Authors: Jessica Nelson
She reared back at his words, which he supposed had sounded more cynical than intended.
He held up a hand to stop any tirade. “You are correct about education, but there will always be a need for mill labor. For able-bodied workers to perform tedious tasks. It is the way of the world, Elizabeth.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “My research has shown me that mills are changing. New inventions are creating safer workplaces. Not only that, but you said able-bodied workers, and I certainly do not consider children to be
able bodied
. Do you?”
Her eyes were flashing at him, and though only inches separated them, he had the strongest inclination to reach out and haul her to himself, to kiss the indignation from her face and assure her that all would be well.
He withheld himself.
Doing such a thing would serve only to complicate an already complicated situation.
He thought of the scrawny children scampering around Littleshire. Of how often their eyes were dulled by hours of labor. “No,” he said finally. “I do not consider them able bodied.”
“Then we are in agreement that something must be done. It is my intention to visit at least once a week for an hour or more to teach reading and writing. I shall buy supplies. I will provide a schoolroom somewhere, even if it is out in the sunshine, though I do confess that they may find it hard to study when there is so much nature to be explored. It is doubtful they've spent their childhood as you and John did, monkeying up trees and pilfering sweets from Cook's kitchen.”
Miles grimaced. “An hour a week? Who shall cover their shifts? How shall they be paid?”
“A small decline in income is a small worry when their minds shall be so enriched.”
He crossed his arms. “That is no answer, my lady.”
“Do you have a better one? These children are in need of nutritious food for their minds. They deserve to see that a world far greater and wider and more beautiful than theirs exists. That there is more to life than powerful, odiferous machines that never cease their infernal clanking.” She wrinkled her nose as if reliving the sounds of his mills.
“Come now, Bitt. It's not so horrible as you make it out to be.” Sometimes he rather found the consistent sounds comforting. “And you speak of this rich world, but reading about a place is not the same as living there.”
“It is a near enough substitute. Which is why I propose to enrich their minds with great literature and grand ideas. I shall hire a tutor to help them learn sums.”
“All this in an hour?”
“Cynicism solves nothing, Miles Hawthorne.”
He frowned. “I am merely considering the practical aspects of your plan. Frivolous novels are not going to solve a widespread problem. These children need more than an hour of lessons, and their families will suffer from the lack of pay.”
“One must start somewhere,” she said coldly. “Even if it's with
frivolity
.”
Sweeping her skirt up, she brushed past him, nose high, gaze averted. Telling him in no uncertain terms with her back just how much she disapproved of his response.
Not the best way to end a betrothal ball, he mused, but certainly an indicator of what marriage to Elizabeth entailed.
No matter what he'd felt while dancing with her, he must remember that a traditional marriage came with petty dramas, irritating spats and hurt feelings.
Altogether more reason to keep his distance. To reject any notions of togetherness, romance or, horror of horrors, love.
Chapter Fifteen
W
hen would this dreadful ball end?
Elizabeth fanned herself, pressing her back against a corner and longing desperately for a story. Anything but this dream that had turned into a nightmare. Couples swished past her, lips curved and eyes alight. Much as she had done only moments ago.
Frivolous.
How dare he call her novels such a thing? She fumed in silence, tapping her toe and swishing her fan. The brush of cool air against her hot skin brought little relief because his words bounced within her mind, vexing little reminders of the kind of man she must marry. A man who did not value books. Who worked and worked and worked...
Her fingers tightened on the fan until her knuckles ached. How often she'd daydreamed of love. The kind where a man saw into a woman's heart, where he loved her for all her flaws and strengths. And what happened?
She got herself almost ruined, forcing a marriage of convenience.
Miles swirled her around the ballroom in the most dizzying, heart-stopping fashion and she lost her senses. Her brain ceased working and suddenly she had realized that she was at great risk of feeling too much for the infernal man.
She could not, would not, allow such feelings for one who didn't enjoy novels. His imagination must be terribly stilted, she mused, scanning the ballroom for him, hating that her gaze sought him out even after he'd so cavalierly thrown her ideas into the metaphorical trash bin.
But when she spotted him near Grandmother, her pulse sped up. Pinpricks of awareness washed through her. Her stomach knotted and unknotted all as she watched him from behind the safety of her fan. The decoration served as more than just a communication or cooling device.
She spied on him, nerves thrumming. He bestowed a soft smile on her grandmother, bending near to hear her as she spoke. They engaged in conversation and he threw his head back in an open laugh. Perhaps his eyes might be a stormy gray, like a winter's eve sky. She quite enjoyed his eyes and their moody changings. He had a way of looking at her... Despite herself, she shivered.
That dance had been the most romantic moment of her life. She'd felt positive that, as he looked down at her, he must feel the same way about her as she did him.
She snapped her fan closed. And how did she feel?
Not as one should when marrying for convenience. Certainly not as one marrying to escape ruination.
She would not allow this attraction to fester into anything more than childhood affection.
He'd called her ideas for the children, her love of novels, frivolous.
Just remembering that idiocy caused her teeth to grind and her body to stiffen.
It was not reasonable to be attracted to a man who believed such foolishness. Emotions roiled, coiling within until her body strained with the effort of holding her temper back. Her neighbors from the south, a wealthy baron and his wife, stopped to greet her.
She had never met them before and for a millisecond, felt conscious of her birthmark. Did the baron's gaze stray to it? But no, both he and his wife spoke to her without allowing her disfigurement to distract them.
The realization helped her create a conversation whilst hiding all the frustration she felt toward Miles beneath a veneer of politeness.
“We have been admiring your grandmother's stable and collection of prize mares. You realize,” the baroness was saying, “that my darling Edward never learned to ride until two years ago?”
“How curious,” Elizabeth murmured, trying as hard as she could to rein in her riotous thoughts, to still the erratic pounding of her heart and the nervous tension that pressed upon her sternum. It was not their fault she'd realized a terrible discovery about herself. Unrequited attraction. How bothersome! She must find a way to avoid it. Miles did not fit into the box where she stored romantic daydreams.
A dark and swarthy earl was one of her favorite daydreams. She'd meet him in a library. Yes, they'd both be reading Wordsworth. Perhaps he'd recite something to her. A romantic poem filled with the sweetness of tender longings and unfulfilled dreams. His gaze would hold hers, his irises a riotous mix of mossy greens and steely grays...she straightened abruptly.
No, that had never been the color of her imaginary earl's eyes before.
“My lady?” The baroness stared at her, the question in her tone clearly stating that Elizabeth had been caught daydreaming.
She wet her lips, inclining her head to indicate attention. “I apologize. My mind snagged. You were saying?” She looked expectantly from husband to wife, hoping one of them might forgive her lapse in manners and continue talking.
The baroness graciously nodded, accepting the apology. “Only that my husband had a dreadful dislike of horses. He saw them as foul creatures and refused to enter the stables.”
“Clod footed,” the baron put in, giving a humorous, good-natured tug on his mustachioed mouth.
“It was only after I showed him their intelligence and gentle nature that he grew fond of them.”
Elizabeth's ears perked. “And now you enjoy horses, my lord?”
“We ride every morning.” The baroness patted her husband's arm, deep affection apparent in such a tiny touch. “But it took a tragedy to show him what he was missing. My favorite mare, Beauty, took sick. I'd had her since my sixteenth birthday and she had aged, of course. One morning I went into the stables and there she lay, on her side, belly heaving.”
“Your stable hands did not alert you?” asked Elizabeth.
“I employ one and he stated that Beauty had been fine only moments beforehand.”
Elizabeth controlled her cringe. Of course, they had only one. She was accustomed to a large staff and forgot that others required less. “Was she...did she recover?”
“No.”
The baron took his wife's hand, and Elizabeth marveled at the sweetness between them. Had they been a love match then? Or had love grown over the years, fertilized by kindness and compatibility? She wanted to ask, but feared the question out of place.
Instead she murmured, “I am very sorry.”
“Thank you. It was a dreadful time for me but to comfort me, Edward promised a new mare. For my sake, he overlooked his antipathy toward horseflesh, and now he is an avid rider.”
“I would not use the word
avid
, my love.” He chuckled.
“All due to a change in perception then?” asked Elizabeth, a strange feeling unfurling within.
“Much like your telescope,” he affirmed. “Last night I saw the stars in a marvelous new way. When I shopped for a mare, I learned each one's personality. I had to see horses from a different perspective to appreciate their beauty. I do not claim to love horses as my wife does, but I respect them.”
“Oh, look, there is Lady Danvers.” The baroness tugged on her husband's sleeve. “Come, we must speak to her. She throws the most extravagant parties in London every year.”
They offered their farewells and rushed off, leaving Elizabeth with a curiously lightened heart. Perhaps this unexpected situation with Miles was not hopeless, after all.
He only needed but to see books in a different light. If she altered his perception of them, showed him the transforming wonder of a story, then surely he would agree to her plan.
She flicked her fan open, holding it up and peering over the top. The house party had been a raging success. The ball, interesting and not altogether awkward as a part of her had feared it would be. After all, it was not every day that peerage and commoners mingled.
She searched for Miles, locating him at the other end of the room. He stood with his back to her as he spoke with Sir Rigby and a small group of men from the society.
If he shared her interest in scientific matters, surprising as it was that unbeknownst to each other, they'd read the same scientific papers, then perhaps he would not be completely closed off to the beauty of novels.
If he could but understand the potential of a story to stretch the mind, to enlighten the darkened, then he might approve her plan. For the children's sake.
Just then, he turned and his gaze immediately alighted upon her. Pinning her in place with its intensity. Had he known where she stood this entire time? Had he been watching her? Surely less than a ballroom separated them? For it seemed as though they were the only two in the room. Every part of her felt alive as she answered his look with her own. Were his eyes green right now? Gray?
Her feet itched to move forward and discover the answer. She remained in place, however, for until he changed his perception, she refused to give in to these delicious feelings melting through her, leaving her breathless.
* * *
More money owed.
Sighing, Miles signed the invoice to install windows in the Littleshire Mill. He had spent two days at his brother's mills, touring the grounds and sharing information. They both wished to carry on their father's tradition of being fair employers. No mill worker would become affluent, but Miles hoped that what he paid was enough for his workers to put food on the table and to clothe their children.
The Littleshire Mill was the only factory in the Hawthorne family to employ children under the age of twelve. Miles had gone to his brother for advice. He brought the information Bitt gave him, which proved immensely helpful.
The honorable course involved taking her for a ride, offering his gratitude for her research, but after that night at the ball...a curious tug in the vicinity of his heart brought a frown to his face. He finished signing the invoice and set it in the stack for Powell to put in the post for Mr. Shapely.
He did not dare remember the feel of Elizabeth in his arms as they waltzed, nor the scent of her hair, nor the lustrous shimmer of her eyes.
There had been that second when their eyes met across the ballroom. When the temptation to cross the room and kiss her silly accosted him.
Thankfully, he had not, for if she'd been on the brink of ruination before, a public kiss certainly would have pushed her reputation beyond repair.
She had broken their visual connection. Had pivoted, severing the invisible thread that inevitably drew him to her. Shortly after the formal announcement of their betrothal, she left the ballroom, exiting the room with the grace of royalty.
And he'd known that to follow her would be a mistake.
The next day consisted of farewells, packing. He'd made his excuses early and left to visit his brother, Bitt's papers safely stowed within his trunks.
“My Lord?” Powell stood at the door. “Lady Elizabeth has arrived.”
Of course. No request for an audience. She showed up uninvited. He nodded to his valet. “Show her in.”
“There is no need.” Bitt appeared behind Powell, a mere slip of a woman with a giant-sized expression of stubbornness. “If you will justâ” She nudged his valet, actually nudged him, and managed to slide into the room.
Miles glowered at her, any vestige of good mood abandoning him. Powell, traitor, still stood in the doorway, his face a blank mask and his shoulders shaking with mirth. Miles flicked his hand and the servant disappeared. Ostensibly to procure a refreshment and show Bitt's lady's maid to the servant's quarters.
Elizabeth sailed across his office and paused at the family portrait hanging on the far wall. She held a massive book in her hands. Just looking at it made him feel queasy.
All those words... He pressed his thumbs against his temples to ease the sudden ache.
“You're in an energetic state,” he remarked for lack of a better thing to say.
She didn't respond, only peered up at the painting. “Your brother is so much older than you.”
He joined her, careful to maintain enough distance that he would not be forced to inhale any remnants of her perfume. The painting showcased his father, his brother and himself.
“I did not know Peter well,” she continued. “Though I recall your father being a great laughing beast of a man.”
Miles couldn't help the tug that pinched the corner of his lips. “A beast, you say.”
“Well, yes, he was so very large and hairy. He always brought me a sweet.” She said the last words in a wistful tone, as though she missed him.
Swallowing the lump that had grown in his throat, Miles studied the painting. “I suppose he had a tender side. By the time I came along, he was already teaching Peter the run of the factories. With my mother lost in childbirth, he had to grow up quickly. I only knew my father as a businessman. A good and honorable man, but life for him was all business.”
“Oh, Miles.” She turned and placed her hand on his arm. Warmth seeped through his sleeve. “You must never turn into your father.”
He stepped away from her. His gut twisted at her words. “Why are you here, Elizabeth?”
As though realizing her faux pas, she dropped her hand to the book she still pressed against one side. “I came to show you something.”
He gestured to his desk, piled with papers. “I spend my days working. In the future, please send a note requesting my company so that I can adequately plan ahead.”
Elizabeth flinched. Her eyes flickered up, then lowered in a subservient manner. One that he'd always tried to tease her out of. She held her head to the side, the cheek with the birthmark lowered so as to be hidden.
Even to his own ears, his words sounded unkind. An urge to apologize trampled through him. He could not bring himself to do so, though. Better to set boundaries now. He waited for her to speak.
“I shall remember that in the future,” she said quietly. Her hands twisted the novel. “I was hoping I might take a bit of your time to proposition you about something.”
“The last time you came here with a proposition, I ended up betrothed,” he said drily.
“No one forced you to offer in the first place.” A hint of steel entered her voice.
“True.” He cleared his throat. How he wished the scent of her perfume would not fill his office. “I do have much to accomplish. My father was a great businessman. He earned the title of gentleman, which he passed on to Peter and me. If that means I must work as hard as he did, or harder still, then I shall.”