“My goodness, that’s quite a statement.”
“It’s true nonetheless.” Then he leaned forward, deciding that he might as well use his discomfort to his advantage. If he was attracted to the woman, then he should let it show and flirt. “In fact, I have the most gorgeous bolt just for you. It’s a little heavier—meant for late fall—but the color would be spectacular on you.”
“On me? But I assure you, I have no need—”
“You’re coming out of mourning soon. You must be.” He set aside his tea and crossed to the nearest pile of fabric. Sorting through them, he lifted then discarded his choices. He knew what he was looking for. So where was it? “Oh yes! I set it aside for a different customer,” he lied. In truth, he’d meant to bring it out later as a temptation. After the primary order was made, he would bring it out as a last temptation to increase her order. But now that she was here, he knew that it had been made just for her.
He lifted it up, feeling the exquisite softness and seeing the design. He had been the one to first draw this pattern, not that he’d tell her that. But when he turned and held the fabric up to her face, he knew he’d done it all just for her.
“This is it,” he said softly.
He angled her toward the mirror and let her see. The fabric was a dark rose, light enough to be joyous, but still not a full pastel. It brought out the color in her skin. But what made the piece truly stunning was the intricate pattern embroidered on top. Nothing so girlish as flowers. This was a design in abstract. He’d been looking at a candle flame, and the pattern had come to him. Yellows, oranges, and red burned on the area that would be the bodice. There were matching flames for the skirt. The end result would make her appear to be wreathed in candlelight.
“Touch it,” he said. “It’s a special wool that we make mixing in the fur from a thousand rabbits.”
“Rabbits!”
“Angora rabbits, in fact. Go ahead. Feel it against your skin.” He didn’t wait until she complied. Instead, he brushed it across her cheek.
She gasped, as he knew she would. The first feel of angora wool was always the best. Wool from sheep was one thing—and his factory had some of the best—but nothing could compare to his angora blend.
“Imagine yourself walking into a ballroom wearing this. The chandeliers are above you, but the crowd parts seeing only you. Like a living flame among them.”
“Mr. Grant, I am not a woman who likes flattery.”
“Every woman likes flattery, Mrs. Knopp,” he countered. “But in this, I only speak the truth. I’ll show you. But first cover your eyes.”
“Mr. Grant!”
“Shh!” He gently set his hand over her eyes. She closed them, of course, and he told himself the caress across her brow was only in the service of his sale. Still, he couldn’t help but note how soft her skin felt or that there was heat in her face. When was the last time she blushed? he wondered. Not lately, he’d wager.
Meanwhile, he draped the fabric about her, covering her ugly black dress with ease.
“Shall I look?”
“Not yet,” he said. He quickly crossed to the window and pulled the curtains shut. Then he lit two candelabra, setting them on either side of her. Just as he’d thought, the dress picked up the dance of the flames. When she moved, she would draw every eye in the room.
He smiled, proud of his creation. But more, he was awed by her beauty. “Now,” he said. “Open your eyes and see.”
He watched as her impossibly long lashes lifted, and she looked into the mirror. She blinked then she frowned, but not in disappointment. She seemed more startled than anything. As if she had forgotten what she looked like in anything but black.
“Your skin is flawless,” he said as he stepped behind her. “A gown made from this will bring out the color of your lips and the blush across your… cheeks.” The hesitation was deliberate as his gaze dropped lower to where the soft curve of her breasts might show.
“The design is so pretty,” she murmured, touching the precise stitches. “It’s like…”
“Fire?”
“Yes, but more delicate.” She met his gaze in the mirror. “It’s beautiful.”
“It was made for you,” he said, meaning every word.
Dance with her, his madness prompted. And for once, he obeyed, touching her elegant fingers with his own.
“I can see you at a ball, Mrs. Knopp. The men have been watching you, but someone has claimed the waltz. He bows before you and takes your hand.”
“Really, I don’t think—”
“It’s harmless, Mrs. Knopp. Let yourself pretend, if only for a moment.” He didn’t give her the chance to object. Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed her flesh before bowing. Once he had been counted a good dancer, and he drew on that memory now. She was wrapped in fabric, so he did what he could, draping the tail end over his shoulder. Then he began to hum.
“That’s a pretty tune.”
“Really? Trust me, I’m accounted a much better dancer than a musician. And now, if you will, Mrs. Knopp?”
He resumed humming and then swept her into a waltz. There was very little room, but he had danced on crowded floors before. In truth, it made it all the more thrilling as he spun her around and around.
Her mouth opened on a gasp, but he was focused on her eyes. They sparkled. It was the candle flames reflected, but it was also the way her skin crinkled at the corners. Her cheeks flushed, and her mouth curved. She had not spent much time dancing. Neither had he, in truth, and none at all for the last five years.
So while he hummed his tune, he let himself go as well. He whirled them both around, and he gloried in the feel of a flesh and blood woman in his arms. One who meshed with his steps, even though there were layers upon layers of clothing between them. One who delighted in the play and smiled as if it were Christmas morning.
They danced for as long as he could manage, but eventually, their steps slowed. In time, they came to a stop, breathless, and still he could not look away from her eyes.
Kiss her!
He swallowed, the desire nearly overwhelming. But he had a task here, and so he forced his words to something equally lustful, just not as inappropriate.
“You must make a dress from this fabric,” he said. “I designed it for you. I didn’t know it at the time, but I do now. It was meant for you.”
Her eyes widened, and she looked at the embroidery. “You made this design?”
Damnation, he hadn’t meant to confess that. As a rule, ladies preferred women artists for their clothing. He stepped back, but he was held in place by the fabric he’d tossed over his shoulder. “O-of course not,” he stammered. “We have ladies who—”
“Poppycock,” she interrupted. “It was you.” She grabbed his arm. “I think it’s a wonderful design.”
“I—” Now his face was heating. And when was the last time he’d blushed? “Thank you, Mrs. Knopp. You are very kind.”
“And you are very talented.”
He all but rolled his eyes. “Pray don’t say that. I cannot let it be known—”
“That a man has created such a beautiful thing? I shall make a bargain with you. If you do not tell the other factories that Mr. Knopp is a woman, then I shall not share that the Wakefield Design Factory is run by a man.”
He felt his lips quirk in a smile. “Oh, you can tell everyone a man runs the place. You just cannot share that I take a hand in the more artistic aspects of the work.”
“And you do all the artistic designs?” she asked as she gently lifted the fabric off his shoulders.
“Of course not,” he said immediately. “I have some talented women who do the work for me. I only dabble every now and then. And really, it is the ladies—”
“If you continue to lie, I shall become cross and refuse to buy a single yard.”
He bit his lip and stepped back. “Did you not begin our conversation by saying that a woman knows a woman’s fashions best?”
She grimaced. “I did, I
suppose. So perhaps we should agree that gender means absolutely nothing if one is clever or talented. And I believe, Mr. Grant, that you are both.”
“And you, Mrs. Knopp, are full of surprises.”
She smiled as she began folding the bolt of fabric. Her hands lingered on the exquisite material, stroking the soft angora. He watched her closely, seeing the wistful expression, and he knew a moment of alarm. She did not intend to buy! She had the look of a woman putting a treat away.
“But you must buy it,” he said. “It was made for you!”
“No, Mr. Grant. It was made for a woman who goes to balls and dances with handsome young men.”
“Surely you attend parties. And you will not always be in black. How long before your mourning ends?”
“I—” She smiled, but it was a sad smile. “Soon, I suppose. But—”
He abruptly stepped forward, pressing it into her arms. “A gift then. Make it into the most beautiful gown, and dance in it.”
“A gift!” she gasped. “I can’t!”
Neither could he, if he were honest with himself. After all, his family’s future depended on the money he needed today. But the urge to see her in this gown was overwhelming. And so he did something he rarely did: he dispensed with games and became brutally honest.
“I need a sale today, Mrs. Knopp. Five hundred pounds.”
“Five hundred! Surely you do not expect that to come from my dress shop!”
“Surely, I do, Mrs. Knopp. You are the most exciting new dressmaker in London. Thanks to the new Lady Redhill, you are flooded with orders and cannot possibly have purchased all you need for the coming season.”
“You sell wools, Mr. Grant. Not ballroom silks.”
“Angora wool, Mrs. Knopp. For the older ladies or the ones not so plump in the pocket. For wraps against the cold and for dresses when the autumn leaves have fallen.”
She smiled, but shook her head. “Five hundred is too much.”
“For all this,” he said in an expansive gesture. “It is a bargain, and you know it.”
She blinked, looking about the room. “You would give me all of it?”
He nodded. “I would. For five hundred pounds cash. Today.”
“Today! I don’t carry that much money. Anyone who does is daft!”
True enough. “Banker’s check then. Surely you have that.”
She bit her lip, looking at the piles of bolts. Five hundred pounds was a bargain for all this. In truth, his conscience would be pricking him on the morrow for selling everything he had at such a low price. But he needed the money today, and she was his only hope.
“Are they damaged in any way?”
He stiffened. “Absolutely not!”
She looked about her slowly. Her good sense was telling her to say no. After all, five hundred pounds was a fortune. But the way she stroked the angora told a different story. She was tempted.
So he crossed to her side, stepping as close as they had been during their waltz. And he looked at her, saw the desire in her eyes, and remembered the feel of her body swaying in his.
Seduce her, his madness whispered.
He refused to do that. And yet her gaze shot to his and held. In it, he saw thoughts upon thoughts. Calculations, most likely—the rolling scroll of numbers in the brain that made one’s head ache. He knew the feeling well. And he knew if he let it continue, good sense would prevail, and he would be lost.
So he distracted her. He touched her cheek as a man might stroke his lover. He hadn’t intended it to be so intimate, but once his fingers met her cheek, his touch became a caress. His gaze slid to her lips. Her mouth was parted, an unconscious invitation. How he wanted to kiss her. How he wanted something a great deal more from her.
But he couldn’t. Not now. Probably not ever. So with a silent curse, he pulled back on his lust. Eventually, all he managed to do was moderate his words to a hoarse rasp.
“It is a good bargain,” he said. “For us both.”
You’re a fool, his madness said.
“Yes,” she whispered. For a moment, he thought she was agreeing to something else entirely. But then she elaborated—because she was a smart businesswoman—making her wishes very clear.
“Yes, Mr. Grant, I will buy everything you have for five hundred pounds.”
Idiot! You’re worth more than that!
“Sold.”
***
Grant’s madness was strangely silent as he sauntered into Mr. Rigby’s office. It made him nervous, but nothing could suppress the simmering excitement in his blood. Meanwhile, he was startled to see that Lord Lawton was already in the solicitor’s office. He was reading the newspaper as he sat across from Rigby’s huge desk. Both aristocrat and solicitor rose to their feet as Grant entered. In truth, Grant was somewhat surprised to see Lawton there. Certainly the man had been invited to this meeting, but aristocrats, as a rule, did not arrive at appointments on time. In fact, Grant had once thought himself punctual if he reported within an hour of the agreed-upon moment.
He greeted each man cordially, but then quickly got down to business. He couldn’t suppress a grin as he handed the solicitor a neat stack of papers that included Mrs. Knopp’s banker’s check right at the top.
“It’s all there,” he practically crowed. “Took me until this morning, Lawton, but I finally did it.”
“You’ve enough to buy back your lands?” Lawton asked, surprise clear in his voice. Mr. Rigby wasted no time in sitting down to inspect every sheet. As he worked, Lawton peered over the man’s arm. “Amazing. And here I thought I’d been summoned to endure begging for an extension.”
Grant stiffened at the insult, though God knew there’d been reason to doubt. That was exactly what the old Grant would have done. Five years ago. Before he’d turned over a new leaf. Before he’d learnt what it meant to work in a factory, day in and day out, until his hands bled and his mind screamed.
“I wouldn’t insult you like that,” he said stiffly.
Lawton shrugged as he straightened up. “Wouldn’t be an insult. Besides, I would have just said no. Got plans for that land.”
Grant leaned back in his chair. “Of course you do. You’re selling it back to me. Every last rock, leaf, and drop.”
Lawton looked over to where the solicitor was making a neat column of figures. The man was tabulating. Grant barely minded. Solicitors had to make their money somehow, and he would personally damn any man who wasn’t excruciatingly correct with his accounts. So, he didn’t begrudge the man the time he took. Well, he didn’t begrudge it much. Not until the man started going through it again. For a third time.
“It’s all there,” Grant said. “A statement from my bank and my solicitor detailing the amount I have at my disposal. Add in Mrs… er, Mr. Knopp’s check, and it’s more than adequate.”
“Of course, my lord,” the solicitor answered without more than a cursory glance upward. “But if you will forgive me a moment, I really must check a few things.”
Grant had no choice but to agree. So he waited in a pretense of patience as Lawton tried to make small talk.
“Have to say, I was surprised to get your note. Haven’t heard a whisper from you in five years. Your brother said he hadn’t heard either.”
Grant just nodded. His brother, Will, was steward of the Crowley land. Always had been, practically from when the boy’d been in leading strings. Best damn steward in England, and it had hurt to watch the man work for Lawton these last five years. Grant couldn’t wait to tell his little brother that they could finally work together, just as it ought to be. Crowles running Crowle land, making the most of their heritage as had been for centuries. Assuming one ignored the rather ignoble last five years. Fortunately, that was all at an end now.
And on that thought, the solicitor finally stopped tabulating. The total was at the bottom of the page. Exactly right, he noted with pleasure. And exactly the amount needed to buy back the land.
“I’m so sorry, Lord Crowle,” Mr. Rigby s
aid. “But there is not enough. Not enough by far.”
Grant bolted upright in his seat. “The devil you say! That is absolutely everything I need! In fact, it’s 335 pounds more than our agreed-upon total!”
Far from appearing alarmed, Mr. Rigby barely blinked as he pushed forward a document. It was the same damned document that he’d signed five years ago. The one that gave all the Crowle family’s land—every inch that wasn’t entailed—to Lord Lawton on the condition that Grant had five years to buy it back. That five years ended today, and here he was ready to buy it all back.
“You are correct, my lord,” the bastard solicitor was saying. “The amount you’ve brought is approximately 335 pounds more than what the land was worth five years ago.”
“That’s what I said!”
“Yes, my lord. But if you would look here.” The bastard leaned over his desk to point at a particular clause. “It says you have five years to buy back the land at a fair price.”
“This is a damned fine price, and you know it!”
Mr. Rigby pursed his lips and looked at Lord Lawton. Grant followed the gesture, turning to his nemesis. Lawton looked almost apologetic, but there was no compromise in his words. If anything, there was an undercurrent of anger in his voice. “Perhaps you were unaware of the improvements I’ve made to the land.”
Grant swallowed, his breath abruptly caught in a tight throat. Five years ago, he hadn’t understood much about improvements and what they did to profitability and value. He hadn’t bothered to think that far ahead. But he was now, and he couldn’t stop the fear that churned inside.
“Yes,” continued Lawton. “I’ve made significant improvements to the crofters’ homes and their livestock.”
“I knew you would. That’s what the extra 335 pounds are for.”
“And I built a canal.”
Grant blinked. A canal. Bloody hell, Will’s idea for a canal. Lawton had gone and done it. “That was my brother’s idea,” he murmured. And it was the first improvement Grant had intended to make once he gained control.
“Perhaps it was,” Lawton said with a grin. No question now. There really was an undercurrent of malice there. “Do I need to explain what that means to the value of the land? Doubled, Crowley, at the very least. If not tripled.”
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