Her fingers raked down the sides of his body.
“I want you,” he said. “I want every inch of you. Do you understand what I mean?”
She swallowed. “Yes,” she whispered.
He pulled away, kneeling upright and gripping the edge of the bath. Her first instinct was to pull him back to her. But with each breath, the fog around her mind cleared.
“I need you to want this,” he said.
Did she want this? She’d enjoyed it, every second. But it was all so much. So fast. She took another deep, clearing breath.
He didn’t make her say no. Her hesitation had been enough. Instead he stepped out of the bath and offered her his hand.
She wrapped the robe tight, keenly aware that it clung to her every curve. He handed her a towel.
“I’m going for a walk,” he said.
“Now? It’s dark and freezing out there.”
He smiled. “That’s kind of the point. I’ll see you at dinner, princess.”
He was almost through the door when she found her voice. “Wait,” she said.
He hesitated before turning around, and when he did, his expression seemed anxious.
“I…Uh…” She didn’t want him to leave thinking she hadn’t enjoyed what had just happened or that she hadn’t been a very willing participant. She also couldn’t bring herself to talk about it. “Thank you. That was quite illuminating.”
His face softened in relief. “Let me take you out tomorrow,” he said. “I want to share something with you.”
Chapter 12
Benedict took a deep breath as he dismounted. Bringing Amelia to Asterly, Barnesworth & Co. shouldn’t be a terrifying prospect. They would walk in, he’d introduce everyone, do a quick tour, and she could say what she liked about the place and wrinkle her nose in whatever manner she wanted. The firm would survive without her approval.
He took her by the waist and helped her off her horse, the scent of jasmine and pear oddly helping to calm his frayed nerves. He held on a fraction longer than he needed to.
“So this is where you…work.” Amelia surveyed the collection of colossal stone buildings in front of them. There was no open expression of distaste; it was more a look of suspicion, maybe a touch of uncertainty.
From inside, his beloved engine let loose a shrill squeal, ear-piercing even through the wall of rock. Amelia covered her ears—her expression of uncertainty devolving into alarm.
“What in heaven’s name is that?” she yelled over the noise.
He bent close to her, putting a hand to the small of her back to let her know that he was right behind her. And also because he just liked touching her. “You’ll see.”
Drawing her hand into the crook of his arm, he pulled her close, taking pleasure in the way she pressed up against him. A streak of protectiveness shot through him.
He paused when they reached the door, allowing her the room to change her mind, to back out if she wanted to.
But damn, he was glad she didn’t. He’d never had the occasion to show the firm off to anyone. Cassandra had practically grown up in it, and taking potential investors through was more about business than pride. This was the first time he was emotionally invested in what someone thought about the place he’d spent a lifetime building.
One glance at her face made his stomach flip. Gone was the often-present detached façade she kept in place whenever she was uncomfortable. Instead, she looked around with curiosity as she walked in, her interest roaming from the scaffolding that covered the walls and the roof to the workers grouped around evenly spaced workbenches.
He tried to see it as she might—crowded, busy, definitely filthy. A layer of coal dust coated everything. He’d designed the rooms with large windows for maximum light and ventilation, but dust still hung in the air. Black rivulets ran down his workers’ faces where it mixed with sweat. They wore damp cloths over their noses and mouths to prevent breathing in the dust.
“It’s…busy.”
It became less busy as men noticed them. His comrades, most of whom were bent over workbenches, stood to watch them with an uncertain stare. His attire likely wasn’t helping matters. He’d never come to the firm in formal wear. His boots were never this pristine. And only a fool wore a white shirt when working with coal. But today, he’d be a fool. If he was going to take his wife on an outing, he’d do it as properly as he could manage, clothes and all.
“Don’t mind us. We’ll stay out of your way,” he called.
The men turned back to their work, except for Oliver, who shed the thick leather gloves protecting his arms and strode toward them. Amelia shrank backward—most people did when faced with the giant.
“My lady,” Oliver said. He grabbed Amelia’s hand and pumped it in a forceful handshake.
She tensed, but her smile remained polite.
“This is my foreman, Mr. Johnson.” Benedict grabbed Oliver’s hand, ostensibly to shake it but really to free Amelia.
She flexed her fingers, checked the white satin of her gloves, and then clasped her hands firmly behind her back. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Johnson,” she said.
Oliver grinned like a half-drunk idiot. “You’re a right pretty one. You’ve got spun gold hair Rumpelstiltskin would want.”
She shot Benedict a questioning look, and he tried to contain his laughter. His foreman was a man’s man who told it like it was in plain terms. This flowery speech was unexpected. It was no wonder he was unmarried if this was how he spoke to women.
“You’re a veritable poet. What a delight.”
His foreman’s cheeks turned pink beneath the grime.
“I’m going to introduce her to the team,” Benedict said, guiding Amelia away.
He took her around the outskirts of the room, introducing her to the men working at each station and letting them explain their role in the production. Shockingly, she was in her element. It was blatantly apparent why she was such a popular figure of the ton. She listened, asked questions, and men relaxed under her apparent interest. She seemed at home, as if this were a ballroom and she was making chitchat with potential acquaintances. If she were uncomfortable, no one would know it.
Eventually, they walked through the giant doors that comprised one side of the building. Outside stood his pride and joy, rocking slightly and shooting steam.
Jeremy was feeding the engine with coal, his hands black from the sooty, sandy material, black streaks across his forehead and cheeks where he’d wiped away sweat.
Benedict had become accustomed to the buffeting force of heat near the engine, but Amelia shrank away, putting her hands up against the hot air.
He bent close to be heard over the roar. “This is Ten Tonne Tessie.”
“Tessie? You’ve named it?”
It had seemed like a good idea at the time. “At the moment, we’re focused on increasing the pressure of the engine. We’ve already succeeded in reducing her size.”
“And this is what the contract’s for? Is it safe?” Amelia yelled.
“Usually.”
Her head spun toward him, her eyes wide. “Usually?”
“There were a few issues during the development phase, but she’s been running for days this time. She’s looking good, isn’t she, Jeremy?”
The apprentice stoker didn’t answer. Instead he gave Amelia a withering stare and continued shoveling coal. If she had noticed the slight, she didn’t show it, thankfully. Benedict would speak with Jeremy later about his rudeness, when he wasn’t introducing his wife to the thing that took up every moment of his time not spent at home.
“Upstairs is where I work mostly.”
He took her back inside and up to the mezzanine that ran the perimeter of the room, lined with shelves stacked with books, paper, miniature prototypes, and curiosities he and his comrades had picked up over the years. A large office took up one corner.
John, his friend since the days of Eton and Oxford, was at a desk sketching with charcoal. He’d clearly been tackling a puzzl
e—his hair stuck up in a myriad of different angles. Benedict could always tell how far along his friend was in a project by the state of his hair.
John stood when they entered, fingers twitching at his side. Talking to people—particularly Amelia’s type of people—was not something he was comfortable with.
Benedict put a reassuring smile on his face as he said, “Lady Amelia, Mr. John Barnesworth. You might know his mother, Lady Harrow.”
Amelia proffered her hand. “Mr. Barnesworth, what a pleasure to meet you.”
“The p…p…pleasure is mine.” He bowed over Amelia’s hand with a lithe fluidity and grace that contradicted his awkward appearance and speech.
Benedict had always envied John his ability to look the part of a gentleman, even if his speech faltered when he was anxious. Benedict could dress in the finest attire, take every damned dance class, and still never look anything but a lumbering footman’s son.
Amelia stepped toward the desk and turned her focus to the sketches. “What are you working on?” she asked with the same easy grace as if she were asking about the weather.
“The thermal insulation properties of different lagging compounds. Nothing a lady would be interested in.”
Amelia’s polite smile tightened at the edges. “You could try me. I’m not entirely feather-headed.”
John flushed. “I d-d-didn’t mean…That is to say…I d-d-didn’t—”
“Relax, John.” Benedict sent Amelia a please-be-kind glare.
“Yes, well, I h-have to go.” He grabbed a handful of papers, crumpling them in his fist as he left the room.
Amelia watched him leave with surprise. “Well, that was unexpected. Really, did he think I was going to bite?”
“You do have a reputation.”
She smiled. “For devouring heads? My goodness. Tell me, am I the subject of bedtime stories?”
Benedict took a step closer, drawing her against his body. The sound of her breath, the warmth of her smile, the slight crinkle of her eyes as she looked up at him—it was all he could do not to throw her over his shoulder and take her home. “You’re the subject of my bedtime stories.”
Her mouth parted. “Benedict, I—” She put a hand on his chest, right over the increasing thump, thump, thump of his heart.
“Yes?”
“I think—that’s the worst line you’ve fed me yet.”
He grinned and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “It was worth trying.”
“We’re in public, Mr. Asterly. You must behave.” She stepped out of his arms, reminding him how formal her lot were. “But truly, I’m surprised to see Mr. Barnesworth out here, given how much you can’t stand the aristocracy. He’s the second son of Viscount Harrow, is he not?”
“Yes. But he has even less to do with the ton than I do.” Benedict went to the corner of the room where they’d set up a small stove and put the kettle on to boil. When he looked up, Amelia was still staring out the door John had just left through.
“A pity, he looked as if he’d be a magnificent dancer. How did you meet?” she asked, turning back to him.
Benedict stuffed his hands in his pockets, uncomfortable talking about his intensely private friend. “We were at Eton together and then Oxford. When I left, he chose to leave with me, and together we established Asterly & Barnesworth.”
John had left Oxford because he couldn’t bear the thought of facing his peers without Benedict’s hulking frame behind him as protection. As bad as it had been for Benedict being the subject of scorn, John had had it worse. His speech impediment had made him the subject of extreme mockery—terms like idiot, muttonhead, and simpleton thrown around often. His father had all but disowned him. Despite his extraordinary intelligence, he’d come close to flunking out of school. It was no hard decision for him to leave.
Amelia cocked her head, as if she were about to launch into another thousand questions.
To distract her, he turned away and gestured to the room. “Well, what do you think?”
Hands on her hips, she did a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn, taking in every single scribble, book, tool. Finally, she faced him. “Honestly? It’s chaos.”
As soon as the words were out of Amelia’s mouth, Benedict’s face fell, and she realized this might have been a good moment for some fortifying flattery. And if she were a better person, she would tell him how impressive it—he—was and leave it at that.
But she wasn’t a better person, and a spade was a spade.
“It’s utter chaos. How do you find anything?” She moved to the center table where Mr. Barnesworth had different sketches laid out. Some of them sat on top of a long tally of numbers. Others were stacked over a written document in completely different handwriting—Benedict’s, by the look of it. Papers were held down by half-drunk cups of tea, a screw here, a lump of coal there.
“It may not look very organized—”
She raised both eyebrows with a don’t-even-think-of-trying-it look. “This stack of papers, something to do with your engine, I’m assuming—” She grabbed the list of numbers.
“They’re pressure test results.”
“Yes, well, it’s right next to a bottle of…” She sniffed it then held it as far away as she could.
He tried to grab the pressure tests out of her hands, but she pushed the bottle of foul-smelling liquid at him instead.
“That’s Fiona’s latest project. It’s really quite interesting.” He placed it back on the table with exaggerated care. “You should probably be careful with that. It’s highly flammable.”
The complete lack of organization boggled the mind. “Then it should be put to the side where it won’t be knocked over. Nothing is labeled!”
He crossed his arms. “We know where everything is.”
Before she could reply, they were interrupted by the entrance of a red-headed woman. In breeches. Who walked in without looking up from the notebook she was writing in. “Ben, have you seen my analysis of the latest incendiary tests? I’m trying to nail down the appropriate sulfur ratios.”
Benedict rolled his eyes “Fi, your timing is dreadful.”
Amelia couldn’t help but smile in triumph. They clearly didn’t know where everything was, and she wanted to hug this new woman for handing her the proof.
But the woman did not look like she wanted to be hugged. In fact, the look she gave Amelia was highly suspicious.
“Lady Amelia, Miss Fiona McTavish. Fi, this is my wife. I was telling her that our filing system is more than adequate for our needs.”
Fiona snorted. “Our filing system is a pig-wallow or worse, but none of us has the time to fix it.”
It was the excuse given by everyone who lacked basic organizational skills. Amelia couldn’t help but tsk. “It takes just a few minutes at the end of each day to put things back where they belong.”
Benedict’s eyes almost bulged out of his head. “This coming from the woman aghast at having to make her own bed?”
She sniffed. “I didn’t say that I was doing the putting away. But I’m very good at making things happen.”
“Hmph.” Fiona put aside her notebook to really look at Amelia, who felt like a specimen under a glass. Which—given that Fiona was the one in men’s clothing, her hair tied in a queue rather than put up, and clearly at work in a factory—seemed rather backward.
Eventually, Amelia passed muster. “It’s an unexpected pleasure to meet you, my lady,” Fiona said, with no real authenticity.
Hmmm.
“I’m not sure why it’s unexpected, given my husband owns the business, but it’s a pleasure to meet you too.”
Fiona shrugged. “Unexpected because it’s hardly a place for a woman like yourself.”
Amelia wasn’t entirely sure of her place these days, but she did know that only she would determine where that was. “I’m heartily sick of being told what my place is. I would think a woman like yourself, who clearly forges her own path, would understand the sentiment.”
Benedict moved to intervene, but Amelia shook her head. Needing rescue by her husband was not the ideal first impression. This woman needed to understand that, though they might be in a factory, if there was a pecking order, Amelia was still on top.
Fiona stared at her for a long minute before nodding curtly. “Thank you for your creative approach to mending Ben’s shirts. Those flowers have been quite diverting.”
If that was what acceptance looked like from this woman, she would take it. “You’re welcome. It’s nice to know the effort was appreciated.”
“Before we give Amelia any more ideas, why don’t we have some tea?” Benedict said. “Fiona, join us.”
Fiona looked over her shoulder toward the exit. “I really need to find those reports.”
“Please. Join us.” He pulled out a stool and motioned for Fiona to sit, leaving Amelia to pull out her own stool. She couldn’t help but throw him a look as she yanked it back.
“I think the two of you are going to be great friends.” His tone was strained, as though he was struggling to convince himself of the fact.
They both stared at him, a synchronous roll of the eyes the only thing they shared.
“It would do you both good. Fi, you work too hard, and Amelia—”
“I what?”
“Never mind.” He went to the stove and removed the kettle from the flame.
That small act made Amelia’s heart thump. With the amount of loose paper around the stove and their obvious lack of care with flammable materials, it was a miracle the whole place hadn’t gone up in flames.
“If you moved the bench with all those doodads to where the bookcase is, the room would feel more open, and there’d be less chance of papers falling out of your…immaculate…filing system and onto the stove.” She turned to Fiona. “I don’t know how this place hasn’t burnt to cinders. I thought you scientists were supposed to have above average intelligence.”
“Nothing has burnt down yet,” Fiona said defensively. “We have everything in hand.”
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