by Sara Portman
She felt like a child who’d become carried away, or a simpleton who’d carried a jest too far. Perhaps she had been carried away, but she had truly believed in their friendship and their undeniable attraction for each other. She had only proposed the continuation of activities he had initiated, after all. Yet he’d responded as though the suggestion had been completely unexpected and entirely preposterous.
Had heightened emotion caused her to abandon common sense? Lucy could not deny the power of the sensations caused by Bex’s touch, but was she rendered nonsensical?
No. She did not believe she was. Had she abandoned propriety? Yes. Common sense? No.
And in the end, sensible or no, the rejection still stung. That was the worst part. Her mother had always said, where there is a will, there is a way. Lucy had discovered, too late to save her dignity, that her offer was not tempting enough to create sufficient will as far as Mr. Bexley Brantwood was concerned.
Lucy had never offered herself to any other man. She couldn’t imagine she would again—certainly not after learning the cost to one’s pride to have such an offer declined.
She had even said please.
She did her best not to visibly cringe at the thought. It was not precisely begging, but still…
Lucy released a quiet sigh and belatedly hoped he had not observed it. Now that her own girlish fantasies had been dashed, she must go and break the heart of a dear friend. Not only would she be prevented from immediately escaping Bex’s company upon their arrival at the coaching inn in Watford, but she must maintain her composure in front of Lady Constance while conveying the very troubling news that her niece, though happily unharmed was, in fact, a shrew.
This day only illustrated that Lucy was not born for a life of adventure. She had forgotten briefly, but the heavens had swiftly conspired to correct any misapprehension in that regard. How had she reached a point of such recklessness? Bex had predicted she would be grateful for his better judgment. She could not imagine any woman in such a predicament feeling gratitude for having been rejected. That said, however, she could see that it was the best outcome, in the end.
This situation only proved what she had always instinctually understood. Recklessness did not suit her.
She should count herself lucky that none but one man knew of her foolishness. She snuck a glance at the man in question, noting he was most certainly not looking in her direction, either. Whatever else he had decided, she did not believe he would tell tales.
* * * *
Immediately upon arrival in Watford, Lucy felt guilty for her own foolishness and her preoccupation with what was, in the end, a minor embarrassment when compared with the heart-wrenching news Lady Constance was about to receive. The lady had transplanted herself from France to England for the love of a niece who was nothing more than a shrew and who cared not a bit about her aunt. That was a rejection worthy of heartbreak.
“There you are,” Lady Constance said, rising the moment Lucy crossed the threshold into the shadowed public room of the timber-frame building. She bustled toward them, taking Lucy’s hand. “You must both come and sit with me and tell me what you have discovered.” She paused, then looked critically at Lucy’s appearance. “You do look rather disheveled, ma chere. I understand you were enacting a carriage accident, but you may have overplayed it a bit.”
Lucy raised a self-conscious hand to the wayward strands of hair that hung below her bonnet and brushed her neck.
“Never mind, it is done now, isn’t it?” Lady Constance continued, ushering Lucy to a small round table set with three places. She turned toward a young serving girl who hovered in the corner of the room. “You may bring the supper, please.”
With a nod, the girl scurried off. Lucy took the seat to which Lady Constance had led her. Once the ladies were seated, Bex took the chair to Lucy’s right. She averted her gaze, but it was a small table and she could feel the warmth and substance of his too near presence.
“Now, my dears, you must inform me completely of everything you discovered. Did you see my niece?” The lady leaned forward in anticipation.
Bex answered first. “We did, my lady, and can assure you she appears to be in robust health.”
Sharp eyes narrowed at Bex as he spoke. “You are delaying the unpleasant portion of this report,” Lady Constance said. It was not a question, but a statement of fact.
Lucy sighed. She lifted her chin and faced her friend. “I had the opportunity to speak privately with your niece, Lady Constance. I am afraid she is changed from the girl who once wrote to you so devotedly.”
The comtesse’s lips formed a grim line. Her gloved hands rested, clutched together, atop the weathered table.
Lucy reached her own hand out to lay upon them. “I am sorry to say that Annabelle has received your letters and chosen not to reply.”
Lady Constance swallowed heavily. “I see,” she said quietly. “Has she given a reason for this choice?”
“She has,” Lucy said, wishing she could somehow soften the hurt her words were causing. The serving maid returned then with three low bowls of hot stew and a plate of bread. Once she had laid the food on the table and departed, Lucy continued. “Mr. Maris’s brother was killed in the war and as such, he and his wife do not approve of the French.”
“He does not approve?” Lady Constance asked.
“Mrs. Maris was quite clear in communicating her own disapproval, though I cannot say to what extent it is attributable to her husband’s influence. Mr. Maris does appear to be a…” Lucy searched for the words. “A strong personality,” she finished.
Lady Constance released a burdened sigh and lifted her chin. Her elegant features had lost the bright light that usually illuminated them, allowing her age to show more readily than it usually did. “So I am to be condemned for my disloyalty to the Crown in marrying a Frenchman,” she said without rancor.
“It is grossly unfair,” Lucy said, unable to show as much calm resignation as Lady Constance. “No rational person could blame you for the death of English soldiers simply because you were married to a Frenchman. I am so sorry that she has taken this unreasonable position. I am afraid I was entirely unable to convince her how insupportable it is—the very idea that you would bear culpability—”
Lady Constance lifted a staying hand. “Now, dear.” Her smile was wan. “Prejudice is not born of reason. You cannot fight it as though it were.”
“How do you fight it, then?” Lucy asked.
The older woman looked steadily at Lucy, the usual shine of mischief notably missing from her ageless blue eyes. “In this case, you do not.”
She donned a brittle smile and looked back and forth between Lucy and Bex. “Well, our little adventure was successful, then, as we have our answer. In the end, I am just a silly old woman filled with imaginings of false conspiracies. I am happy to know that Annabelle is well and well matched in her marriage.”
Lucy thought she might weep.
Bex cleared his throat to speak. “If you will pardon me for speaking frankly, Lady Constance, you may be the least silly woman of my acquaintance. I respect the loyalty you have shown your family and I respect the lengths to which you have gone to assure yourself of their well-being. All families should be so fortunate to have an advocate such as yourself.”
“Mr. Brantwood, your flattery is accepted and appreciated,” Lady Constance said, her eyes brightening with emotion at his words.
“It is honest admiration, nothing less, I assure you,” Bex said. “You have my great respect, madam.”
She nodded graciously. “And you, mine, Mr. Brantwood.”
“There is the flattery,” he said with mocking admonition.
“You discredit yourself, Mr. Brantwood,” she said. “Your way may not be clear as of yet, but you will right the ship, I am certain of it.” She punctuated her words with an almost imperceptible wink, and Lucy wondered if Bex ha
d confided in the woman regarding his financial affairs, or if she was perceptive enough to have divined on her own the basic truth of his circumstances.
Lady Constance rose then, prompting Bex to do so as well. “Miss Betancourt and I shall have a long journey to London in the morning. I suggest we all retire. I do thank you sincerely for your assistance in my business here, Mr. Brantwood, and wish you success in your own business on the morrow.”
“If you have an interest, why don’t you accompany me to the weaving shed tomorrow,” Bex proposed, much to the surprise of both ladies.
“The three of us should be a rather unusual party, don’t you think?”
He shrugged. “It would not be so unusual for you, as a widowed woman of means, to be considering an investment in the textile industry. I could introduce you as such. And since you are traveling in the area with a companion, clearly she would accompany you.”
“My, my,” Lady Constance said, looking askance at Lucy before face Bex again. “One false carriage accident and you are a regular Shakespeare, Mr. Brantwood.”
He shrugged. “It is not so far from the truth. Besides, both you and Miss Betancourt have demonstrated a curiosity about the process. I don’t see any harm in satisfying it.”
The lady’s eyes turned sharply to Lucy. “You are curious as well, Miss Betancourt? I don’t doubt it. You have a sharp mind, ma chere. You are far too intelligent to pretend disinterest in business pursuits simply because they are the traditional domain of men.”
Lady Constance turned back to Bex. “Well, as we are all so curious, we will accept your offer, Mr. Brantwood, and look forward with great interest to seeing your weaving looms.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Has that building been erected into the hill?” Lucy asked as soon as their carriage approached the weaving shed. She sat, her small form leaning toward the window, looking toward their destination with the enthusiasm of a child and somehow torturing Bex as though applying the wiles of a temptress.
He felt horribly wronged. Apparently the heroic restraint he had shown in denying himself the pleasure of thoroughly ruining Saint Lucy of Beadwell was not to be rewarded, but punished. Every time he looked upon her, he did so with the knowledge that all of her secrets had been within his reach and he had declined.
Declined because he would have hated himself for accepting her, but damn, he hated himself anyway.
“Yes,” he explained, determined to remain intent upon the topic of the day. “Weaving cotton requires a damp climate that is more prevalent in the north than here in Hertfordshire. Building the shed into the side of the hill draws the moisture from the earth to produce the required humidity.”
“Really?” Lucy said, staring raptly out the window. “It’s very large,” she added.
“It is, isn’t it?” Bex mused, peering over her head to view the sprawling weaving shed.
“Have you never seen it before?” Lady Constance inquired.
“Only in drawings,” Bex said. “Investments were secured before the building could be constructed.”
“There are practically no windows,” Lucy observed. “It must be horribly dark.”
“There are supposed to be windows in the roof,” Bex explained.
Lucy’s turned sharply to him, blue eyes wide. “In the roof?” She turned swiftly back to peer out the carriage window, not bothering to wait for confirmation. “How very intriguing,” she murmured.
She was so interested. So curious. She had been curious about him, damn it, and he very much wanted to appease that curiosity.
“Have you not been invited to visit before now?” Lady Constance asked, and Bex turned to her, grateful for the distraction from his futile thoughts.
“I have not been invited to visit at all,” he answered. “I have insisted upon it, much to the dismay of Mr. Sheckler.”
Lucy turned from the window, again. “Mr. Sheckler?”
Bex nodded. “The engineer and man in charge. The improvements to the power loom and the plan to locate it nearer to London were his ideas. He is the man of business. I am simply one of his many sources of funds.”
Lady Constance sniffed. “And he does not expect that you will oversee the use of your funds?”
Bex sighed. “No. My desire to do so is apparently unique. There are often large numbers of investors, rounded up by men in London. You are expected to pay your share then wait and see. It’s all rather speculative. My contribution is not significant enough to grant me any influence. I simply choose to remain informed and attempt to exert influence where I may.”
“Your investment may be very significant to you, even if you are not significant to them.” Lucy said it quietly, not as a question, but a realization.
He felt an oddly misplaced pride at her perceptiveness. Put that way, it did seem rather unbalanced, but so did any other wager. “That is often the way with games of chance, is it not?”
“I would presume so,” Lucy said. “I have never gambled myself.”
Haven’t you? He didn’t give voice to the thought, but he rather considered her proposal to him yesterday a considerable gamble—one that carried catastrophic risk for her.
“Will this man in charge, Sheckler, be willing to receive us?” Lady Constance asked.
“I have written,” Bex said. “We are expected. I cannot say that we will be happily received, but the presence of a potential new investor may improve our welcome.”
“Well,” Lady Constance said, adjusting herself more squarely in her seat, “then I am happy to be of assistance.”
“And I promise I shall behave as a proper companion,” Lucy said, pulling her gaze from the window and arranging her hands primly in her lap. “I shall squelch my curiosity and refrain from asking impertinent questions. It shall be useful practice.”
Bex did not believe for one minute that Lucy would remain quiet or restrain her curiosity.
“Nonsense,” Lady Constance snapped. “It is never useful for a woman to practice appearing unintelligent.”
Bex chuckled at her vehement response. “By all means, Miss Betancourt, pose any question you would like.”
“Well,” she said, “I do have a question.”
Then she bit her lip.
Bex was transfixed. She quickly tucked her lower lip between her teeth, then slowly released it, allowing it to slip from the hold, plump and red from the pressure she’d applied. He could not look away. The surge of desire was immediate and powerful. It was as though he had been condemned to a purgatory in which his sentence was to envision her every action, however innocent, as though she were doing so in his bed. Without her dress.
“If the climate is better in the north, why didn’t they simply build it there?” she asked finally.
He stared for a long moment before he even comprehended her question. He coughed. “Oh. The north. Well.” He cleared his throat again. “That is the interesting bit. All of the other weaving sheds are in the north.”
“Because of the climate,” she added helpfully.
“And because the raw cotton imports arrive in Liverpool,” he explained.
“All the more reason to build there,” she said. “Why here?”
“Yes, that is a very clever question,” Lady Constance contributed. “I should like to know the answer as well. If I am going to play the investor, I must know these things.”
Bex delivered his answer to Lady Constance, as he found it easier to maintain his concentration while doing so. “Improvements in power looms are happening quickly and are very competitive. Some inventors with clever improvements have fallen victim to spies and had their ideas stolen before they could see them to fruition. Building far away from the others protects them.”
“Such intrigue in the weaving business. Who would’ve expected that?” Lady Constance said.
“There are also other advantages
to Hertfordshire,” Bex added. “The raw cotton must travel further because it arrives in Liverpool, but once the cloth is woven, it is closer to London. Watford is ideal because of its location on the canal and because there is already coal coming in for the paper mills.”
“What is the coal for?” Lucy asked.
“The looms are steam powered,” Bex explained. “The coal runs the boiler that makes the steam.”
“It all sounds very complicated. You are very knowledgeable,” Lady Constance commented.
“Mr. Brantwood insists on a detailed understanding of pertinent information before investing,” Lucy said to the older woman.
“A lesson learned only through the pain and expense of numerous uninformed investments,” he said, denying himself the undeserved praise inherent in her words.
“There is no shame in learning a lesson through experience,” Lucy said.
He looked to where she sat, chin raised, valiantly defending him against his own censure, but she quickly averted her gaze.
It pained Bex to know that their comfortable rapport was somehow broken. It pained him nearly as much as the physical ache of wanting her, yet he had intentionally denied himself that very thing.
Damn. He hated the greater good. At once, he could understand her recklessness in making the proposal, for a lifetime of sensible decision making seemed bleak indeed.
* * * *
Lucy tried very diligently to appear the demure companion when their small party entered the weaving shed, but she was simply not capable of it. The space was enormous. And there really were windows in the roof! They were able to light the cavernous space because there was no ceiling, just exposed timber joinery supported by tall cast-iron columns, open all the way to the windowed roof.
When Bex had discussed the machinery, he had referred to power looms—in the plural—but she had expected three or four. There were hundreds, maybe a thousand, in neat rows on either side of a central aisle. She longed to see one in operation, to hear the sound it made. It must be deafening if they were all running at once. Did they all run at once, she wondered. None were running now.
