by Rose Gordon
“Come,” he encouraged when her steps began to slow just enough to make him nearly trip over his own feet.
“I—I don't think so.”
“You'll like this,” he promised.
She gave him a sharp look. “I have no reason to believe that's true, and neither should you.”
His grin didn't falter. “You won't know unless you stop digging your heels into the ground like a stubborn mule and come along.”
They seemed to have caught the attention of two young ladies strolling down the street, one of whom had lifted her fan and was whispering to the other behind it. They both giggled. Amelia gritted her teeth and picked up her pace. There was no need to cause a spectacle.
“Very good,” he murmured. “We'll be there in just a moment.”
“Ooof,” she gasped, running into his side when he abruptly turned to the left, just feet before they reached the bathhouse. “Where are we going?”
“Down the street.”
“Oh.”
He slowed his steps. “Was there somewhere else you had in mind? The bathhouse, perhaps?”
She lightly tapped him in the ribs with her elbow. “I have no desire to go there and you know it.”
“No, I didn't. I assumed as much, though.” He resumed his stride, then slowed down half a block later. “Ah, here we are.”
Amelia lifted her hand to block the sun, but still had to squint to read the sign: IAN'S TOP CLASS GLASS. “What is this place?”
“What does it look like?”
“A shop that sells odd-shaped things made out of glass.”
“Close enough.” He dropped his arm and reached for her hand, the action oddly intimate. “Come, I'll show you.”
Amelia went with him inside. As she'd guessed by the large irregularly-shaped bowls in the windows, and the sign of course, this was a glass shop. But not just any glass shop. It would seem that Mr. Ian specialized in unusual and rare pieces. “Why are they all so different?” she asked, running her index finger along the edge of a translucent pitcher.
“Do you not like that each is unique?”
“Actually, I do.” She picked up a watery-blue vase with a top that flared out and curled. “I like it very much indeed.”
He picked up a large bowl that had a small base with tall sides that came out at a considerable angle, leaving the opening of the bowl considerably larger than the base. “You don't see these too often around here,” he murmured.
“What, a bowl?”
“A fruit bowl,” he corrected, setting it back down. “When I traveled to America, most of the homes I went into had these in the middle of their dining tables.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Their custom, I suppose.” He picked up another and handed it to her.
Reluctantly, she let go of his hand so she could hold and inspect the fruit bowl he'd handed her. It had swirls of green and blue at the bottom and was a dark red fading into orange at the top. She ran her gloved fingers over the smooth surface of the bowl.
“The swirling color is made by heating pieces of other glass and melting them into it.”
She stared at the beautiful bowl in her hand because she didn't dare look at Elijah lest he realize she hadn't a clue what he was talking about. “I see.”
“Not yet, but you will.”
Her eyes shot to his. “I'm sorry, but what did you just say?”
“Not yet, but you will.”
She rolled her eyes. “Always the jester, aren't you?”
“I try. I'd hate to have disappointed anyone by not carrying on the Banks tradition.”
“Oh dear,” she said, feigning shock and bringing her right hand up to her mouth. “If the Banks family legacy of humor rests on your shoulders, I fear the trait shall die.”
He smoothed her brows and took her hand in his, giving her a small, affectionate squeeze. “Don't worry, my dear, sweet Amelia, with you as the mother of my children, the trait shall live on. There might be a small hiccup now, but it will continue on.”
Amelia couldn't stop herself from grinning at his horrible theatrics. “You really might have to be a lady's maid,” she whispered, not taking her hand from his, though she should. It wasn't proper for a couple to be showing such affections in public, even if they were married. “Your acting rivals your spying ability.”
“Some might say those two occupations are one in the same,” he said softly. Abruptly, he let her hand go and raked his hand through his blond hair. “But enough about my natural abilities, let's see what yours are.”
“What natural ability would that be?” She lifted her chin a notch. “We both already know I can run faster, climb higher, and hold my breath underwater longer than you.”
“Is that so?” he drawled, looking decidedly unconvinced. “And how are you at blowing glass.”
“Better than you, I expect.”
Elijah opened a steel door and gestured for her to go inside, making her quickly regret the words she'd just said. He fully intended to have her blow glass—whatever that was—and she didn't have a clue. She opened her mouth to protest, but he shot her a quelling look.
“Come over here and I'll show you what to do.”
She folded her hands in front of her and watched as Elijah stripped off his gloves and coat and loosened his cravat, letting it hang loosely around his neck. He grabbed a pole and opened a little door to a chamber that held the hottest fire Amelia had ever been near.
“You're all right,” he murmured, his face so close to hers she thought he might kiss her. Instead, he placed his hand on her shoulder and guided her in front of him.
Amelia didn't know which was making her skin burn with heat: the two thousand degree fire behind the iron doors in front of her or the nearness of Elijah.
“That's it,” he murmured in her ear, his lips so close to her skin she could actually feel them brushing the shell of her ear. The muscles in his bare forearm flexed as he helped her lift the long metal pole with a ball of burning glass on the end and carry it from the fire to a skinny metal table. “Now roll it.”
Amelia wanted so badly to reach up and dab the moisture from her forehead. Because he was a gentleman, and it could be overlooked when gentlemen stepped outside the bounds of propriety, Elijah had discarded his coat and gloves and rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows before casually draping himself over her for the sake of offering her help; and because she was a lady, she was still swathed in every stitch of fabric she'd left Watson Estate wearing.
Pushing aside the heat that was flooding her skin and the violent urge she had to press her shoulders against Elijah's chest, she slowly rolled the long pole across the table with the fireball hanging off the end.
“We have to go slow or the bubble inside might break.”
Amelia nodded numbly and continued to help him roll the pole across the table. “It doesn't look so hot.”
“No. We need to put it back in the fire again.” He helped her lift the pole and bring it back to the fire, and it was a good thing he did or she'd have surely dropped it, for the pole itself must have weighed a good twenty pounds. Or so she guessed by the way his forearm nearly doubled in size from flexing his muscles when he lifted the pole. He carefully guided the ball of glass into the circular opening in front of the fire and held it in there but a minute. “Let's roll it again.”
Together they rolled the pole along the top of the table for a few more minutes.
“All right. I think that's good enough for now.” He lifted the pole into the air. “Now blow.”
“Blow? Blow where? On the glass?”
A chuckle rumbled in his chest. “No. Blow in the end of the pole.”
“But it's dirty.”
“And so was my face when I was a boy, but you had no problem putting your lips to that.”
Were anyone around to hear him say that, she'd have denied it. But since she'd just been close to a roaring fire and had a little taste of what Hell might be like, she didn't want to risk goin
g there to save her pride in front of him alone. “Very well. Could you lower the pole?”
Wordlessly, he lowered the pole to her lips and held it for her as she did her best to blow.
“Softer,” he said quietly. “Just a little.”
She tried again, but nothing happened.
“Let me show you.” He took the pole from her and lifted it to his mouth, and blew a slow, steady breath into the end that made the glass ball double in size.
“Amazing,” she said in awe.
“Isn't it?” He motioned with his head for her to take hold of the pole again. “I want you to hold this down and roll it like we've been doing, all right?”
“A-all right.” She licked her lips. “Where are you going?”
“Over here.” He walked to the end of the pole and picked up a rounded piece of iron with a crude wooden handle and brought it underneath the ball. “Start rolling.” When she did, he moved the iron curve as she moved the pole. “This is to help it maintain shape,” he said as if he'd read the question on her mind.
She rolled it a few times and stopped when he pulled the piece of iron away and came to stand behind her. “The fire?”
“See, I knew you'd be a natural.”
“Knowing that we have to stick it in the fire again doesn't seem like it makes me a natural.”
“Believe what you want—” he guided the pole into the fire— “but my wife is a natural, so be careful what you say about her and in what tone you say it in.”
For a reason she couldn't explain, she was rather pleased with his possessive words about her. She waited patiently while the glass heated again. Then instead of leading her back to the table, he nudged her to the right. “Now where are we going with it?”
“Somewhere else. I have to add in an extra step now and then so you don't best me with your astonishingly good glass blowing abilities.” He led her to a table where there was a row of metal bowls lined up and then lowered the hot bulb of glass into the first one. “Slate grey, the same as your eyes.”
Amelia's heart slammed in her chest and emotion clogged her throat. Who knew his picking such an ordinary color could affect her so? “How does this add color?”
He lifted his left elbow as high as he could without letting go of the pole. “Go down there and see.”
She released the pole and ducked under his arm, then walked down to the end of the eight-foot pole where he was “dipping” the glass bulb into a bowl of tiny pieces of grey glass, making some of the little pieces stick to the bulb in a way that reminded her of sprinkling salt or pepper over a meal. There were little flecks of glass all over the hot piece of glass on the pole, but it didn't cover it. Strange. “To the fire again?”
“Not yet. More shaping.” He waited for her to come back over to him then helped her walk the pole back to the steel table. “This time I'm going to roll it for you, but I want you to blow in the end.”
She nodded once, uneasy. What if she didn't do it right and ruined the whole thing?
“You'll do just fine,” he assured her, spinning the pole.
Amelia bent her knees and brought her lips to the end of the pole and softly blew while Elijah held the curved iron and kept the pole rolling, in place this time instead of across the table and back.
“All right,” he said, lifting the pole. He helped her return to the fire to gather more hot glass. “Let's go shape it again.”
And they did; twice more. Then they went back to the row of bowls filled with colored glass. “Blue this time.”
He lifted his gaze from the burning ball of glass on the end to meet her eyes. “I was enjoying the grey.”
“And I will get to enjoy seeing the blue swirled together with the grey.”
The left side of his mouth tipped up and he visibly swallowed. “All right. Blue it is.”
She made him dip the bulb into the bowl of blue shards again until she was satisfied the amount of blue—to match his eyes—equaled the amount of grey he'd already blended in, then helped roll and shape again.
“How in the world do you know how to do this?” Amelia asked more as a distraction from his closeness and the sensations he stirred in her rather than genuine curiosity.
He blew a long, deep breath into the glass, making the bubble inside grow significantly. Pleased, he removed his mouth. “My father.”
“Pardon me?” His father had been a baron, not a craftsman. Surely he hadn't asked Cook to heat the fires in the kitchen high enough to mold glass.
Rolling out the pole, he said, “My father used to tell me that a gentleman needed a special talent. Something unique and unusual.”
Memories of his father flooded her mind. Nearly as scientifically bent as Alex and always the perfect gentleman, she had a hard time believing he'd convince his son to break the rules of Society and learn a trade. “Why?” she asked at last, unable to stop herself.
“To woo the young ladies.”
A peal of uncontrollable laugher erupted from her mouth. Those were definitely his father's words. No disputing that. “And what are your brothers' talents?”
He got some more glass from the fire. “I have no idea. I don't think either actually has one.”
“Are you saying you're the only son who listened to his father.”
“Yes, ma'am.” He walked down to the end of the pole and this time instead of picking up one of those rounded cast iron pieces he'd been using to form the bulb as she rolled it, he picked up what appeared to be a thick cloth of some sort. “We're almost done,” he murmured, motioning for her to keep the pole in place as she rolled it. “The other two might have some sort of talent, but neither as interesting as this one, wouldn't you say?”
“For once, Elijah Banks, we are in perfect agreement.”
He scoffed. “We've agreed on things before.”
“That's right. We both agreed that Henry cheats at draughts.”
He blew one last breath into the pole, then picked up a pair of tongs and used them to do something to the top. “We've agreed about other things, too.”
“Such as?” she murmured, watching intently as he expanded the glass near the top of the bowl just enough to stretch it out equally all the way around but not break it from where it attached to the end of the pole. His talent was beyond interesting. It was fascinating.
He dropped the tongs and picked up another tool which he then scraped along the “neck” of the glass just below where it attached to the pole but above where he'd just made the glass flare. He dropped that tool and picked up a pair of dirty, brown gloves and a wooden block. “I need you to hold the pole as tightly as you can.”
“All right.” She gripped the pole as best she could and watched in amazement as Elijah placed one gloved hand under the bowl, gripped the wooden block with the other, then brought the piece of wood down against the glass with a quick snap, breaking their creation from the end.
He held it up and inspected it. “Now we just need to heat the rim, then place it in the oven over there to cool.”
“How long does it take to cool?”
“Usually just a day, but with how large this bowl is, I think it'd be best to wait two.” He looked over Amelia's shoulder. “What do you think, Ian?”
“I think that piece will be staying here, is what I think.”
“Not this time,” Elijah said, heating the rim and smoothing out the glass. “This one belongs to Mrs. Banks.”
The old man scoffed. “You've never wanted to keep one before. You always let me sell them. And for a fine coin, I might add.”
Elijah shrugged. “I never had anyone in mind to give one to before. Now I do.”
Mr. Ian looked at Amelia and lifted his bushy brows. “I can see that. A beautiful bowl for a beautiful young lady, and all that.” He twisted his lips. “You younger fellows are all the same.”
“Oh, and how's that?” Elijah asked, opening the door to the cooling oven.
“Besotted.”
Chapter Nineteen
G
uilty as charged. Elijah was most certainly besotted, but now was not the best time to admit to such.
“We'll be back day after tomorrow for the bowl.” Elijah narrowed his eyes on the man. “And it had better be here.”
Ian waved him off. “You know I'd never steal from you.”
“I know that.” Elijah unrolled his sleeves and secured his cuffs. “I also know you might try to convince me to sell it next time I come in.”
“That, I can promise.”
Elijah shrugged on his blue coat and offered his arm to Amelia. “I don't know about you, but I'm swiftly becoming gutfounded. Shall we go see about some cake now?”
“That'd be wonderful.”
Elijah paused. Why was she hesitating? “It's not a punishable offense to eat a piece of cake. Or two.”
“I know, but I'm not feeling very well.”
Her cheeks did look flushed and her hair was plastered to the front of her forehead. He assumed that was just because it was hot in here, not because she was feeling ill. “Do you need to go lie down?”
“No, I think some fresh air will help. But I don't feel like eating cake right now.”
“Forget about the cake, let's go for a walk.” He opened the back door to the shop and helped her out. It was the fastest way out. He cursed himself. He should have known not to bring her there. It was hot and musty, not to mention cramped. “Would you like to take a small picnic down to the pond?”
“We didn't bring a hamper.”
“And if we had?”
She shrugged. “Then I guess we could go on a picnic.”
“Excellent.” He pointed to a little white brick building up the street. “It's the best restaurant in Bath. We'll see if Marge can make us up a picnic hamper.”
“Mr. Banks,” a robust woman with bright red cheeks hollered when they entered. She came around the table and waddled over to them. “My, ye look more handsome than the last time I saw ye.”
Elijah made a show of kissing her hand, just as he always did, hiding his grin when she blushed. “It's good to see you again, too.” He turned to the side and gestured toward Amelia. “Marge, I'd like for you to meet my wife, Lady Amelia Banks. Amelia, this is Marge, she is the cook in this fine establishment.”
