“This was my—” She hid her stumble by pulling the apron over her head, knocking her old-fashioned mop cap askew. “This workshop belonged to Baroness Oliphant’s second husband. He was the manager of Oliphant Engraving—the best engraver the Oliphants had seen in a generation! And when he married her, he set this place up for himself to tinker in.”
As she spoke, she stretched up to hang the apron alongside the tools, and Max found himself studying her rear end. It was anicerear end; one he wouldn’t mind getting close enough to feel.
His palms were itching at the thought actually.
Well, hell, whatisit about this girl?
She turned back to him, arranging her cap and tucking in a few strands of hair, before he could really see the color. Her smilewas slight but lacked guile. He didn’t think she was flirting with him; as far as he could tell, she was treating him just like any other guest.
And to his surprise, he was irritated by that. He wanted to treat her like someone special, and for her to do the same to him.
Hmm.
His brain, in an effort to rescue him from the silence threatening to stretch too long, prompted his mouth to blurt out, “Baroness Oliphant!”
As her hands stilled their mop-cap-arrangements, one of her dark brows lifted. “Baroness Oliphant what?”
“What?”
“What about Baroness Oliphant? Or was that like a curse?Oh BaronessOliphant, I just slammed my thumb in the drawer!OrBy BaronessOliphant, it was hot out there today!Or were you just commenting on her general Baroness Oliphantness?”
Chuckling, Max shook his head, his hands dropping to his hips. “None of those things, but now that you mention it, I could see using her name that way.”
“Yes, but do not let her hear you. She can be nasty, and I speak from experience.”
Remembering the way he overheard the proprietress yelling for that poor girl, Max had to nod in agreement. “I can see that. But I guess what I was asking is, is she really a Baroness?”
“Sometimes, I think if she were not, she would have invented a way to be calledBaronessanyhow. Perhaps changing her name so it was legally her first name?” The girl shrugged and sent himanother grin over her shoulder as she fetched a small dustpan and tiny brush. “But yes, she is a lady, where the definition ofladyis a little loose, I must say.”
He watched her efficiently sweep the metal shavings from the worktable, as if she’d done it many times before. “I’m from America, where we don’t have lords and ladies.”
“One of your more charming characteristics,” she quipped, throwing him another grin over her shoulder, which had him shifting again as his trousers got tighter. “Although I know some Americans can be raised to almost lord-like status—the Midsummer Masquerade proved that.”
Max resisted the urge to frown, wondering what exactly she meant by that. Instead, he continued. “Well, I just mean that I don’t know a lot about ladies, but I was surprised she and her daughters aren’t staying at the Dumpkins house party.”
“Ooh, a sore subject.” The lass winked charmingly as she finished her sweeping. “She might carry the titlelady, but Machara has been forced intotrade, and thus is not quite the same level of gentry as the Earl of Dumpkins’s widow, or Laird Oliphant. They have been invited to attend select events at the party, but not to stay at Dumpkins Estate.”
Well that made sense—Max had seen plenty of snobbishness in America. “I suppose it’s unusual to see a lady running an inn.”
As she dumped the shavings into the bin, the girl gasped so theatrically, it had to be in mock outrage. “Not justaninn,sir, butThe Inn. With capital letters!” As she returned the pan to its place, she sent him a teasing smile. “The Oliphant Inn was originally a manor home, as you can imagine, belonging to the Barons Oliphant. Baroness Oliphant’s first husband—LordOliphant, not to be confused withLairdOliphant, whose dearly departed wife was also Lady Oliphant, although that was a title and not a name, as Lady Oliphant’s— Wait, where was I?”
He grinned. “Baroness Oliphant’s first husband.”
“Right.”
When she nodded and brushed her hands down her apron, his gaze followed and lingered on those hands. They were strong and callused—nothing like the lady’s gloved hands he’d touched at the ball—and looked capable.
And the thought of them touching him, touching hisskin, made Max shiver.
When she launched into speech again, with that sing-song cadence familiar to anyone who’s had to explain something to someone else, he forced his attention back up to her lips.
Which didn’t help the state of his trousers, frankly.
“So, Machara—sorry,Baroness Oliphant’s—first husband was Baron Oliphant, the most recent one, I mean. Which makes sense, because it is not as if she would be married to one of the dead ones—” She cut herself off and shook her head at her own rambling words, before continuing. “Never mind. Her first husband’s father gambled most of the estate away, then turned the manor house into The Inn”—Max could hear the capital letters—“and it has become a well-known establishment. Baroness Oliphant is quite proud of the fact.”
Max had to chuckle. “It’s hard enough to keep everyone straight without throwing in titles too.”
“I know it! Everyone is named Mrs. Oliphant, have you noticed? The cook, the baker, and of course, the teacher’s wife.”
