Chapter 3
In Which Tea Is Taken with a Pugnacious Pug; Polite Wedges and Impolite Table Manners (Including Plate Licking) Are Featured; And a Spot of Icing Causes a Spot of Bother …
Phineas O’Connell, lately known as Lord Kinsale, would admit to feeling somewhat bemused, if not altogether at sea, as he led his ship’s surprise stowaways below deck to the gentlemen’s mess. His ever-faithful but perennially pugnacious pug, Brutus, brought up the rear.
How the hell did Mrs. Hermina Davenport and her son, Christopher, end up on the Kinsale Cloud?
Phinn thought to himself as the lovely young woman and the lad took seats at the mahogany dining table—a table that had been set with polished silverware and delicate porcelain tea paraphernalia.
Highly impractical on a ship navigating rough waters, to Phinn’s way of thinking, but the ship’s cook could not be reasoned with.
Phinn was a marquess, and a marquess should only dine off fine bone-china plates, no matter how wild the sea state.
Phinn seriously doubted that his ship’s stowaways had simply wandered on board “by mistake” just before the Kinsale Cloud departed Kinsale Harbor yesterday evening.
Unless one of the ship’s crew had helped Mrs. Davenport and her son to sneak on.
Of course, he could ask his ship’s captain to question the crew once they reached Bristol.
He’d already had a quick word with the man when Phinn had first taken Mrs. Davenport and her son up on deck.
But the captain had no idea how they’d managed to steal onto the ship undetected.
It was a mystery indeed.
The woman and the lad certainly couldn’t have flown onto the ship like a pair of seagulls.
Or sailed alongside in some other vessel and then scaled the sides of the Kinsale Cloud in the middle of the night like a pair of pirates or Viking marauders.
On the other hand, if Mrs. Davenport were a maighdean mhara—some sort of selkie or mermaid …
Phinn smiled inwardly at the fantastical albeit appealing thought.
While he might have a healthy dose of superstition running through his Irish veins—as a lad, his mam had regaled him with countless fireside tales about ghosts and púca and éire’s “wee folk,” the aos sí; he even suspected his childhood home had been close to a sidhe, an underground faery fort—logic dictated that Mrs. Davenport couldn’t have materialized on his ship just by waving a magic wand like a witch. Now that idea was utterly nonsensical.
Wasn’t it?
But then, did it really matter how Mrs. Davenport and her child came to be on board? It wasn’t as though they were dangerous or an inconvenience. If anything, they were a welcome diversion.
Especially Mrs. Davenport …
At that moment, the young woman broke into Phinn’s thoughts. “Would you like me to pour, Lord Kinsale?” she asked as she gestured at the teapot and cut-crystal pitcher of ginger beer.
Phinn nodded, transfixed by the loveliness of the young woman’s voice and her perfectly enunciated words.
She was clearly a genteelly bred Englishwoman with impeccable manners.
Why, she hadn’t even commented on the fact that Brutus was also at the table, seated upon his customary cushion-stacked chair, his large black eyes fixed on the pound cake and currant-studded Bath buns.
“Aye. Th-Thank you,” he managed after an awkward moment in which he fought to loosen his tongue.
Damn it. Sometimes he really hated the fact that he could barely get a word out, that he stumbled over far too many sounds and syllables.
Especially when he wanted to make a favorable impression and not come across as a giant lummox.
He was also all thumbs and largely clueless when it came to performing any refined sort of ritual such as dispensing tea.
What with his big brutish paws and their scarred, misshapen knuckles, picking up a teacup without snapping the handle off was a feat in and of itself.
And in what order did one do things? Did the tea go in the cup first?
Or the milk? Did one have lemon and sugar or just one?
Before Phinn had unexpectedly inherited his marquessate less than a year ago, he’d never even drunk tea.
As a lowly Irish prizefighter, coffee and ale and sometimes whisky and rum had been his beverages of choice. And all he had been able to afford.
Mrs. Davenport had no issues at all when it came to serving afternoon tea.
Phinn knew he was staring as she removed her neat white gloves then adeptly prepared the tea.
After depositing several spoonfuls of tea leaves into the china teapot, she added boiling water from the silver urn.
And all without spilling a single drop (which was quite remarkable considering the constant rolling of the ship).
While the leaves steeped, Mrs. Davenport poured a glass of ginger beer for young Christopher, served up slices of pound cake—Phinn noticed she only cut a very slender “polite” wedge for herself—then dispensed the tea with the poise of an accomplished gentlewoman.
He requested milk with two sugar lumps, while she poured herself black tea and added only a sliver of lemon.
And, devil take him, didn’t his tea taste damn fine?
When he said so, Mrs. Davenport blushed prettily. “Why thank you, my lord,” she murmured before raising her eyes to his. “While I’d like to take the credit, I suspect it’s your cook who’s the one to thank for providing such a delicious blend. Darjeeling perhaps?”
Now Phinn felt as though his face was as hot as the silver urn. “I-I have n-no idea,” he admitted. “I’m usually hap-happy to eat or drink whatever’s p-p-put in front o’ me. I’m a m-man o’ simple tastes.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that,” said Mrs. Davenport with a shy smile. Then her gaze fell to her plate. “I must say, this pound cake is rather good too.”
Christopher nodded enthusiastically. “It is indeed.” This was followed by two short yips from Brutus.
Phinn laughed. “I know it’s a tad un-unconventional. But would you m-mind cutting a p-piece o’ c-c-cake for Brutus, Mrs. Dav-Davenport?”
The pug made a disgruntled sound in his throat, which sounded very much like, It’s about time.
Mrs. Davenport smiled. “Of course I wouldn’t mind,” she said as she proceeded to deftly serve up another slice of pound cake. “I’m sure Mr. Brutus has delightful table manners.”
Phinn snorted. “Well, if you don’t mind a wee b-b-bit o’ drool and snuffling and c-crumbs. Although he’s sure to lick all those up.”
Mrs. Davenport laughed as she slid the plated cake toward Brutus. “I’m sure he will. To be perfectly frank, I think we’d all like to indulge in a bit of plate licking if it was at all socially acceptable.”
Now Phinn was laughing. He couldn’t deny that he had licked a plate or two clean in his time.
Brutus was certainly licking the porcelain with gusto.
But holy hell, now Phinn was thinking about licking things just as Mrs. Davenport daintily licked away a tiny fleck of lemon icing from the corner of her mouth.
The way the pink tip of her tongue slipped out then left behind a light sheen of moisture on her softly plump lower lip made a groan rise in Phinn’s throat.
Feck … That wasn’t the only thing that was rising. His temperature had shot into the realm of “blazing hot.”
The problem was, try as he might, Phinn couldn’t stop himself from staring at the young woman as she continued to nibble delicately at her cake and take measured sips of her tea. But then who wouldn’t enjoy looking at Mrs. Davenport?
She was uncommonly pretty, with large hazel eyes fringed with long dark lashes, and her lovely face with its straight nose, generous mouth, and peaches-and-cream complexion, was framed by rich chestnut hair.
When the wind had stolen her bonnet, he’d been gifted with the sight of it—it was thick and lustrous like the polished wood of the table before them.
It was the sort of hair he’d love to let loose, and after it fell in glossy waves over her shoulders and down her back, he’d sift his fingers through it.
Perhaps even bury his face in it to savor the fragrance of the soap she used.
When she’d brushed past him to take her seat at the table, he was certain he’d caught the scent of flowers—roses, perhaps?
Get a grip, O’Connell, Phinn’s mind growled as he took a gulp of his tea. You have no business thinking of the poor woman like that. And in front of her child for Christ’s sake! Aside from that, she’s married!
Or was she? Phinn glanced at her bare left hand.
There wasn’t a wedding band upon the woman’s slender ring finger, so perhaps there wasn’t a Mr. Davenport in the picture, so to speak.
Indeed, from the moment Hermina Davenport had stepped from his wardrobe, Phinn had noted that the woman’s attire—a navy wool gown with black trim here and there—was well cut and of good quality but rather somber and utilitarian rather than fashionable.
Perhaps she was a widow and in mourning or half mourning?
Phinn’s gaze returned to Mrs. Davenport’s countenance.
She was young to be a widow, to be sure.
She couldn’t have been more than five-and-twenty; six-and-twenty at most. And the boy looked to be about six or seven.
But then again, there were many young women in her position, particularly back home in Ireland after the Great Famine.
Phinn frowned as he helped himself to a Bath bun and tore off a large chunk—it was gone in three bites and he feared he might have worse table manners than Brutus.
But when Phinn had lived a hand-to-mouth existence in Dublin before he’d become a prizefighter—when he hadn’t known where his next meal was coming from, or if it would come at all—he’d developed the tendency to wolf down anything in front of him.
And yes, to lick his plate clean. Old habits were hard to break.