by Sally Orr
Fighting to dampen a blush caused by his perusal—the devil—she straightened her shoulders and focused on the foundry. “Mr. Thornbury, in regard to your property, may I inquire whether or not you plan—”
“To let you steal, er…liberate my fish?”
“Liberate? In my defense, I’ve a long-standing arrangement with Blackwell’s steward. No crime has been committed.” Hoping he wouldn’t drag her in front of a magistrate for poaching, she stole a sideways peek to judge his response. “Do you mind if I fish here?”
“No.” He chuckled. “I don’t mind if people purloin my pike. However, I plan to make a new rule and confine fish thievery on my estate to lovely ladies only.”
Glancing up at his face, she couldn’t help but smile. She liked friendly people with frank speech and open manners. She even enjoyed his teasing banter when they were alone, since she felt free enough to be herself and tease him in return. But he was too close for a stranger of such short acquaintance. Someone might catch them sitting together and start an irresponsible rumor. She searched for a possible path around him, but the routes were blocked either by the lake or his all-too-solid figure. “Please, Mr. Thornbury, if you would remove yourself over to that rock.” She pointed to another rock five feet away. “We would both have plenty of room to sit, and you might be more comfortable.”
He rocked his hips and ended up an inch or two closer. “This stone is exceedingly comfortable, soft, and has plenty of room. Tell me, what is the forfeit”—he grinned—“for letting you fish in my lake?”
“Forfeit?” What could he desire from her as a payment? One glance at his knowing smirk and her cheeks heated. The most forward man she had ever met. So the numerous stories were true—a famous London rake. How exciting! She’d never met a real one and suspected all those rumors of rakish seduction were false. Nothing more than masculine boasts meant to impress other gentlemen in taprooms or their clubs. Yet she couldn’t stop herself from wondering how far he might go. They were on his property, alone. Surely he wouldn’t try to ravish her on a rock, would he? “You, sir, are very forward.” She took a peek at his face. “Someone last evening even called you”—she did her best to suppress a smile and dropped her voice to a whisper—“a rake.”
He lifted a solitary brow. “My dear fish thief, call me anything else, please.” His grin faded. “Especially in front of Mother. How about a charming cove or a bang-up blade?”
“I don’t understand. What’s the difference between a bang-up blade and a rake?”
He stared up at the cloudless blue sky for a full minute without responding. Then the stunning smile she first encountered at the assembly appeared, followed by a wink. “Well, a rake is vile: drinking, wenching, gaming.” He leaned close and spoke in a deep rumble. “A most unsuitable lover to the lady involved. While a bang-up blade is a freethinker.” He looked skyward and chuckled. “And in amorous relations, a man who is truly upstanding.”
She tried very, very hard not to laugh at his inappropriate innuendo. “Sir, you are the most forward man—ever.” The gossip she heard at the assembly must in fact be true. Publishing a handbook of questionable taste, reckless wagers over females, multiple mistresses, and maybe even a lady handing him a baby on his doorstep.
“Only harmless words, dear lady. If judged by my actions today, you will find I am a proper gentleman.”
“You call sitting scandalously close to a lady you have just met proper?”
“Touché. But this rock is small, and I’ve no intention of sitting in the lake.”
“Are you telling me that you are no longer a rake, and thus do not seduce women? What about your infamous wager with a Lord Parker over a fly? I heard a beautiful lady was somehow involved. Was that story false?”
“We were mere youths. Besides, that fly was a private wager. My scoundrel of a fly was smaller than Parker’s oaf of a fly and more likely to leave the window first—or so I thought. I had nothing to do with the brawl afterward, but nevertheless, I paid the lady innkeeper for her five windows.” He lifted his chin in mock indignation.
She laughed heartily. “Yes, I understand how that tale might be misconstrued as gaming.” She attempted a serious expression. “Clearly spirits were not involved. I am glad you are not a rake, because now I won’t have to fend off any attempts at seduction.”
His grin was a mixture of expressions, half amusement, half devoid of shame. “A proper gentleman always gives a lady what she desires. I would be honored to have you fend me off, but I didn’t hear a please.”
“Oh, no. I just meant to teas—”
“The rakes I know don’t seduce innocents. Spoils one’s reputation. Besides, too much talking involved, explanations, flattery.” He uncrossed his arms, leaned back, and rested on his palms. “I wrote all this down in a book, of course. The title is The Rake’s Handbook.” Another unnatural and wholly wicked grin spread across his lips. “Including Field Guide.” The silence stretched. “Have you read it?”
“No, no, of course not.”
“I know the words by heart. For your amusement and pleasure, I’d be honored to recite the first chapter for you now.”
She should be affronted, not amused, but she laughed anyway. “That is not necessary, I can assure you.” Was he trying to shock her or determine if she was married? Either way, he was an expert tease and a devilishly clever man. “I’m a widow, so I’m not in your book.”
“Yes, you are, my fetching female. I included widows in the handbook section, the first part of the book. My friend, George Drexel, penned the second part, the field guide. In that section, Drexel praises widows in great detail.” He let out a warm, deep laugh. “It’s rather shocking, but Drexel lists widows under the heading ‘Houses to Let.’”
“Oh.” His brazen innuendo proved unstoppable. Since his conversation and good looks had a profound effect upon her heart rate, not to mention her clarity of mind, he must be a professional seducer. If so, she might be fishing in a lake far too deep to be safe for a respectable lady.
She tried to crawl around him, but he kept his focus on a butterfly spiraling over the tall reeds for a full minute, so he failed to move his well-muscled thigh, and blocked her exit. Then he leaped to his feet and held out his hand to assist her. Without thought, she accepted his offer. The warmth of his palm caused her breath to catch, and she expected him to let go.
He did not let go.
“You really are a rake,” she whispered, the sight and feel of their joined hands warming her cheeks. “A proper gentleman would never hold a lady thus. I have been warned about your charms. Perhaps I too should write everything down. Pen a handbook to instruct my widowed sisters about what to expect upon attempted seduction and how to fight it.”
“Factual or satirical?”
She bit her lower lip to stop an indelicate reply.
“I could write that handbook too.”
His boast made her smile. “I seem to have found another trait of a rake.”
“Humph. I’d be delighted to show you all of my traits. Perhaps start with chapter one?” The determination in his voice indicated he was quite willing to comply.
“Please do, sir,” she replied in a facetious tone, tugging her hand free. “But I can already tell that I’ll stop reading your book after the table of contents. You know, all of those funny pages in the front of the book numbered v and i.”
He chuckled softly, then stared at her until he captured her gaze. “My handbook starts with fine eyes.” He reached up and swept back a ringlet that had fallen over her eye and carefully tucked the curl under her bonnet.
Her heartbeat raced.
“The eyes are followed by a notable vee.” His gaze lowered to the upper edge of her bodice and lingered in the center.
“Oh my, if that’s the table of contents, I don’t dare read chapter one.”
“I’d be pleased to read yo
u all of the chapters. There are a total of…” He glanced at her leisurely, from the top of her leghorn bonnet down to her sensible half boots. His focus returned up to her neck—almost. His chest broadened as he inhaled. “Ten.”
“Ten!”
He gave her a smoldering look from under heavy lashes. “Ten in volume one,” he continued in a silky baritone. “Let’s start with chapter one.” He leaned forward slowly, staring at her mouth as if he might take liberties and kiss her. The distance between them shortened to inches. Close enough to feel his warm breath.
“Enough.” She stepped backward. “Enough of chapter one. I am finished with your book.” She resisted covering both burning cheeks with her hands. “I’ll return home now. I seem to be a little heated from the sun.” She avoided his gaze and reached for her book.
Henry was right. Since Mr. Thornbury’s rakish charms were beyond what she expected, she should never again speak to him alone. He certainly would not have attempted liberties with Henry standing nearby. However, even with Henry’s presence, she might not be able to negotiate with him. He was a rake: not pure and not simple. His smiles, chuckles, and smoldering glances intended to blank female minds on purpose. Curse his boots.
“I see I’ve upset you. Apologies, my lovely fish feaster.”
“I can assure you that your reputation is just,” she said, her voice sounding higher than normal.
“A reserved gentleman with exemplary manners?”
“Never…never have I been so late returning home. Please give your mother my respects.” After a brief curtsy, she snatched her fishing pole and punctured her finger on a fishhook. “Ow!”
He held out his hand. “Let me look at that.”
She shook her hand vigorously. “No, thank you. I will consult my doctor for the proper treatment.” She sucked on her finger.
“You should go home and treat that immediately,” he said, sounding distracted and staring at her mouth. “Do you own any medical books?”
She withdrew her finger and felt the cool air ease the pain. “My late husband’s study is full of medical books, but they are very detailed and use words I am not familiar with. I read only poetry and novels.”
“I suggest you consult your husband’s books. I have confidence you can find the best treatment yourself.”
She nodded, sucking on her finger again.
His eyes focused on her lips and brightened, like a cat that had just spotted a bowl of cream—unattended. “I suggest you start by looking up puncture or—”
“Yes. Yes, I will. Good day, sir.” She grabbed her fishing rod, gloves, and book, and hurried back up the road toward Pinnacles.
Once he was out of sight, her racing heartbeat slowed from immeasurable to fast. Halfway home, the beat slowed to normal. She had made a total cake of herself and failed to get an answer about the foundry—the future of her home. How could one very forward rake distract her so easily?
She put down her load, plucked a daisy, and snatched every petal off.
Obviously her wits had flown. Best to pinch herself hard the next time she met with Mr. Thornbury. Then the pain would halt the onslaught of his attractive figure, his seducing smile, or his laughing blue eyes.
Elinor grinned when she remembered one of her bracelets—shaped like a snake—that hurt whenever she wore it high upon her arm. The armlet felt just like a pinch. So the next time she planned to meet with Mr. Thornbury, she’d wear the bracelet and let the pain focus her mind. She exhaled a long sigh of relief.
Tossing the daisy over her shoulder, she grabbed her equipment and started to run.
Now she had a good plan; William would be impressed. Armed with her painful bracelet, she’d keep her wits sharp and persuade this Mr. Ross Thornbury not to build his foundry. A clear triumph over this charmer who enjoyed making females suffer that…gentle panic.
How could she possibly fail?
Three
The second Ross Thornbury stepped over his drawing room’s threshold, his mother asked him a question.
“Well, what do you think?” The sound of Lady Helen Thornbury’s voice filled the cavernous room.
Ross cringed. Variations of the same query had vexed mankind for centuries. “What do you think?” could easily be interchanged with “How do you like it?” A gentleman had an easier time finding the correct answer if the object of the inquiry was revealed, such as, “Do you like my gown?” Unfortunately, the luxury of knowing the subject of her question eluded him.
“What do you think of my alteration?”
The question sprang from his mother’s lips, so to make her happy, he must find some object that had changed. “Give me a minute.” He inhaled deeply and began his search with the most likely place—her person. Her needlework dropped to her lap as she watched him approach, her pronounced features softened with fondness. To Ross she appeared to have lost at least a stone within the last year, and the small wisps of hair escaping her lace cap were no longer jet. Was the cap new? Doubtful. Next he checked her gown. She wore a black wool gown gathered at the neck with no frills and a paisley shawl wrapped around her shoulders. They both seemed vaguely familiar; therefore, it was a safe bet the alteration did not refer to her current dress. Now he faced the greater task of finding the object of change within the vast room.
The loud click from his boots reverberated in the expansive space as he turned a full circle several times to survey the mostly vacant drawing room. He searched from the wood floors to the plaster ceiling, but nothing altered stood out. Shifting the pretty blue box he held in his arms, he noticed the movement briefly caught her attention.
“Well, what do you think?” She sat straight upon the new brocade sofa delivered last week.
“Hmmm…” The yellow sofa, a wing chair, and four bobbin-turned oak chairs faced the fireplace, leaving thirty feet of bare room behind them. She wore an expectant expression, so he redoubled his efforts to discover what she changed. Finally, at a loss to provide the answer, there was only one thing he could do now to make her happy—bluff. “Very nice,” he said, with a cursory inspection around the entire room. Having done his best to please her by general praise, and a glance that must have encompassed whatever object had changed, he attempted to divert her. “How are you today, dear?” He placed the box on an ornately carved mahogany table in front of her and kissed the top of her head.
She grabbed his hand and squeezed it. “I am well, thank you. I am glad you approve of the robin’s egg blue. The color perfectly suits our new yellow sofa.”
After a fleeting grin, Ross peered up to the newly painted walls. The light blue accented the white plaster garlands nicely. For the life of him, he could not remember the old wall color, but the blue did look well now.
“So what is in the box?” She gazed at him fondly.
“A gift for our mantel. Go ahead, open it.”
She opened the box and pulled out a Staffordshire figurine of a shepherdess. At first sight of the two-foot-tall statue, her glorious smile appeared. “Oh, how wonderful. Isn’t this lovely? And look at the detail. Even the little sheep have painted pink noses.”
He took his accustomed place on an old upholstered chair facing the sofa, delighted that his gift made her happy. He would always do his best to please her, but any man would draw the line when it came to voluntary admiration of pink sheep noses.
She cradled the shepherdess in her lap. “How was your first day touring the property? Did you meet with Mr. Douglas this afternoon? Did he take my side and agree we must stop the farm improvements until we furnish the house?”
“We had a long talk. I’m impressed with our steward. The home farm is well maintained, and the estate books are in good order. I also examined the terrain where the surveyor suggested we erect the foundry. The ground at the site is elevated, so next week we will dig three wells. If there is no groundwater at a depth of twenty feet, then
the site is a good one for a foundry. Imagine it. Once our steam engines are available for sale, Blackwell will generate twice the profits it is currently producing. With all that money, I’ll be able to keep my promise. You can then furnish this place with acres and acres of the mahogany furniture you desire, even Gillow’s overdecorated firewood.”
He winked at her. “However, before any capital is committed, we must obtain a lease to move our engines across Mrs. Colton’s land. My calculations show the foundry will be profitable only if we use a waterway to obtain fuel for the blast furnaces and haul our small steam engines to our customers. Since you are acquainted with our neighbors, you must have met this widow Colton already? What is her situation? Does she need the money?”
Lady Helen stared at his muddy left boot. “Mrs. Colton is a high-spirited lady who is financially independent due to a considerable jointure. She lives in that newer Gothic house in the direction of Knutsford, the one with the lovely view of the river. She is not old, but not young, and has no children from her marriage. She is currently raising her nephew, a Mr. Berdmore Deane. That young coxcomb lacks modesty and is full of silly levity. Indeed, both aunt and nephew are frivolous creatures.”
Ross stared into the fire. “Even if she doesn’t need the funds, I can’t imagine her refusing the extra capital she would earn from the lease.”
“I wouldn’t wager on it. Her late husband left her well provided for.”
“Then I’ll call upon her soon and ask for our lease. I’ve one month to make the first payment to reserve the steam engine for the foundry. If not, I may have to wait months before the next one becomes available.”
A slight haze settled close to the tall fireplace. He strode to the opening, grabbed the poker, and stabbed the fire. “Bloody fireplace! Look at all this smoke. The whole damn house smells smoky. Remind me to have the chimneys cleaned.” A piece of soot landed on his nose, forcing him to wave his hand and step backward.
