by Erica Ridley
“Until now,” the duke agreed, and lifted the kitten from his ruined cravat. “Langford, I want you to meet your new partner.”
For a single, unreal moment, Giles feared the duke was referring to his cat.
But then Stable Lass emerged from behind the duke’s coach and everything tilted even more off-kilter.
Giles cleared his throat. This was a distraction he could not afford. “While I do not doubt the skill level of your lady mechanic—”
“Not ‘lady mechanic,’” the duke interrupted. “Lady Felicity. My sister.”
Giles blinked.
Stable Lass smiled.
“You have got to be bamming me.” Giles stepped backward in disbelief. Stable Lass was the duke’s sister?
“No bamming,” the duke assured him. “In fact, there are several new rules I expect both of you to follow.”
“No rules,” Miss Lass—er, Lady Felicity—said at once.
Colehaven ignored the interruption. “No one knows my carriages better than my sister.”
Giles opened his mouth.
“Not even you,” the duke said as the cat hung from his waistcoat by its claws. “Any concern of Felicity’s, no matter how small, must be treated with prompt and thorough consideration.”
Giles opened his mouth wider.
“During this temporary working relationship,” the duke continued without pausing, “you are to treat her as a peer.”
“Your mechanic outranks me,” Giles pointed out. “She’s Lady Felicity.”
His mind still hadn’t managed to grasp it.
“Not that kind of peer,” Colehaven said. “Your peer. Her insights and intelligence should be treated with the same respect you would give the man who taught you everything you know about carriages.”
“I changed my mind,” Lady Felicity said. “I like your rules.”
Giles did not. Even if he attempted to follow them to the letter, there was no chance of any person being equal to Giles’s father. It was the real reason he refused to consider a partner. He’d never met someone whose skills deserved partnering with. Giles’s fingers clenched.
He’d been working on carriages from the moment he was old enough to toddle behind his father in the family smithy. Giles lived and breathed carriages every moment of every day. It wasn’t a passion. It was an obsession. A way to be extraordinary.
And after working his entire life to be the absolute best at what he did, some rich debutante expected to be his master on a whim?
He ground his teeth in frustration.
“Next.” The duke turned to his sister. “Felicity.”
“Don’t you think those are enough rules?” she asked. “Definitely enough rules.”
“Two more,” Colehaven said, unsmiling. “There will be no more future projects. After this race, you must leave the smithing to the blacksmiths and high society to the society ladies.”
“Meaning me,” she said without rancor. “I am a society lady. You’re right. That’s the future I want and the only competition I should be trying to win. This race shall be my swan song.”
She didn’t look like a society lady. She looked like trouble. Soft dark hair, big brown eyes, heavy crowbar…
“Lastly.” The duke turned toward Giles. “Because of our long relationship, I am trusting you to keep my sister’s secret. If you breathe the slightest hint of the truth to anyone else, or treat her as anything other than a respected associate…” Colehaven’s eyes turned deadly. “I will destroy you.”
Giles jerked his shoulders back, insulted. “I am a professional and know how to act like one, Your Grace.”
“Splendid.” The duke tried and failed to separate the kitten from what had once been a stylish lapel. “In exchange for your time, efforts, and unparalleled expertise with carriages, you’ll receive a bank draft for one hundred pounds. And another two hundred for your permanent discretion regarding your gracious temporary partnership with my sister.”
One temporary partner.
Two short weeks.
Three hundred quid.
“I agree,” Giles managed. Being dictated to by his “betters” chafed. But for that amount of money, he would swallow his pride and allow them to treat him like “just some blacksmith” for the next fortnight.
Even if he hated every minute of it.
“How much did you wager?” Lady Felicity whispered to her brother.
“It’s not the coin,” the duke murmured back. “It’s winning.”
“You’ll win,” Lady Felicity assured him, then turned her sparkling gaze and plump lips toward Giles. “We’ll win.”
“I know,” the duke said simply. “You two are the best. And now you’re partners.”
Temporary partners. Fourteen days and counting.
Giles relaxed his shoulders. “You may consult as you please, but no hands-on interference.”
She shook her head. “My house, my rules.”
“In the carriage house,” he said patiently, “my rules.”
She folded her arms over her chest. “It’s my carriage house.”
“It’s your brother’s carriage house,” he reminded her. “Your brother’s horses, your brother’s curricle, my life at stake during the race. I will personally ensure the vehicle remains in pristine working condition.”
“Pristine condition isn’t enough.” She touched one of the axle’s cast spindles with the tips of her fingers. “Cole just wants to win his wager. I think we can exceed everyone’s expectations. If we change these skeins for—”
“You want to renovate an already perfect curricle?” Giles asked in disbelief.
She lifted her chin. “I want to innovate an even better one.”
“If it doesn’t work, we’d have to start over,” he pointed out. “If we don’t have time, we’ll lose the race.”
“It’ll work,” she insisted. As though being a lady meant anything she dreamed would automatically come true.
“It’s a terrible idea,” he said in a flat voice. “The answer is no.”
“You two seem to have things well in hand,” the duke said briskly as he opened the town house access door and vainly attempted to fling the kitten from his shoulder. “Make the magic happen.”
With that, he and the kitten dangling from his collar disappeared inside.
The wide, airy carriage house suddenly seemed closed and confining, as if Giles and Lady Felicity were not in a large open chamber but rather trapped inside a tiny glass box. He swallowed. She was standing several feet away from him and still seemed close enough to touch. Too close.
He could smell a faint hint of lavender, as though she had just taken a fragrant bath before heading out to the dirty mews. He wondered if the scent came from her skin or hair, and was vehemently grateful he was not close enough to find out.
She lifted her worn leather satchel off a nail and looped the wide strap over one shoulder.
Without another word, she marched over to the curricle and, point for point, began making the same methodical inspection Giles had begun when he’d thought he was waiting on Bunyan.
Giles couldn’t help it. He was impressed.
“You’re very thorough,” he said gruffly as he followed her through each point.
They were crouched shoulder-to-shoulder behind the curricle’s single axle, ostensibly to confirm the current condition of the dumb irons and elliptic springs.
Giles accidentally also took this opportunity to confirm the lavender-scented condition of Lady Felicity’s soft, dark hair.
Respected colleague, he reminded himself. The duke’s threat to ruin Giles was not idle. Colehaven’s support had increased the Langford smithy’s popularity. Colehaven’s censure could make Giles’s smithy unfashionable just as quickly.
Lady Felicity turned her head to face him. When her eyes met his, the corners crinkled and he could swear their pretty irises twinkled, even in the shadows.
“I can’t be the worst partner to have. You’ve said for years that Co
le’s carriages are always kept in the best condition you’ve ever seen,” she told him. “You just didn’t know I was the one doing it.”
“Who told you I said that?” he asked in surprise. “Bunyan?”
“You did, just now.” Lady Felicity didn’t bother to hide her laughter.
He gave a reluctant grin in reply. She was partly right. No matter how much money her brother tossed in their direction, Giles and Lady Felicity would never be true partners, even for a fortnight.
To his surprise, however, he wondered if they might enjoy themselves a tiny bit after all.
“Does it bother you?” she asked.
He grimaced. “Working with a partner?”
“Working with me as your partner.” She plucked at her skirts as if mortified by their presence. “A lady mechanic.”
“I don’t care what gender you are,” he replied honestly.
Giles had spent years building a name for himself as London’s premier expert. Being assigned as the pet blacksmith to some lordling’s younger brother would not have stung any less.
To his horror, Lady Felicity blinked away a sudden glassiness in her eyes.
“There’s no crying in carriage houses,” he stammered in alarm. “Isn’t that one of your brother’s rules?”
“Probably.” She gave him a lopsided smile. “It’s just… if you don’t care about my gender, that would make you the first one.”
“If I had to choose a temporary partner,” he informed her, “between you and your brother, I would probably choose… the cat.”
A laugh startled from Lady Felicity and she shoved his shoulder with her own. “Liar.”
“Caught.” He pushed to his feet so he could resume a safe distance. “To be honest, it’s a refreshing surprise to be with a client who actually knows what they’re talking about. And yes, you’re the first lady mechanical artisan I’ve met.”
“Not for long,” she muttered as she rose to her feet.
He raised his brows. Had debutantes exchanged watercolors for wrenches?
“There are more?”
“There’ll be fewer,” she corrected, and gestured about the carriage house. “When I marry, I’ll have to give all this up and be the mistress of a grand household. There won’t be time for tinkering.” She bit her lip. “Not that a married lady would dirty her hands even if she did have the time. I won’t have any. I’ll be too busy.”
“Busy being fancy?” he asked dryly.
She crossed her arms. “Fancy doesn’t mean worse.”
It also didn’t mean better. But it was her life and her choice. He wouldn’t be part of it either way.
“Let’s concentrate on the carriage,” he suggested. “There’s no sense worrying about the future.”
“All I think about is the future,” she muttered.
He couldn’t imagine a worse use of her time. “Are you worried about the race?”
“No.” She pushed a stray curl from her forehead. “I know Cole’s carriage will be the fastest. I’m worried about how my life will turn out afterward. Why? Are you worried about the race?”
“No.” As long as he concentrated on work. “I know I’ll be the fastest driver, but more importantly, the race is two weeks away. Worrying about it doesn’t help anything. It’s better to relax and enjoy whatever is happening right now.”
He wasn’t certain which one of them had stepped closer to the other—or if they had both done so—but he was suddenly very aware that her plump, rosy lips were not nearly far enough away from his.
“What is happening right now?” she asked softly.
A colossal distraction when he most needed to stay focused. And professional. And a much safer distance from the Duke of Colehaven’s sister.
“Nothing at all is happening,” he said, as much to warn himself as to remind her. “This is temporary. Soon enough, you’ll be with your future fancy husband.”
The one whose enormous household she intended to manage whilst repressing her own interests and talents for the rest of her life.
“I hope so,” Lady Felicity acknowledged after a moment. Her shoulders curved. “I recently suffered a minor setback, but I’m certain I’ll turn things around.”
Ah. So the future fancy husband was not a nebulous dream, but a flesh-and-blood man. Some stuffy, pretentious bore who required an equally stuffy, pretentious bore as his wife.
Giles could not help but be disappointed that the woman he’d known as Stable Lass would accept such a fate without a fight. He’d hoped she would show more spirit.
“Can’t you find a rich toff with room in his mews for his mechanically inclined wife?”
She tossed him a pitying look.
“Of course you wouldn’t understand,” she said with a sigh. “Ladies are expected to be ladylike. There are infinitely more rules than you imagine. I shan’t have a fancy future husband or be mistress of a household if I don’t perfectly adhere to expectations.”
Her tone rankled. Of course he wouldn’t understand. He was nothing but an unimportant blacksmith, plying a lowly manual trade, eking out a dismal plebeian existence, save for the glorious moments in which his vaunted clientele condescended to speak with him, or allow him to service their carriage.
Giles knew what he would suggest she do with her hoity-toity rules and grandiose airs.
“That’s what matters most?” he asked with feigned politeness. “Wealth and status at all costs?”
“At any cost,” she agreed fervently. “God willing.”
His lip curled. He’d thought she was different than the others. Maybe she even was. But she didn’t want to be. Striving to be a replica of every other high-flown aristocrat was far worse than having been born unctuous and superficial. This was her choice. The sort of life she wanted to live.
He was glad their unwilling partnership had an end date. In fact, there was little reason for their paths to intertwine. They’d been working on these carriages in tandem for years without meeting. Given what he now knew about her, the best course was to return to being strangers.
“I will drop by every afternoon at this time to keep my eye on the curricle,” he said as evenly as possible. “Feel free to leave your suggestions in written form, if you’d like to avoid meeting in person.”
“Thank you for the idea,” she said after the briefest pause.
There. The temporary “partnership” needn’t affect either of their lives one whit.
Chapter 3
The next morning, dawn had barely broken as Felicity marched down the dark corridor leading from the town house to the carriage house. Attempting to forget the Curricle King’s clear dismissal had only resulted in a sleepless night as their final words repeated again and again in her head.
She opened the latch and pushed open the door. A dust-speckled shaft of early morning light swept into the corridor along with a gust of cool, spring air. Usually, Felicity barreled eagerly over the threshold, straight to one of the carriages.
Today, she lingered in the doorway.
As much as she loved the opulence of the town house, the carriage house was where she had always felt most at home. It was supposed to be her private space, her secret haven, and it had been… until Cole invited a usurper. The unbearably arrogant, wildly attractive, I-work-alone Giles Langford.
Even though all outsiders were now forbidden from the carriage house, her pantalettes and worn dress no longer felt like a sufficient disguise. These clothes had never been comfortable. Now they didn’t even feel safe.
More than ever, she wished for a man’s shirt and thick trousers, and a woolen cap to shove her hair out of sight. She wished Cole hadn’t forbidden male clothes. In a carriage house, she still felt more comfortable dressed as a lad than a lady. Her delicate kid half-boots felt glued to the tile, unable to step onto the sawdust.
“Good morning,” said one of the stable boys as he passed. “Off to the races?”
The back of Felicity’s neck heated. She stepped out of the corrid
or and shut the door behind her.
“No,” she assured him quickly. “Today I’m going to work on—” She stopped, reconsidered his words, and narrowed her eyes. “What races?”
“The races,” he said, gaze shining. “You usually don’t start work until later in the morning, so I figure the reason you’re down at dawn is to see who wins.”
Races at dawn could only mean wealthy gentlemen wagering over the fastest horse or lightest chariot over in Hyde Park.
Felicity had never attended. Such attractions weren’t open to respectable ladies, although the right clothes and the early hour would provide cover enough.
But she had better things to do. Like prove to Giles Langford she was every bit as competent as he was.
“Who do you think will win?” she asked the stable boy.
He gave her a strange look. “The Curricle King, of course. What I wouldn’t give to watch him in action.”
By the way that moniker was constantly bandied about in the carriage house, if Felicity’s brother wasn’t paying his stablehands handsomely, every one of them would be lining Rotten Row right now, hoping for a glimpse of Giles Langford.
And if the increased tempo of Felicity’s heart was anything to go by, a tiny—very well, large—part of her found this to be an excellent idea. She gave in to temptation.
“Come along,” she said as she grabbed an oversized pelisse and a straw bonnet from a basket in the corner. She always kept coins in her pocket in case of emergency.
The boy hurried after her. “Where are we going?”
“To hail a hack,” Felicity answered as the limp brim of the ragged bonnet flopped down over her face. It was perfect.
“A hack?” The boy gestured over his shoulder. “You have seven different carriages.”
“Colehaven owns those.” Although Felicity regularly drove her brother’s many carriages under cover of night, morning had broken, and she could not risk being recognized. She hurried down the alley toward the main street and held out her arm to flag a passing hackney. “Come on. You and I are just two ordinary citizens, off to the races.”
