Chapter 1
Somewhere outside Bristol, 1882
Adelaide couldn’t stop thinkingabout the blacksmith’s hands.
Were it not the hottest day in June thus far, she would have been inside the carriage with her nose buried in her copy ofThe Odysseyand missed the man, which would be ludicrous because he wasenormous.But she’d been gulping down fresh air after being trapped for hours, waiting for someone to attend to the horse’s thrown shoe, when she saw him.
The way he’d lifted the leg of that massive horse, the thick fingers wrapping around, holding the hoof in place while he crooned softly to calm the beast. What would those hands feel like gripping her thighs, her breasts—
“Miss Kimball?”
Her eyes flew up to meet those of her chaperone, the appropriately named Mrs. Bumbletwit. From the moment one of her father’s underlings assigned the curmudgeonly woman and her equally irritating husband as Adelaide’s companions for the journey, she had buzzed around her charge as a constant irritation.
She must have noticed Adelaide’s hungry gazes towards the blacksmith, because the woman had shuffled her inside the stifling carriage, leaving them both to sweat profusely in the name of propriety. “Yes?”
Her chaperone blinked owlishly, as though she hadn’t planned on what to do if Adelaide responded. “How is your book?”
“Delightful. I’ve just reached the point where Calypso releases Odysseus from captivity. It’s quite tragic, with his wife left behind and longing for him. Should I summarize the first four books for you?”
Mrs. Bumbletwit’s eyes glazed over before she blinked again. “No, no, that won’t be necessary.”
Adelaide mentally cheered. She’d readThe Odysseyenough times that she could recite the story with sufficient excruciating detail to bore her chaperone into a slumber without reading directly from the text.
A good thing, as she’d pasted pages from the erotic magazineThe Pearlover Homer’s poetry. A girl had to keep occupied somehow.
“Have you considered what you’ll do if your husband doesn’t enjoy the classics?”
Adelaide mimicked a mien of deep thought. She’d never been an expert on appropriate conversation topics for the English, despite having resided among them for nearly two decades. When famed industrialist Jeremiah Kimball had extracted all the wealth he could manage from North America, he tookhis railroad empire overseas, dragging his reluctant wife and adolescent daughter along. The American interloper bought an ostentatious estate out from under an indebted lord and set his sights on implanting the Kimballs in thehaut ton.
Her obscene wealth ensured Adelaide was the best-dressed woman in every ballroom, but, as her first and second seasons came and went without a proposal, she learned having access and gaining acceptance were distinct entities. High society treated her with caution, as though beingnouveau richewas contagious. Suitors intrigued by her dowry were quick to dismiss her once they discovered she would never be tamed into a demure Englishwoman, someone who spoke softly, practiced her watercolors and needlepoint, and knew the proper way to address peers of the realm.
Adelaide would rather debate the Married Women’s Property Act and smoke cigars.
“Lord Clements and I will have other things to discuss, I’m sure,” Adelaide said in a saccharine tone.
The woman harrumphed, causing the clump of mismatched feathers on her hat to dip far enough to tickle her upturned nose. “I can’t imagine what. I’ve heard his politics areliberal.”
She pressed her hand to her chest in mock outrage. “However shall I survive?”
“He’ll be grateful to have that dowry of yours,” Mrs. Bumbletwit continued, apparently not noticing how Adelaide’s mouth had twisted into a grimace.
“I’m sure he’d rather have his wife.”
Another sigh, and Adelaide wondered if her chaperone had even heard her. “You’re fortunate he has no need of an heir.” She shuddered, then took up her needlepoint, stabbing repeatedly at what was either an ugly robin or a gruesomely deformed hedgehog. “Nasty business, that.”
“My understanding is the heir-making process can be rather fun, but it’s the birthing of said heir that’s a hassle.”
The older woman paused her stitching and fixed Adelaide with a look sharper than any needle. “Ladies don’t speak of such things in polite company.”
Adelaide hummed as she brought her attention back to her book, calculating how many more hours she’d have to suffer the woman’s companionship before they arrived at her new home in the village of Barrington, deep in the heart of Somerset. Her marriage to Lord Clements would not be a passionate one, but any sexual titillation she required could come from the pages of a magazine.
Adelaide had read her fair share of erotic literature. Impressive illustrations of cockstands, vivid descriptions of sensual prowess and carnal endurance, explanations of creative combinations of menages… But nothing she’d read had prepared her for how enticing she found the blacksmith’s hands.
Long, thick fingers with the slightest dusting of dark hair. Rough palms, striped with scars. Those hands contained power, able to control and create. But he’d treated the massive bay with unexpected care. And as large as his hands were, the rest of him must be…
The door to the carriage swung open, and Mr. Bumbletwit, his bowler askew, popped his head inside. “Wonderful news, ladies. Mr. Shipley has everything back in order and we’re set to depart.”
“Who is Mr. Shipley?” Mrs. Bumbletwit asked.
