Hearing our brazenly bad Elizabethan chatter, Timothy let out a snort, his stoppered laugh of amusement. Cara shot him a quick glance of scorn.
“Scorn not, kind sir, that which harnesses the passions of Nature.”
It was obvious that as much as Timothy wanted to cling to my side, this side of Cara was about to drive him off. I swooped up his arm and pulled him close.
“Come, my love,” I told him. “Away must we venture to far cake where we hither shall pierce the delightfully frosted gooey exterior.”
That did it. Timothy lost his stern hold on composure, pulled me a centimeter closer, then turned to Cara. “The gooey exterior of cake doth call. We must away.”
Then both ladies lost their cool and sank down into unbridled laughter. That attracted the eyes of everyone. All the guests started gravitating in our direction, mini comets pulled by the sun. Perhaps we weren’t up to star quality, but the mood in the whole room changed. The musicians suddenly stopped, then cried out, “It’s cake time, folks.”
The cake was a huge white wonder, five tiers of cake structure with sugary arches, green ivy and pink roses. Ben had outdone himself in its elegance. Knowing Timothy’s Fae chef, I would guess that the cake would taste every bit as wonderful as it looked.
Andrew handed the knife to Timothy, and I laid my hand atop his, and we did it, the best cake piercing of the year, or something like that. I’d already nixed the smear cake all over your mate’s face part. I’d seen that done, and the mess that followed was not cute. I was okay with the groom giving me a bite and my delivering a small chunk to him. It was just that smear thing all over someone’s face that I refused to do. That should be considered cake sacrilege!