as Your Grace," Henson informed the man.
The pirate turned his black eyes toward Henson, then looked back at her. He smiled then, showing his white teeth. "The Caribbees, You Grace."
Joy knew then and there she would hire this man. His smile was real. "What are you called?"
"Kallaloo. John Kallaloo."
"Well, Mr. John Kallaloo, what can you cook?"
"You Grace, call me Hungan John. Hungan John can cook anyting." He stood even taller, his face as proud as Alec's. "You Grace like langosta . . . lobster? Crab? Cocido de riñones?"
She nodded, sure that the duke and the ton would like lobster and crab. "What is
cocido de riñones
?"
"You say kidney stew."
Polly chanted a prayer to Mary, the mother of God.
Joy nodded. It sounded good to her, and she remembered the English liked kidneys.
"Hungan John Kallaloo cook You Grace the best. No mon, no womon, cook better. You see." He swelled his chest out a bit, which was something to see, considering its size to begin with.
She thought him perfect for Belmore House. He had as much pride and self-assurance as her husband.
"I'd like to hire you. Would you like to cook for Belmore House?"
Polly let out a wee squeak of protest, but nothing changed on Henson's face, ever the loyal and imperturbable servant.