‘I’m keeping away from the furnace.’ Eleanor shook her head. ‘Mr Swaddle worries too much. Normally I wear breeches but...anyway, it doesn’t matter. Today was a reminder of what needs to come first.’
Ben’s stomach twisted. She’d worn the dress because of him. ‘I’m sorry I was late, but...’
‘Serves me right for being vain,’ she said, not letting him finish. ‘It won’t take me long to clean up. I gave my word to put this part of my world to rights. You can wait in my office. We’ll go then.’
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Ben asked, refusing to let her dismiss him. ‘It will be quicker.’
‘I can handle it on my own.’ She took off her gloves and placed them on the bench. Her engagement ring gleamed in the shadows of the shed. ‘It won’t take me long. I know where everything goes.’
‘But I want to help.’
‘It is not necessary.’ She quickly and efficiently picked up the tools and placed them in a large wooden box. As she moved her apron slid over her curves, highlighting the fact that she was very much a woman rather than some burly steelworker. ‘Truly it is not. I know what I am doing. It is not as if I am a novice. I grew up in this place.’
‘Then I will stay and keep you company. I want to.’ Silently Ben willed her to understand. He wasn’t about to leave her after what she’d just been through. Someone needed to look after her. It amazed him how important she’d become to him in the past few weeks.
‘Nothing else is going to happen, if that is what you are worried about.’ She gave an irritated shake of her head which only served to emphasise the difference between her femininity and this place. ‘I’m almost done. Mr Swaddle’s favourite chisel has rolled under the table in the confusion. Once that is retrieved we can go.’
She knelt down in the muck and dirt, reaching forward, then gave a muffled curse and drew back her arm sharply.
‘What’s wrong, Eleanor?’
‘Listen to me prattling on about safety,’ she said, rubbing her wrist. ‘I wasn’t paying attention and my arm has knocked the crucible.’
‘How bad is the burn?’
She lifted her head towards the ceiling and blinked rapidly. ‘Today is far from my day. Give me a moment. I will be fine.’
‘Let me see,’ Ben said. ‘Show me and let me be the judge.’
She reluctantly held out her wrist. He could see a fading red mark, as well as three faint scars obviously from other similar accidents. It tore at his heart to see her delicate flesh marked in that fashion. Silently he vowed that he’d do everything in his power to make today the last day that such a thing happened.
‘You’ve burnt yourself like this before?’
‘Not for a long time.’ Her unflinching gaze met his. ‘When I first started I had to prove that I could do everything. It was the only way I could gain the men’s respect.’
‘And when you were burnt? What happened then? Did they respect you more?’ he asked softly.
Her lips turned up in a tiny smile. ‘I made sure that I didn’t give way to hysterics and that did it. It is far from easy to run this sort of place if the men don’t respect you. My grandfather taught me that.’
‘But you have their respect now. You don’t have to try any more.’
‘My wrist has stopped hurting.’ She lifted her arm. ‘All gone.’
He shuddered to think of what she had gone through. She was making light of it, but he knew it had to have been hard. If anything the knowledge renewed his determination to make her life easier. He wanted her to understand that she didn’t have to stand alone any more. She didn’t have to pretend to be better than a man any more. He was there to help her.
He rubbed his thumb over the inside of her wrist. The silky-smooth skin slid under the pads of his fingers.
‘It doesn’t seem too bad, but allow me to bathe it in cold water. Put my mind at ease.’
She pulled back. Her eyes became fierce. ‘You don’t have to. I can look after myself. Always have done. Consider it a fiancée’s prerogative.’
‘I insist. You have me to look after you now.’
‘When you put it that way...how can I refuse?’
He lifted a ladleful of water and dribbled it over her wrist. The mark faded to nothing. He brought the wrist to his lips and was unable to resist licking an errant drop of water from her skin. Her skin tasted of heat and of something pure Eleanor. ‘There, you see—all better.’
Fighting his instinct to take her in his arms and kiss her, he forced himself to step away from her and to remember where they were.
She stood gazing at the broken crucible as she cradled her wrist. ‘It was my fault, you know, despite what Mr Swaddle said.’
‘The accident? How could that be your fault?’ he said as lightly as he dared.
‘I was the one who insisted on using that particular crucible. I brought it from home,’ she said with a tremor in her voice. ‘I thought it would be good luck. And now Mr Swaddle will be off work for weeks. It was my stubbornness. I wouldn’t listen when he suggested that we use another crucible. Only that one would do. It was wrong of me!’
‘Hush, it is over now.’
‘It can be so hard to forget.’ Her hands started to shake.
He reached out and drew her into his arms. She drew a shuddering sigh and laid her head against his chest. He closed his eyes and held her tight. Her body quivered, but slowly she relaxed and stilled.
‘All better now, Eleanor?’ he murmured against her hair.
‘I forgot to put the chisel away,’ she said, leaning back against his arms. Her cheeks flamed a bright pink. ‘Mr Swaddle will be upset if everything is not properly put away.’
‘You talk too much,’ he said, inhaling the floral scent of her hair. He wound a strand around the end of his finger.
‘Do I?’
Her lashes framed her grey eyes and her mouth had turned a particularly appealing shade of deep rose. He lowered his mouth and tasted. He’d meant it to be a gentle touch, but the instant his lips met hers a wild heat surged through him. Hot. Molten. He knew he had to drink his fill, but he also knew where they were. Patience.
He placed a kiss on the corner of her mouth, intending to stop. She twined her arms about his neck and pulled him closer, brought his mouth back to hers. There was a faint desperation in her kiss, as if she were battling demons.
Her lips opened under the pressure. His tongue touched hers. Rather than drawing back, her tongue played with his, tangled and teased. Life-giving, but awaking a deep-seated hunger within him—a hunger he had been sure had vanished. He wanted to devour her and sink into her softness. He wanted to spend time exploring and unwrapping her, bringing her to the heights of passion. But not in a dusty shed, and not now.
He froze, and the realisation that he’d failed to explain why he was late hit him. Eleanor needed to know now. Before anything else untoward happened.
‘We must stop,’ he murmured in her ear, trying to cling to his final breath of sanity. ‘There is something you need to know. Something I should have said earlier.’
‘Hmm?’ She buried her hands in his hair and pulled his mouth back to hers. ‘It can wait.’
‘Benjamin!’ an aristocratic woman’s voice thundered from just outside the shed door. ‘When are we going to meet this fiancée of yours? You promised.’
Chapter Seven
Eleanor jumped back from Ben’s arms. Ice-water splashed through her veins. A woman was outside the shed, looking for him! She’d never have kissed him like that if she’d thought... And certainly not if she’d known that he’d brought someone with him.
‘Who’s that?’ she asked in a panicked whisper, looking over her shoulders towards the open door.
‘My mother. Mama arrived for our wedding this morning. Unexpectedly.’ Ben ti
lted his head to one side. ‘That is why I was late. Why I was looking for you. I wanted you to meet her.’
The news thudded through Eleanor. His mother! Here! Somehow, when she’d thought about it, meeting Ben’s only parent had always been going to happen some day in the distant future, when Eleanor was beautifully dressed and thoroughly in control. Certainly not today and like this. Today was lurching from one disaster to another.
Eleanor put her hand on her stomach to quell the butterflies. This was far worse than dealing with something concrete, like Mr Swaddle’s injury or a slight burn to her wrist. This was about dealing with a woman who was used to operating in the highest echelons of society. And she wanted to make a good impression. Her stepfather’s taunts thudded through her—scarecrow, ragamuffin, distinctly lacking in any grace. Apt descriptions of how she must look at the present time.
‘But you should have said when you first saw me,’ she said, scanning his face to see if she could discern how big a fright she looked.
His hand smoothed a tendril of hair from her forehead. ‘Other things took precedence. My mother is very anxious to meet you. You intrigue her. I can’t remember when she has been this insistent about going somewhere.’
Eleanor’s heart thudded. Ben’s mother was here. In the yard. Surrounded by all the daily activity of the foundry. With expectations! And he was acting as if it were the smallest thing. He should have given her notice. A week. No, two. Lady Whittonstall was probably the sort of woman who ferreted out the smallest infraction and the slightest hint of bad taste.
Eleanor covered her aching mouth with her hand, well aware of the picture she must present—hair tumbling down her back, soot-stained, and now thoroughly kissed. More street urchin than lady. Her face flamed.
‘This is the worst possible time!’ Eleanor frantically tried to find a hairpin to twist her hair up, while trying to remove the heavy apron and wanting the earth to swallow her all at the same time. ‘How could you allow this to happen?’
A smile tugged at his mouth and his eyes darkened to warm embers. ‘We were busy. First with Mr Swaddle’s burn and then yours...’
‘You know what I mean,’ Eleanor whispered. ‘What is going to happen now? Whatever shall I do?’
A smile tugged at his mouth. ‘Meet my mother. She has come all the way from London for the purpose.’
‘Impossible!’ Eleanor squeaked. She knew she wasn’t ready to meet Ben’s mother. An excuse. She needed an excuse. She saw Mr Swaddle’s toolbox and knew she had it. Iron-clad and copper-bottomed. Her breath came a little easier. ‘Absolutely impossible. The foundry is terribly busy. You know what’s happened. Mr Swaddle will be out for weeks. Men will have to be reassigned. We need to keep the steel production up. We have a five-month waiting list as it is. I can’t possibly have visitors poking around today. There are a million things I have to do. I am behind schedule.’
He put a finger against her lips, stilling her. ‘Eleanor, Mama wants to meet you—not do an inspection of your men and your business. Rather than resting at Broomhaugh, she came in the carriage with me to fetch you. She is bustling with excitement at the prospect.’
‘But—’
‘Take it as a compliment. I don’t think she has ever met a businesswoman before.’
Compliment? Lady Whittonstall would be looking for a reason to criticise. Eleanor knew it in her bones. She’d come up here to cause mischief and possibly to stop the wedding. She’d guessed immediately that a businesswoman would not be the right sort of material for a viscountess. That was why she’d demanded to see Eleanor immediately, rather than arranging a mutually convenient time.
Why hadn’t he presented his mother with a fait
accompli? Or come up with a way to stall her? Eleanor chewed her lip.
‘Benjamin! I can hear you in there! Are we staying here in this...this yard, or are you going to take me to your fiancée?’ The imperious voice became more insistent.
He lifted an eyebrow. Eleanor shook her head and started to back away. His finger clamped around her wrist, lightly holding her there.
‘Take a deep breath and greet her. What do you have to be ashamed of?’
Eleanor stared at him. He didn’t understand. She knew the way such women judged other women. She knew what society thought of women who worked. Algernon’s attitude was typical—she was a freak of nature. But she was successful at her chosen job. And she wanted her future mother-in-law to see what a success she was—even if that success was outside his mother’s usual notions.
‘Why is your mother here at all?’ Eleanor whispered in a furious undertone. ‘We’ve agreed on a quiet wedding. You might have let me know she was arriving. You must have known.’
‘Once she heard the news Mama moved heaven and earth to get here.’
Ben’s eyes crinkled at the corners and Eleanor could tell that he was pleased to have his mother there. But the information only increased her disquiet.
‘Her arrival this morning was a complete surprise. Is that a problem?’
‘Yes! My dress! My face!’
He peered down at her and his smile increased. ‘You look delightful. Stop worrying.’
Eleanor’s heart did a small leap. He thought her delightful. As quickly as the thought came she quashed it. A delightful scarecrow was more like it. She tried to smooth her hair and knew she’d only succeeded in making it worse when the entire ensemble tumbled about her shoulders.
‘You are impossible! Let me go. Give me five minutes and I will make myself decent.’
‘Mama will be impressed by what you do here and everything you have accomplished. What you look like doesn’t change that.’ Ben put his hand in the middle of her back and propelled her towards the door and out into the yard.
An immaculately dressed woman who appeared to be fresh from the pages of La Belle Assemblée or one of the other fashion magazines stood in the centre of the yard. A fairy creature from another world. It was hard to believe that she was Ben’s mother. At first glance she appeared barely old enough to be his sister.
Eleanor winced as Lady Whittonstall’s gaze travelled around the foundry’s yard. Her increasing frown told Eleanor all she needed to know about what she must think of Moles. Eleanor wished she had had time to make sure the various bits of metal, old grindstone and broken lathes were cleared away. On her great-grandmother’s apple tree the browning blossom was far more noticeable than the new leaves. To add insult to injury, the carriage had stopped beside a large muddy puddle. Lady Whittonstall’s kid boots were now less than immaculate.
If she wanted a primer on how to make a poor impression upon someone who could be very important in her life, this was it.
‘There you are, Benjamin. I’ve been calling and calling for you,’ Lady Whittonstall pronounced, daintily stepping around the puddle. ‘That wretched footman hasn’t returned and you left me. Abandoned me.’
‘I had to find Miss Blackwell,’ Ben replied evenly. ‘I hardly abandoned you, Mama. Exaggeration fails to become you, as you used to always say when I was a boy.’
Eleanor moved behind Ben’s bulk. The day was turning into a disaster of epic proportions. She tried to smooth her skirts, twist her hair up—everything and anything. She put her hand to her cheek and noticed it came away dark with dust. Hardly an advertisement for a successful and prosperous woman—someone who was worthy to be a viscountess.
If she retreated slowly there was a slim possibility that she could make it to the office before Lady Whittonstall truly registered who she was. Once there, she could make herself decent. Cowardly, yes, but utterly necessary. She took a step backwards.
‘And this is where Miss Blackwell works?’ Lady Whittonstall’s face bore a look of studied interest, the sort of practised expression she must use when her
musicians played out of tune. ‘So much activity. So many workers. So
much...industry. It is all terribly intriguing. I had no idea. And Miss Blackwell runs everything with her own fair hand? Is this paragon of virtuous industry about, or is she busy elsewhere?’
With the slightest curl of her lip the dowager Lady Whittonstall made the words virtuous industry sound like something unmentionable rather than something to be proud of. Eleanor continued her retreat.
‘This is Eleanor Blackwell—my intended.’ Ben’s hand was planted firmly in her back, preventing her from slinking further away.
Lady Whittonstall’s gaze travelled up and down Eleanor and Eleanor knew that it instantly took in everything—from her dishevelled hair to the stains on her gown. She raised a delicate eyebrow when her gaze rested on Eleanor’s dirty hands. Eleanor hurriedly put them behind her.
‘There was a slight incident with the furnace,’ Eleanor began. ‘We are at sixes and sevens. I must apologise for the disorder. Normally—’
A single raised eyebrow stopped her. ‘You take an active role in the business? Incredible.’
‘Someone has to, Mama,’ Ben explained. ‘What Miss Blackwell has accomplished is nothing short of phenomenal.’
‘When you said your intended was a businesswoman, I expected something...something else.’ Lady Whittonstall gestured about her. ‘I had imagined something genteel—something quaint and charming. This—this is a large concern. Your fiancée is a captain of industry, Benjamin.’
‘The best sword manufacturer in England,’ Eleanor said, keeping her head up. Would Ben’s mother have preferred that she live in poverty, perhaps sewing a few seams and existing on snippets of toast? ‘Moles is one of the largest employers in the area.’
‘And is everything all right? Have we come at a bad time? Benjamin, you should have told me. All one has to do is look to see that something is amiss.’
Eleanor crossed her arms and hoped that she could retain a leash on her temper. Lady Whittonstall’s tone implied that the foundry must have been hit by a great tragedy, given its state. ‘There was a problem with a crucible of molten steel breaking. Ben assisted me in preventing it from getting worse. There are not many men who would do what he did.’
His Unsuitable Viscountess Page 10