by Kelly Bowen
“Are you ready for our outing today, Miss Mary-Anne?”
She was, until his mouth lingered upon her name.
Where were these nerves coming from?
She clasped her reticule and closed the door to her warehouse. “Of course, I am. Let’s go be seen.”
They walked in step with each other, her flat silk shoes to his long leather boots, until they came to his landau, the spot at which she froze.
With a shake of her head, chasing away her cobwebs and fear, she grabbed the side and placed her foot on the carriage step.
There was no turning back, not with his hands firmly on her waist lifting her into the landau.
Mr. Sedgewick positioned her to sit across from him and had his driver start.
She practiced breathing, in and out, expelling the anxiety building in her lungs. Then she noticed they weren’t on Gracechurch Street.
Mary-Anne knew the routes of Town better than most. This wasn’t the way to the Park, Hyde Park, the lungs of London.
“Your brow is scrunching, Miss Mary-Anne. Questions?”
“No, you are obviously going to another park. A trial run in case I exhibit poorly? A training park.”
Drawing his index finger to his face, he tapped his chin. “A junior park such as Ranelagh or Vauxhall?”
“I know Vauxhall. I’ve designed outfits for Madame Labonne and others for those amusements. That’s as busy as Hyde.”
“Well, Ranelagh and its strolling lanes have been demolished. It was a favorite of my parents. Solomon Rieti, an immigrant to these shores designed it, so you might have liked it.”
He leaned across the carriage and gripped her hand. He’d shed his gloves, but her hands remained hidden in gloves. “So tell me more about you, Miss Mary-Anne. Where you are from?”
“Jamaica, West Indies.”
“An island? You don’t sound as I would think an island girl would, unless you are making mischief.”
“Too proper? Too educated?”
“Too stiff. There’s no ease in your tone, even as I wantonly hold your hand.”
He caressed her fingers and even though hers were gloved, she felt the press of his and the growing tug of wanting to be free with him. Unrestrained.
“How does one gain ease when everyone’s looking, making judgments?”
“I suppose you keep pressing forward, Mary-Anne.”
She loosened her tongue. “Come now, princy among men. Tell me where the training park is.”
His eyes widened and he chuckled. Perhaps the divide between an earl’s son and an immigrant wasn’t so large.
“Beautiful.”
His nose wrinkled, and he dropped her hand, digging in his pockets.
She whipped out a handkerchief, one she’d worked on for him.
He took it, but the sneeze disappeared. “Thank you, but this has the initials A. S. on this.”
“I was working on your coat. It needed a proper handkerchief.”
His brows waggled and his smile bloomed. “So you are thinking about me while you’re working?”
Now it was her turn to laugh and be brave. “Yes, August, I think of you.”
The admission made it easier to breathe, easier to look at him and not be concerned about his thoughts. It was her truth.
The landau stopped.
He leaned near, put his hands again about her waist. “Time to try our junior park, my park.”
The sun was high in the sky, August’s half-smile and his half-hug made her warm in the slight breeze. He was lovely. Broad shoulders, nothing idle or lean about him at least from what she could tell.
He tugged his hat down more on his head and then took her hand.
She wobbled in her slippers to keep up and held tighter to his hand. “Where are we?”
“My land. My house and my sisters are not far. You should meet them again, in a non-work-related setting.”
Pitter-patter-heart beat normally, not like a festive drum for an invitation she couldn’t accept. “So we are practicing out here? How does that help?”
Tugging her hand over his arm, he led her toward a barn. “This park has something you won’t find anywhere.”
Taking her by the shoulders, he spun her.
Then she saw the big balloons of silk.
She latched her hand onto his and surely dragged him to the fence. “Oh my!”
“Do you like, Miss Mary-Anne?”
Craning her neck, she tracked the balloons’ flights, how the big balls went up, up, how the silk looked as if it danced in fine petticoats. “The balloons. I love the balloons.”
“I know. I still have a small bruise to my forehead.”
She put a palm to his brow, flipped the errant curl to check for a mark. Nothing. “You are funny. I love this. I’d love to be up there. It’s so exciting.”
Turning back to the launches, she watched the colors and the endless flourishes of silk.
Up, Up, Up.
Mary-Anne raised her hands and cheered. Her head swam as she searched the sky.
August put a palm on her shoulder. “You might need a junior balloon viewing. You are so excitable. I’m happy to show this to you.”
So dizzy. She bounced up and down, bumping into August.
She turned to trace the path of an orange flyer and realized he wasn’t moving, wasn’t jumping, wasn’t but a breath away.
Then he was her breath.
With his hands to her cheeks, he drew her into a deeper kiss, his half-smile stitching to, completing hers.
Now she felt as if she spun, as if her feet lifted from the ground, but she hadn’t moved. August held her, anchoring her on the earth in an embrace that felt like love.
His lips slipped to her neck, and she curled her fingers about his strong shoulders. His passion tasted of strong cough tonic and mint.
August nipped along her jaw and made her toes wiggle in her boots.
And when she copied and found that spot along his throat, his groan vibrated through her.
He lifted her in the air, eye to eye, nose to nose, and kissed her again.
Floating, desperate, dizzy.
This son of the Ton wasn’t drifting away.
He was present, persuasive in his touch, passionate, claiming Mary-Anne’s reason, taking away her excuses—the safety of being alone.
Noises.
Was it a hoot from above?
Could the balloonist see them?
Or was someone coming?
August stopped their kiss and held her close, tucking her into the folds of his coat. “Yes.”
“Sir, sorry to interrupt.” The voice came from behind. “The horses are ready.”
“Yes, yes.” August waved at the groom. “We’ll be along in a moment.”
Her face felt hot, but joy bubbled inside as she wrapped her arms about him. There was nothing to be embarrassed about, not if they felt the same.
“Mary-Anne,” he said. “I… I brought you to my stables to see the balloons and…to choose a new horse. But I overstepped. I… I’m sorry. Our business arrangement takes precedence. I didn’t mean to risk this arrangement.”
“You didn’t mean to kiss me, August? Did you stumble into me?”
Seeking his face, she saw a nose twitching and eyes coloring with regret.
Everything inside froze. Her heart, unbalanced and alone, toppled.
Pushing on his chest, she wobbled away. “Well, now you know how an island girl makes a fool of herself.”
“I’m sorry. I’m attracted to you, but I’m not a rake or even impulsive, Mary-Anne. I shouldn’t—”
“No, we shouldn’t. Let us get on with the horses.”
She wiped away his kiss on the back of her glove. “Show me what my options are, Mr. Sedgwick. This isn’t one.”
He reached for her hand, but she stepped beyond his outstretched arm. He tried once more, then put his hands to his sides.
“We have business, don’t we?”
“Yes, follow me. I’ve a
few horses for you to choose from. Each would be excellent in pulling your gig.”
Letting the distance between them grow, she listened as best she could to his descriptions of a silver draft horse, a dappled grey gelding, and a silky brown mare.
But it was hard to make sense of his crisp tones when all she wanted was to go back to her warehouse.
Tick-tock.
Four minutes of watching him lead a horse in front of her. “It’s a short back, good for pulling. And look at those strong knees, Mary-Anne.”
Tick-tock.
Another three minutes. August spoke to his groom about iron shoes.
Tick-tock-breathe.
It was hard to watch his enthusiasm for horseflesh, even if each mount was a prime specimen.
Hard to know she’d just given him her heart, and he regretted it or wanted their business dealings more.
August Sedgewick was a son of an earl. She was an immigrant, a woman of trade, a woman with dark scarred hands. There could be nothing more than business between them.
Tick-tock-done.
Every condemnation she’d heard over the years—loose morals, fast, stupid, wanton—every discouragement she’d helped her brides overcome echoed in her head.
Nodding, she adjusted her spectacles, wiped them clear of steam and hoped to figure out how to snip the threads of these feelings for August before her life unraveled.
11
A Night at the Theater
August arrived in a closed carriage, his carriage, outside of Mary-Anne’s warehouse. It took two days for her to answer his note, two days to agree to see him again.
Two days to stew and remember a perfect kiss and a perfect rebuke. A man shouldn’t kiss a woman like that, not unless he was sure—sure of himself and what he had to offer.
Climbing down, he tugged at his simple black tailcoat then went to her door. His hand fisted to knock, but he let it fall to his side.
They shouldn’t go to the theater. It was drafty. One’s ears rang from the noise. It was so hard to hear another person. They should stay in her cold warehouse and talk.
After this morning’s ride in Hyde Park where they didn’t talk, they should stay in and discuss things over tea. But after being spotted by Haverthon and his bride-to-be, they had to go tonight to complete the plan. His brother liked to snoop. They had to control what the earl knew if Mary-Anne were to win.
August knocked on the door.
Again no answer.
Was she sick? The air between them had been frosty, chill worthy. He wouldn’t mind missing the theater, if it meant fixing things over tea.
He knocked again, waited, then pushed on the door, and let himself inside in time to see Mary-Anne descend the stairs.
A vision, a fever-inducing vision in sky blue.
Her hair was loosed from the tight knot he’d seen so many times, and piled high with curls framing her apple-shaped face. Fine embroidered satin swathed her curves and brought out the henna highlights of her warm skin. She was golden, wonderfully tanned like a frolic at the beach by the water’s edge.
He moved to grasp her hand, but the distant glare behind her lenses, an icy glacier, left him chilled.
“You are early,” she said.
“I have a thing about time. I think you do too.”
She nodded but kept her bare arms behind her back and sidestepped him. “It’s good to be respectful of that.”
The temperature of the room dropped twenty degrees. It was the late bloom of spring, but winter had settled in her eyes.
He needed to set things right and posted in front of her. “I do respect you, Mary-Anne. It’s one of the reasons I want this evening to go well. Once Haverthon’s bride-to-be sees you again and in another lovely design, she’ll have to have him seek you out. He’ll want that too. He’s competitive. I want you to win.”
“And you receive a commission. Everyone wins. I understand exactly what you want.”
How could she, when he didn’t? He held out his hand. “Then, let’s go.”
She stepped back and scurried to her work table. Tugging on long shiny gloves, he saw her secret—hands, small gentle scarred hands, hands mottled with red and black burns.
Intense, pained, suffering from her fingertips to her wrists, those fingers that wrought daily miracles in fabric had been horridly burnt by fire.
With a final pull, she covered them in blue satin gloves. “Well, now you know, Mr. Sedgewick. Will you start with a joke or a hundred questions that I won’t answer?”
“None come to mind.”
“Is that what you are wearing? A jacket that is too big for you.”
He opened his tailcoat. His clothes were fine, no spot, all their buttons in their places.
Mary-Anne went to her dress form and pulled off his tailcoat and an immaculate waistcoat. “Put these on. Our goal is to be noticed.”
He tore off his old coat and dumped his old waistcoat to the floor. Freshly pressed, smooth to the touch, he traced the embroidered diamond pattern on the vest of midnight blue. Sliding it on, he noted its perfect fit.
His coat, his favorite coat now had buttonholes wrapped in silver threads. It looked so expensive. He hesitated to put it on.
Mary-Anne came near and slid the jacket onto his shoulders. As he’d seen her do with her clients, she fitted it about him. Standing behind him, he felt her, welcomed the scent of tea roses and scissor-oil. “There, now you look the part of a kept man. That’s what our disguises are now.”
“Is this kept man loved?”
Without answering, she moved from him and began stashing things into a cream satin reticule. Lifting her watch, she glanced at him. “We should be leaving.”
Buttoning and straightening, he found she’d given him a perfect gift. His favorite coat, now had slimmed revers and shiny brass buttons. The most exquisite tailor on Bond Street couldn’t have created a better look. “This is amazing, Mary-Anne.”
A bit brazen, a smidge seductive, she smiled at him. “Better than I found it. I think that is your motto.”
Her expression burned into his conscience as did her silence to the question he wanted to know. “You’ve always been beautiful. Tonight, you are exquisite.”
“The earl and his bride,” she said, “they will see this costume, not me. I think it is one of my best.”
“We took a trip to Bath to take the waters. My mother was of delicate constitution.”
“These hands won’t be fixed by the waters of Bath or the seas between England and Jamaica.”
He stepped to her, sharing the shadow she cast on the wall. “I was very young, but my brothers and I, we played in the sand, built castles. It was my finest memory. Until now. This picture of you… I shall carry you in my head. You are wonderful.”
It was one moment, a second. But a smile crossed her lips, making the full offering, the plump offering, everything he could ever want.
He knew that now.
“Let us get on with this, Mr. Sedgewick. Let us see if your plan will work. I need more clients that aren’t frugal, haggling, agenda-driven men.”
“You forgot commission-centered and handsome.”
Fire heated her eyes, and he was left burnt, scorched by a desire to take her into his arms and tell the secrets of his heart.
“We will be late. Unless we are abandoning this gambit now.”
“Never, not when we are this close.” He put her cape about her shoulders and savored his hand brushing her neck, the small of her back. “To the theater, Miss Mary-Anne. We must complete this part of our agenda.”
Haverthon would be ensnared with her talents just as August was. With Mary-Anne’s goals settled, he’d be free to convince her of his.
The carriage stopped and Mary-Anne’s business partner bounced out. That is what she kept telling herself, despite his glances, the many times his hands brushed hers.
When August reached back into the compartment and clasped her palm, thoughts of refusing him slipped away. She was in
London, out in the public eye, and she needed an ally even a temporary one.
Walking amongst the pomp, the crowds of that other world, August’s world, Mary-Anne spied the colors, the jewels, and thought of her father and how he’d be happy about her new circumstances.
They passed the link boy who wielded torches. The smell of the burning pitch sent a cold shiver to her arms, buttoning the past to the present. She feared loss in Jamaica, she feared loss now.
“It’s a cooler night. I don’t want you catching cold.”
“I’m warm enough, Mr. Sedgewick.”
“Are we back to formalities?” He tsked his teeth as he directed her to a private entrance to Drury Lane. “We can’t be so formal and complete our illusion. Haverthon must think I’ve gained your favor. So no thinking of work or creating anything.”
“So no thinking of my scarred hands?”
He bit his lip. His gaze concentrated on her, not the people milling about them. “I have ideas of what those wonders could do, but not now. Everything is about attracting Haverthon’s attention.”
“I know you have many ideas, Mr. Sedgewick, but this is business and should be done soon.”
“Wonderful business.”
He led her step by step up a stairwell and then to a corridor. A dull orange light floated about. Gas lanterns cast a glow down the long hall.
She stopped and stared and wished Drury Lane still had controlled candles not open flames that looked as if they could catch a curtain or wall on fire.
“I have you, Mary-Anne. I won’t let you stumble.”
It took every ounce of her strength to concentrate on her gown and not step on her train. “I am yours to command tonight, Mr. Sedgewick.”
He stumbled, bumping into her arm. “I beg your pardon.”
She chuckled and covered the laugh behind her palm. “I meant to your box.”
He blinked and nodded, looking as confused as she felt.
Good.
“This way,” he said, as he parted curtains and led her to a seat. He pushed two chairs closer to a half wall overlooking the crowds below. “We can’t help but be seen.”
