He nodded, dropping his hand to rest on the same workbench which was holding her upright. “I’ve been saving it. I’d hoped to find you again.”
“No,” she snapped, bitter. “You hoped to find thatladyagain.”
He only hesitated a moment, then dropped his chin in acknowledgement. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I thought she might need help. She ran away so fast.”
Hollowly, Ember tried to explain, though wondering why she bothered. “I ran away because I was not supposed to be there. My stepmother had forbidden me to go.” She took a deep breath and shrugged. “When I saw her readying Tiffany and Bonnie to leave, I realized I had to get home first.”
“Last night, when I realized who you were,” he began quietly, “I wasn’t sure how to treat you. You’d been acting like a servant, but I’d danced with you as a lady.”
As his words sunk in, Ember’s gaze snapped up to his. There was something in those lovely brown eyes, a sort of?—
She gasped. Was he accusingherof lying to him?
Anger flashed. “I am no lady,Mr. DeVille.I am just Ember. A—adrudge,” she bit out.
He didn’t back down, but she saw the muscles in his jaw flex as he thought about his answer. “I found out today you’re the stepdaughter of Baroness Oliphant. If Tiffany and Bonnie are ladies, so are you.”
Her harsh bark of bitter laughter surprised even her. “Impossible!” She held out her hands, palms up, as she said sarcastically, “Are these the hands of a lady?” Those hands plucked at the heavy leather apron she’d once again slipped overher serviceable gown. “Is this the dress of a lady? I am the one who keeps this place running. I am the one who, when possible, steals a few moments to myself so I can bang on metal.”
There. That summarized her life, didn’t it?
And why in the world did it sound so…empty?
He was studying her. “If you had a choice between being a servant and being a lady, which would you choose?”
Although his question had been quiet, she snorted as she turned away from him, stalking toward the carefully arranged tools. “What does that have to do with anything?”Where the hell was it? “If I could choose, I would choose to be an engraver.”Ah, there it is.
She reached for the graver she’d tossed carelessly away, pulling it from the row. “I amgoodat engraving.” The tool was perfectly weighted, fitting into her palm as if she’d been born with it there. “This—allof this—was my father’s. He taught me everything I know about the art, because he wanted me to be the first female employed at Oliphant Engraving. I could have been too…”
Had she not accepted the chores Machara heaped upon her. Oh, her stepmother had been wily at it; she’d started small, using the chores as an excuse to help Ember forget her grief after her father had passed. Ember had been so young, and she’d believed everything her stepmother had told her.
By the time she’d realized what had happened, she was the one keeping the inn going, and she was too busy to follow her dreams the way she’d wanted.
Too busy, or too scared?
Behind her, Max cleared his throat. “When you first told me about this workshop, you said it belonged to the baroness’s second husband. You didn’t say it was your father’s.”
Forcing her fingers to unclench, Ember inhaled slowly. She reached up to place the graver in its rightful place. “Machara does not like me to mention my relationship to her with the guests. Just like she harangues me if I do not cover my hair.” Ember shrugged, still staring at the neat line of tools. “It is easier to just do as she prefers.”
A pause. Then he asked quietly, “Wasn’t that a lie?”
She twisted to frown at him. “I did not—”Hadshe lied? “I just… I just did not say her husband was my father,” she began slowly.
“That’s true. And I didn’t lie—I just forgot to mention my last name. I’m sorry; meeting you felt personal enough that it didn’t even occur to me to give you a full introduction.” He straightened his shoulders, then dipped forward from the waist, as if in a formal setting. “Maxwell DeVille, at your service.”
She sniffed and tried to hold onto her resolve. “You already know me. I am just Ember.”
“Ember Oliphant, stepdaughter of a Baroness, attender of masked balls, engraver extraordinaire.”
When he said it like that, she sounded almost as fancy as him. “Ember Oliphant, serving lass.”
He grinned crookedly. “Max DeVille, cowboy.”
There was a feeling in her stomach, one she didn’t like. Hot and coiled, like anger, but…not.
Unable to look at him any longer, Ember turned away. The piece of turned metal was still clamped in the vice, but she couldn’t imagine working on it, not now, not with the way she was feeling at that moment.
Embarrassment.It is embarrassment, you ninny.
