by Sally Orr
“His father is Mr. Ralph Deane?”
“Yes, are you acquainted with him?”
He stared at his boots. “Not well. A passing acquaintance. I’ve seen him gaming at Brook’s. Still, I’m surprised he’s not raising his son.”
“My sister married for love and discovered later that her fortune had more to do with Mr. Deane’s reasons to wed. Once she was with child, he abandoned her on a small estate in Yorkshire and returned to his life in London. Before she died, she asked me to care for Berdy. I cannot tell you how surprised I was when Mr. Deane appeared delighted to be spared the trouble of a child about his house. He even called Berdy baggage once.”
She leaned over to restore the dandelion she had just trampled to its upright position. “Recently, I rather foolishly agreed Berdy could attend the Season in Town before he settles upon a profession. I hope his notion of being a dandy will tire when he discovers he is not the center of attention. I also fear his father leading him into the ways of a gamester, but thankfully Mr. Deane has shown no interest in him.”
“What does young Deane hope to accomplish in Town?”
“What do all seventeen-year-old gentlemen desire in London? Gain attention? Find a rich wife?”
The beginning of a smile teased his lips. “Let’s see…at seventeen, I thought about females and then more females, and I never considered marriage. That’s what I wanted at seventeen. It infuriated my father.” He bent sideways to peer directly at her face. “Are you shocked?”
She laughed. “No, although now I understand why people call you a rake.”
He gazed down at his boots again, the smile gone. “Please never repeat that word in my mother’s company.”
“Oh,” she cried, brushing her arm. “Something bit me.” She examined the small red spot closely. “I fear the creature may have taken some blood—a flea?” She rubbed her arm vigorously, a gesture that attracted his scrutiny.
“A flea?” he said, his lighthearted tone restored. “Reminds me of a Donne poem of the same name. Do you like poetry? I do, and I find Donne refreshingly honest in a veiled sort of way.” With a mischievous grin, he began to recite aloud in a deep, carrying voice:
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be—
“Oh!” She gaped, heat claiming her cheeks. Only a bona fide rake would know Donne’s metaphor of improper relations.
“I see you are familiar with that poem. Your blush gives you away. As neighbors, I hope in the future we can become friends and discuss our favorite poems. I look forward to that.” He grinned, his blue eyes alight.
Her heartbeat started to climb from his all-too-obvious charm, so she needed the snake now. Under the pretext of brushing off another flea, she pushed the bracelet up her arm. Several of the reticulated scales dug into her skin. She glanced at Mr. Thornbury to discover if the snake’s painful pinch rendered his rakish charms ineffective and found her wits remained intact.
The bracelet worked. Thank heavens.
“Tell me. Why does a respectable lady such as yourself know Donne’s wicked poetry?”
“My husband enjoyed Donne and owned a complete collection of his works.”
His devilish grin appeared. “The reverend enjoyed naughty poetry?”
“No—no, of course not.” A blush instantly claimed every inch of her skin. “He told me he read only the sermons—the book was for Donne’s sermons—he spoke on Sundays—needed sermons—heavens.” She frowned in irritation, because he accused William of enjoying vulgar poetry any sensible person would ignore.
“That still doesn’t explain why you know the elegies.”
Her mind blanked. “I—I like to read.” With her wits flown, she glared at the traitorous bracelet. The snake hissed in silent mockery at her defeat.
“Ah, don’t we all.” His lazy grin appeared. “However, it’s unusual you understand the meaning behind the wicked verse.” He paused, watching her. “Let me immediately apologize for upsetting you. In fact, I also owe you an apology for my behavior at the lake. No disrespect was intended in either case. Please believe me.” He stared at his boots.
Unsure of the reasons that prompted these apologies, she decided not to inquire further. “Um…an apology is not needed. I know you meant no disrespect. Your manners are just open and naturally charming.”
He examined her expression carefully. “Thank you.” He cleared his throat—twice. “Mrs. Colton, may I speak to you about an opportunity that would benefit us both?” His speech quickened. “One of the improvements I plan at Blackwell is to build a foundry for the manufacture of strong-steam engines. To be profitable, my raw material and finished engines must be transported at a low cost. My proposition for you is to grant me a lease to your property on the riverbank, so my engines can travel to market via the river. For the particulars, such as the amount paid to you, my man of business can meet with your man. This plan will be to your benefit by providing a handsome income. What do you say?”
She stood speechless. The rumor was true. He thought a foundry would benefit her. “No, I don’t want an industrial chimney near my property, nor do I need the income. You are familiar with Manchester. People in the city can go for days without seeing the sun, and the smoke damages everything. Think of my home—my home. I know it sounds silly, but you must have seen the destruction soot can cause. I heard a rumor you planned to build a foundry, but I hoped it was a false one.”
He stepped backward; his brow furrowed. “You’re mistaken, madam. The foundry would be only a small one, with a modest number of steam-hammers. The smoke would not resemble Manchester’s in any way. Besides, the wind is usually from the north, so I doubt soot would blow anywhere near enough to damage your house.”
“Can’t you build your foundry elsewhere?”
“No. The location is the only place on my property close to economical transportation for the raw materials and shipping the engines. Please reconsider.”
“Sir, I must refuse. I fear my home’s destruct—”
“No? But we would both profit.”
“Not if I have to sacrifice my home. It is all that remains… I cannot take that chance.”
An uneasy silence ensued. Their stares held until he began to fidget like a teakettle demanding action. “You overestimate the smoke.” He slapped his thigh. “Promise me you will consider it.”
“No,” she said in a steadfast voice, hoping he would drop the distasteful subject forever.
“No?” He took a quick step forward until a mere inch separated them. “Not even at a later date reconsider your neighbor’s wishes?”
Her heartbeat escalated. With no desire to observe his expression, she focused on his snowy cravat rising and falling with each breath. They stilled for what seemed like minutes. She moved first when her bracelet chose this—of all times—to fall to her wrist. Using a single move, she shoved the ornament far up her arm until it pinched her skin and remained in place.
Mr. Thornbury shifted his position to stare at the golden snake.
She felt it slipping again, but did not dare move.
The bracelet fell.
“Please, madam. I appeal to your generosity and request you visit a similar low-pressure steam engine in person to witness the smoke.” He reached out until one hand held hers, while his other hand enclosed the offending bracelet. Using his warm palm, he pushed the snake up her forearm. When it easily stopped, he inhaled sharply. “Come with me to see the smoke from a similar working chimney at a nearby coal mine, yes?”
“No.” She held her breath.
“Allow me.” He forced the bracelet higher with a sudden push.
“Oh!” She stared at his mouth, attempting to calm her thoughts.
His chest rose from ragged breaths, and she felt the moisture he exhaled on her forehead. “Don’t deny me,” he whispered. His focus returned to the golden band cinching her upper arm, while his deft fingers surrounded the bracelet. He rocked it back and forth for several moments until she was breathing hard. Wrapping his forefinger under the gilt circle, he caught her gaze and slowly pulled the band down to her wrist. Her skin tingled along every inch from his touch. They stood for minutes, both staring at the gold snake resting around her wrist.
She tried to stop her rapid pants. The scoundrel was trying to influence her with disingenuous, rakish charm. That realization didn’t help her, because she remained fixed in place regardless.
“No?” he asked again in a rough whisper, raising her hand close to his lips. He didn’t kiss her, but his breath warmed her fingers.
She became dizzy, expecting her legs to collapse.
“No? The foundry will help others, provide employment.”
Speech eluded her. His fervent blue gaze forced away all semblance of reason.
He brushed his lips across her knuckles, while the stare from those sky-blue eyes never left her face. Then a gentleman’s kiss graced the top of her hand before he turned her palm up and leisurely kissed its center.
Her control of the situation escaped, and she feared her insides might boil. Going mad? Possible. Fainting? Certain.
He wore the wicked smile of a male certain he would succeed. Still holding her hand, he pulled it behind him and took a step forward to close the distance between them.
She stood dazed, unable to move, her breasts touching his waistcoat. All she could think of was a simple chant: do not faint, do not faint, do not faint.
“No?” he repeated in a quiet, rumbling baritone. “Consider my request, or consider the consequences.”
She raised her hand to his chest to push him away, but instead her palm traveled over his coat’s rough surface and clutched his wool lapel.
He must have taken this gesture as a “yes,” because he leaned forward and kissed her neck. The slow caress of his lips led her into a familiar current, where she instinctively flowed with the tide. He cupped her backside and pressed her against his solid frame, while his hot breath warmed her sensitive neck.
Summing up Herculean strength, she pulled herself out of the sensuous daze he created. All she had to do was repeat that he was a true rake and reaffirm that William would forever remain her only love. Armed with this truth, she found the will to push him away.
“Please,” he said, “will you consider my offer?”
“My turn to use the word.” She smiled with a certain measure of pride. “No.”
Now he gaped. Half a minute passed before he chuckled and planted a swift kiss on her cheek. “I will explain the advantages of my plan later. You win…but only for now.”
Dr. Potts shouted, “Sir!”
Startled, they both took a quick step backwards to put distance between them.
Dr. Potts strode up and for a moment remained silent, his face reddening. A tall widower with a military bearing and his short hair styled à la Brutus, he straightened his posture even more rigid than usual. The doctor struggled to contain his words. In rushed speech, he explained that he had examined Berdy, found the boy well, and offered to immediately escort her home.
“I will remain at Blackwell, thank you,” she said. “But I’ll see you off. I would like to hear more about Berdy’s condition.” She joined the doctor, and they started to walk toward the house.
Mr. Thornbury remained behind, unmoving.
Dr. Potts’s face had become scarlet. “I witnessed that scoundrel kiss you. Shall I go back now and give the villain a few strong words? Call the man out?”
“Please, no, not today.”
“The swine.” Dr. Potts tugged on the bottom of his waistcoat. “Has he made advances before this? You know I have your best interests at heart. In the future, I will accompany you when you speak to him. Tomorrow I will join you bright and early. Don’t worry. I will protect you.”
“Thank you.” Since she had failed twice to control her response to Mr. Thornbury’s seductive manners, and the bracelet failed to preserve her wits, in the future she must speak with him only in the company of one of her knights, Dr. Potts or Henry. While grateful for the doctor’s offer, she decided it would be best to ask Henry to explain to Mr. Thornbury why she could never sign his lease.
Dr. Potts mumbled on about his efforts on behalf of Berdy and reassured her of the young man’s eventual recovery.
Thankfully, he needed no reply. She barely understood him anyway, because there was a buzzing in her ears. What ailed her she didn’t want to consider, much less look up in a book. She turned to catch a final glimpse of Mr. Thornbury.
That gentleman held his arm high in farewell and in a raised voice said, “In regard to my handbook, we’ve read chapter one, and today we finished chapter two. I promise you even greater pleasure when we read chapter three.”
Six
On the following day, Ross entered Blackwell’s stables to admire his new filly, Charybdis. Purchased using the profits from his handbook, the horse was his sole self-extravagance, an equine vision in jet black. Even in the brightest sun, her eyes, coat, hooves, and mane appeared a uniform black and could be differentiated only by texture. Her heart, too, was all you would expect in a two-year-old filly—fearless and fun. He pictured the races she’d win one day, and the admiration to follow. Stroking her soft muzzle, he swiftly kissed her firm cheek.
As he stared into her fathomless black eye, his mind strayed to his dream of the previous night. Naked. He dreamt a sweltering red fog swirled around Mrs. Colton as she opened her arms and skipped toward him—laughing and naked. He tried to capture her, but she spun and disappeared into the boiling fog. He chased her, only to find her bending over with her pert, round backside offered to him. The thick fog seared his ankles before it rose to blind him. He reached out, and his hands found her rear, but upon his touch, together they went up in flames.
Females. Last thing he needed was unsettling, carnal dreams.
His gaze traveled to the stable yard outside. A light rain transformed the yard into a hazy mist. He must ask Lucy’s father to let them marry soon. That way he could escape this damn lust, and merry widows with ample backsides would no longer beckon from within his dreams.
Females. If only he knew the name of Mrs. Colton’s man of business. Then his man could discuss terms with her man, and no distracting backsides or dimples would intrude upon the negotiations. He congratulated himself upon his clear understanding of commerce. Men dealing with men always ensured success. So with a newfound confidence that he would eventually change the widow’s mind, he held his filly’s rear leg up to inspect her new shoes.
Ten minutes later, Rowbottom stepped inside the stable doors to announce the arrival of a Mr. Henry Browne and a Mr. Mabbs.
Ross straightened and turned to greet the gentleman. Browne was a handsome man and appeared prosperous. Yet he projected a stiff manner, in all likelihood due to his overstarched cravat and tight gold brocade waistcoat. While Mabbs wore the serviceable brown attire of a tradesman, his less than straight nose indicated a possible pugilist.
Charybdis snorted.
The sound halted the men’s approach.
Browne stood with the general air of a man who did not brook opposition and spoke first. “Mr. Thornbury, may I present myself. My name is Henry Browne of Gracehall, a local attorney. I am your neighbor to the south by the Holiday farm. This is Mr. Mabbs, the owner of the large cattle herd to the southwest of your lake.”
Ross never expected a morning call this early, but perchance the men were fellow sportsmen. “Welcome to Blackwell, Mr. Browne, Mr. Mabbs. Since entering the county, I plan to call upon all of my neighbors, but familiarizing myself with the estate has kept me busy. I’ve taken possession on
ly within the last year, so there is a great deal of deferred business to address. Are you perchance sporting men? Do you shoot?”
“No, sir,” Mabbs said, shuffling his feet and appearing discomfited by the invitation.
A fly buzzed past Browne’s nose, and he waved his right hand in front of his face. “No, I, too, rarely have time for such trivial pursuits.”
Ross raised an eyebrow and leaned against the stall. “Are you gentlemen here on business, or is this a social call?”
Browne glanced around the stables. Leaning on a support post with a similar casual air, he jerked his elbow close to his chest, like the post was a column of fire, before carefully brushing his coat sleeve. “I guess you would call it a matter of business. Since Deane’s accident, you’ve probably made the acquaintance of Mrs. Colton. Did she mention the rumor of great concern to our little community here?”
Ross started, unsure of the meaning behind Browne’s question. “I understand there have been many rumors.”
“It is our understanding you intend to construct a steam engine manufactory on your estate near the river.”
“And?”
“And we want to know if it is true.”
“Why?” He wondered why these gentlemen felt it necessary to make Mrs. Colton’s concerns their business.
“So we can put a stop to it, of course.” Browne’s reply sounded like the slow intonation used to teach children one plus one equals two. “We don’t want our rivers befouled, and if that isn’t bad enough, the smoke emitted by your foundry has a pernicious effect upon healthy living no gentleman could be unaware of.”
Charybdis pranced restlessly, loudly bumping the stall with her rear flank.
Ross moved to stroke his filly’s quivering neck. “Shh.” He waited until the horse calmed before he replied. “Perhaps you’ve traveled far, Mr. Browne, but in England a gentleman still has a right to use his property as he sees fit.”
Browne’s eyes widened before narrowing into slits. “I grant you have the right to build a foundry, but you have no right to foul the river or darken our homes with soot.” He took a quick step forward. “Clean water is publici juris—”
