“You’re mad,” Chris said.“Raking has to be more fun.”
With a hint of a smile, Nicholas rose from the table and made his way out of the dining hall.A sliver of the afternoon was still free.
He had promised to meet Miss Mitchell again, but they hadn’t formalized a certain hour.This errand would clear his head, give him time to think.Prepare him better than yesterday when she caught him so off-guard.He strode faster.
The smithy was a large wood-and-brick structure on the edge of the le Duc family property.
Nicholas knew little about the three siblings, save that they were French refugees fleeing Napoleon’s regime, had become talented blacksmiths, and were willing to rent Nicholas the entire workshop for an hour at a time, no questions asked.
Perhaps they needed the money.Or perhaps theydidn’tneed the money, and preferred to spend the afternoon competing in one of their famed carriage races.
Nicholas was simply grateful for the borrowed space.
He stepped into the workshop and breathed in a warm, comforting mixture of iron, dust, and grease.His shoulders relaxed.The familiar scent alone was better than any massage.
Today he was not here to work, but to explore.Inspect the arrangement, test the equipment, gauge the privacy.He walked about the interior, taking his time.
He could only imagine the fun the caricaturists would have if it ever came out that Nicholas Pringle, avowed rake and man-about-town, spent every moment outside the London Season holed up in a private workshop not unlike this one, creating art from boiling glass and red-hot metal.
It would be the death of his reputation.Death of the life he had built for himself.Glassblowing and mold-casting were not the activities of a Casanova, but the pastime of a recluse just as happy with his hands covered in calluses as in dancing gloves.
By Jove, was this a wonderful workshop.Nicholas had missed smelling of bronze and fire.Hated being away from his forge, his kiln.He spent long minutes inspecting each shelf, and the treasures it contained.This was exactly what he needed.
No amount of riding in Hyde Park or boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s or fencing with members of his club came close to the sensation of tumbling into bed at night after spending the entire day hard at work on his glass.
Nicholas did nothing with his creations, of course.Locked them in a wardrobe to gather dust.What else was he to do?He had no pretensions of becoming anartiste.That wasn’t what the world wanted from him.
But it didn’t mean he had to give it up completely.Not even here in Christmas.His pulse sang with joy as he inspected the workshop.It was perfect.Next time he would not rent it for an hour, but an afternoon.Or perhaps all night long.Once he started on a project, he was likely to forget all about time and—
Miss Mitchell!She was expecting him.He pulled out his pocket watch and grimaced.The hour had grown late so quickly.With a last glance toward the kiln, he forced himself to quit the smithy.He would come back soon.In the meantime, he didn’t want to miss his opportunity to convince Miss Mitchell to sellDuke.
As he hurried back toward the street, a tiny stone caught his eye.Intrigued, he bent to pick it up.As big as a strawberry and as smooth as a grape, its oblong surface glittered in the late afternoon sun as if dusted with fool’s gold.Nicholas grinned.
The color reminded him of Miss Mitchell’s eyes.Complex.Full of mystery.More beautiful than they were given credit for.He rubbed the pad of his thumb across the pretty stone, then shoved it into his pocket, irritated with his flight of fancy.
Those were precisely the sort of foolish thoughts Father had castigated him for as a child.Rocks weren’tpretty.A man’s sons needn’t always behave like gentlemen, but they ought to bemanly, for God’s sake.Did Nicholas want to be the laughingstock of Eton?
No, Nicholas had not wished to be the laughingstock of anywhere.Out of necessity, he’d learned to keep his inside separate from his outside.Make friends, seduce women, become the sort of man his father could be proud of.Publicly, at least.
Only his brother knew that Nicholas still dabbled with molten glass.But even Chris had not seen many of the painstaking creations.It was better that way.Easier.Nicholas couldn’t disappoint people if they didn’t know who he truly was.
He adjusted the rakish angle of his hat and strode up Miss Mitchell’s front walk.As before, she was the one who answered his knock.
Today, she looked as though she had lost a battle with a fire-breathing dragon.
Her leather boots were badly scuffed.Her linen frock was worn at the elbows and missing half of its trim.Her thick gray smock was stained with every color imaginable, and featured three suspiciously large holes that appeared to have been singed with some sort of corrosive liquid.Her oversized gloves were burnt in odd places, as if she’d put out a runaway fire by smacking at it with her hands.
Her hair was mostly clumped together in some sort of knot that hung precariously to one side, a forgotten pencil poking haphazardly from tangled curls.One freckled cheekbone was streaked with the remnants of white powder, and a tiny spot of soot marred the tip of her nose.He grinned.
She looked positively magnificent.
Like a Greek painting come to life.A capricious goddess who cared not one whit what mere mortals thought of her.She didn’t hide.Wasn’t ashamed to be herself at all.The concept was as baffling as it was intoxicating.
“You smell like biscuits,” he blurted.
“They’re cold.”She narrowed her eyes at him reprovingly.“You’re late.”
He pulled up short.“Did we agree upon a time?”
