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He halted. Turned to her.
Gwen took a deep swallow of her tea, trying to squash the extra glimmer of pride at having impressed him so thoroughly. It did not work, and she knew he would see it as she smiled at him over the rim of her teacup. “Exactly so.”
“The timing is ideal as well. With the auction coming up, the town is already talking about the yard and how quickly you’ve worked to turn things around. There’s a sense of excitement building, and that sort of enthusiasm has a way of making men receptive to new possibilities. The chance to tie themselves more directly to the yard, and to its success, may appeal far more now than it ordinarily would. The cost of buying into a mutual protection fund will be negligible,” he continued, “so long as they all agree to sign and contribute. Except…”
“Except what?” She set down her cup.
“Except—if word has spread about Lord Michael and his plans to expand the yard, some may withhold their support, hoping to influence the sale. Surely a handful at least will see the advantage in Llanelli being purchased by a bigger fish with deeper pockets.”
Gwen narrowed her eyes. “Fish don’t have pockets.”
Michael met her scowl with a dry look of his own. “Nevertheless, it’s worth considering, so that we might anticipate their objections and have our response at the ready.”
He moved to refill her cup, then his own.
Resettled on opposing sides of the desk, something quiet and steady took shape between them once more. She didn’t really think planning would be necessary; she’d seldom felt more certain of her success than she did at this moment. But she was coming to enjoy… this… this exchange of ideas and the lively opposition he provided. It struck her then that sometime over the past fortnight, his imposing presence—that terrifying drive she knew was there inside him—had stopped feeling like a threat, and started feeling like a comfort.
She would miss him when he left.
“Alright then,” he said, blessedly unaware of her straying thoughts. “Let’s say, for this little exercise, that I am, in fact, vehemently in favor of selling to Lord Michael.” He winked, then rolled his shoulders with deliberate show.
“Yer a right fine lass an’ all, Mrs Bevans,” he began, his accent slipping into something so thick with Cockney it bordered on parody, “but we’re lookin’ to make a bit o’ blunt, ain’t we? Can’t be thinkin’ bout sentiment when there’s mouths to feed.” He leaned forward in his chair, his hands moving in increasingly gregarious sweeps as he warmed to his performance. “Got to look out for me own, see. This rich toff—well, he’ll see there’s coal in me fire and pork in little Timmy’s belly. That’s what matters, in the end.”
Gwen burst into fits of laughter, but Michael carried on with his theatrics, paying little mind to her unladylike snorts of mirth.
“And Molly—she’s had her eye on this frock, come all the way from the frogs, with fancy lace an’ frills! Just imagine how grateful she’d be if I came strollin’ in with that frock. Proper grateful, I’d say. Gotta keep the missus happy, if ye catch me drift.”
When her laughter did not abate, he smacked the desk in mock irritation. “Stop that nonsense this instant. You’re mucking up my concentration.”
She wheezed in a breath, trying to collect herself with no success whatsoever, her giggles rolling out in waves. “This is Wales, not Shoreditch; no one talks like that here.”
At last she drew a full breath—only for it to catch there, trapped in her lungs when she met Michael’s self-satisfied gaze, took in his jovial smile and pink-tinged cheeks. This was a side of him she’d never seen before, open and relaxed. He lit the room with his joy, as though coaxing her laughter amid the evening’s strife gave him more pride than any previous achievement in his life.
A kind of deep, whole-body breathlessness swelled in the space between them—tense and electric—yet they both remained absolutely still.
After a long moment, he looked away, shifting in his chair and running a hand through his hair. That, too, was different from when he’d arrived; he’d gradually stopped trying to bully it into submission, and the Welsh sea breeze had had its way. It looked… soft. Messy and inviting.
“You’ve plenty of men in the yard who speak like that,” he groused.
Gwen blinked, and the charged moment fizzled away.
“I’ve met plenty,” he continued. “Therefore, it stands to reason, an equal number of merchants would as well.” When he met her eyes again, his complexion had returned to its usual ivory tone with only a hint of rose high on his cheekbones. Still handsome as the devil.
“Very well, Mr Anson.” Gwen relaxed back in her chair, resuming their playacting and trying for some measure of seriousness again. “Neither your concerns nor your ambitions are without merit. We share them, in fact. Molly’s happiness, Timothy’s nourishment—those are priorities beyond question. That is precisely why we are a better choice than a man who neither knows your family nor gives a whit about them. When your fall crop succumbed to blight last autumn, did a faceless benefactor set a chair for you at his table? When you injured your back and could not work, who safeguarded your place through your convalescence? Would Lord Michael have done the same? Of course not. We are a community. We look out for one another. He’s no different from any other soulless, rapacious parasite. To him, your worth is measured only by your ability to fill his coffers, and the moment you cease to be useful, you vanish from his consideration entirely.”
Michael had propped an elbow on the desk as he’d listened, his temple resting against the tip of one forefinger. “Eloquent words, to be sure. But only effective if they’re actually true. Since Molly’s lace fixation and skinny Timmy exist only in my imagination, your fabricated blight and injured back will carry little persuasive weight before a group of potential guild members.”
Gwen narrowed her eyes. “But they are true.”
Michael raised a brow.
“Oh, not the particulars, mind, but Llanelli has held the position of injured workers on countless occasions. When my people are hungry, I feed them, Michael. When they require something that lies within my power to provide, what sort of person would I be if I withheld it? I care about them.”
She was disproportionately vexed that he would question her loyalty, but Michael appeared entirely unbothered by her flash of temper. And she found she liked that as well. That she could get angry, as any man had the right to, and Michael never seemed to see her as unduly emotional. Still, she should rein in her temper. Her father had taught her better.
He took a sip of his tea, watching her. “And are you so very certain Lord Michael does not?”
At her brief hesitation, his brows lifted again, redoubling her irritation. That she should have to defend herself against him, of all people. Michael, who was meant to be on her side, pinched a sore spot she hadn’t known was there. But before she could lose her head entirely, logic reasserted itself, and thank heavens for it. He was only playacting. With a steadying breath she felt her ire dissipate once more.
