Emily moved about the kitchen, putting away her shopping with jerky movements while cursing the stupid man who’d somehow managed to make himself her houseguest for the foreseeable future.
His comment had bothered her to no end, partly because it had not been as misplaced as she’d insisted, but mostly because she didn’t want him to think of her as some desperate woman ready to leap at even the slimmest chance of forming an attachment. And to be fair, Mr. Partridge, however kind he might be, would hardly set his sights on a spinster without a dowry or any other advantageous incentive to warrant a proposal of marriage.
Not that she wanted him to.
In truth, if she were being brutally honest with herself, she would rather have Lord Griffin’s attention. Which was yet another reason for her increased irritability—namely his effort to push her toward another man.
Even though her chance of ever becoming more to him than the forward woman who inappropriately tried to secure a kiss from a man she had no intention of entering into a courtship with was possibly slimmer than it was with Mr. Partridge. As evidenced by the fact that Lord Griffin had made it abundantly clear that he and she would not be engaging in any more kissing. At least not with each other.
She blew out a frustrated breath and leaned against the pantry door. The opportunity to experience a bit of passion had never been more available to her than now. A pity then that the man with whom she was able to experience it had seemingly little interest in her. But to let herself fixate on the issue would lead her nowhere, so she pushed away from the door and went to select a few herbs for the roast she planned on preparing for dinner.
When she returned to the kitchen, Lord Griffin was there, lounging in one of the chairs with casual abandon and looking as handsome as ever. Emily set her jaw. She could not afford to want him. Not when the last thing she wished to experience was disappointment and regret over his eventual departure. So she squared her shoulders and went to collect a bowl in which to rinse the herbs.
“You’re still upset with me,” he said after a moment of silence.
Emily dried off the herbs and placed them on a cutting board. She absolutely refused to look at him directly, for she knew that if she did, her knees would grow weak and her stomach flip over. “No. I’m not.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Of course.” She grabbed a knife and proceeded to chop the herbs into miniscule pieces. “And I apologize. For overreacting earlier when you were simply trying to be helpful.”
He said nothing to this, and the sudden temptation to glance at him and read his expression was overwhelming. She marveled over her ability to resist it as she set about starting a fire in the hearth. When he offered to help, she allowed it and quickly gave her attention to rubbing the chopped herbs, salt and pepper into the roast.
“I realized when I was preparing the parlor for painting tomorrow that this clock is no longer working,” he said a while later, breaking the silence.
Reflexively, Emily looked at Lord Griffin properly for the first time since entering the kitchen. The effect he had on her was just as visceral as she’d predicted it would be, and as a result, she found herself gripping the roast more firmly in a futile effort to steady herself. Whatever preparing the parlor for painting had entailed, it had caused his hair to get mussed. Haphazard locks shot upward in opposite directions while one fell randomly over his brow. It ought to have made him look ridiculous. Instead, it made him more attractive than ever.
And that was without considering the scruffy twist of his loosened cravat, the fact that his jacket was missing and his shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Emily swallowed as her gaze swept over the dark dusting of hair on his forearms. Of course, she’d seen a lot more of him last night after they’d arrived and he’d been wearing nothing but a blanket, but the state of abandon with which he presented himself right now – the awareness that his appearance resulted from physical work – held greater appeal.
A movement drew her attention to his hands and the clock he was holding. “Oh. Right.” She dropped her gaze to the roast and chastised herself for fawning over him like a nitwit. “My grandmother gave that to me for my tenth birthday. It was one of the few things I chose to bring with me when I came to live here. Even though it no longer responds to getting wound up, I keep it on display for sentimental reasons.”
“If you like, I believe I am able to fix it for you.”
In spite of her effort to maintain composure, Emily’s eyes began to sting. Determined to hide it, she set about fetching a metal rod and spearing it through the roast. “Thank you,” she said when she felt herself able to speak without her voice cracking. “I would be grateful for that.”
He said nothing more for a while. And then she heard his chair scrape across the floor as if he were getting up. “I’ll get started on it right away then. Please let me know when dinner is ready and…if there’s anything else you would like me to help you with while I am here.”
Emily could only nod in response. She was far too overcome for anything else.
7
Dusk forcedGriffin to light a candle in order to better see the tiny pins, wheels, and other mechanical parts of the clock. From what he’d discovered after removing the movement from the housing, the power from the mainspring was unable to flow through the gears on account of the teeth being jammed too tightly together.
This would be a relatively simple fix. A trickier task would be to pre-load the tiny balance wheel spring which had come loose and add the right amount of tension to it. He would have to remove the regulator and balance cock in order to gain access, and this would most likely require an additional trip into town since he’d need some specific tools.
For the moment, Griffin added some gentle pressure to one of the stuck cogs. When it popped free with a click, he rotated it slowly to make sure the teeth were moving easily between each other once more. Oiling them would probably be a good idea, as would a proper cleaning.
He set the movement down and prepared to go and ask Miss Howard if she had any oil available, when a knock at the front door made him pause. He stepped out into the hallway just as Miss Howard arrived from the kitchen. She gestured for him to return to the dining room where he’d been working, and he did so, easing the door shut behind him until a thin gap remained between it and the frame, allowing him to see who had come to call.
With a swift glance over her shoulder, Miss Howard went to open the front door just as another knock fell against it. She eased it open to reveal a young man with flushed cheeks and a cap pressed down over his forehead. “Letters from the Duke of Camberly and Mrs. Howard,” he said.
Miss Howard took the letters, appeared to study them for a moment, then asked the man to wait. She went to collect a coin which she then handed to the messenger with her thanks.
He wished her a pleasant evening and departed, leaving Miss Howard alone in the hallway. Slowly, as if her mind was too busy for hasty movement, she closed the door and turned to face Griffin, who’d stepped back into the hallway.
“I think this must be for you,” she said, handing him one of the letters. No recipient was specified, only the address, and since it was from his brother, Griffin believed she was probably right in her assumption.
“Thank you.” Letter in hand, Griffin followed Miss Howard into the kitchen where the most delicious aroma now filled the air. His stomach grumbled in response, and he realized that he was quite ravenous. “Whatever it is you’re cooking, it smells incredible.”
