Beauty and the Blacksmith(19)

She’d been back safe in her own bed for less than an hour before the carriages had rattled into the village center. The girls had come tromping up the stairs, giggling and whispering to one another. It would seem they’d managed to have their fun without Diana’s help. She was glad of it. Part of her had been tempted to come out of her room and ask for all the details. She wanted to hear all the news of Kate and Minerva.

But she’d decided there would be time enough for those questions in the morning. Her night with Aaron had left her blissfully sapped of strength, and she was supposed to be ill.

So when Charlotte had opened her door a crack and whispered a cautious “Diana?”she hadn’t answered but pretended to be asleep. And then she’d fallen asleep in truth.

She slept hard. Her body had earned it.

When she woke, she could hear the sounds of breakfast. Her chamber was situated directly above the dining room, and she knew well that distant murmur of porcelain and cutlery, delivered on air scented of buttered toast.

She rose, washed, and dressed in her favorite frock, then clattered down the stairs.

No, not clattered.

She floated down the stairs.

She was in love. She was getting married. She would have a sweet little cottage in this village she’d come to think of as home, and she and Aaron would build a life and a family together. It might not be the future her mother had planned, but it was more happiness than Diana had ever dreamed she’d grasp.

And by the end of today, everyone would know the truth.

In the corridor, she slowed, intrigued by the sounds coming from the dining room.

“She’s coming,” someone whispered.

A roar of shushing ensued. There was a rattle of panicked flatware.

Then Diana turned the corner and entered the dining room, and everyone fell completely, eerily silent.

“My goodness,” she said. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

One of the girls set down her spoon. “See, I told you she’d know nothing about it. It couldn’t have been her.”

“Hush, Fanny.” Miss Price cleared her throat and looked Diana over. “You look quite well this morning, Miss Highwood. One would never know you were ill last night.”

“Thank you.” Diana spoke slowly, not liking the suspicious tone in Miss Price’s voice. “I am feeling much improved.”

All of the ladies regarded her warily, even as they sent speaking glances to each other.

Diana’s heart began to pound.

Oh, Lord. They knew. They all knew. Someone had noticed her sneaking out to see Aaron. Or sneaking back in afterward.

“I don’t believe it of her,” one girl whispered.

“But it couldn’t have been anyone else,” another replied.

“It’s probably a compulsion. I’ve heard of it happening with some girls. They know it’s wrong, but they can’t help themselves.”

A compulsion?

No, no, no. Diana wasn’t suffering any compulsion. She was in love. She was floating. That’s what she’d wanted everyone to see today. Not sordidness.

Instead, they all looked at her sideways and whispered behind their hands.

This was ruination, she realized. Her twenty-three years of delicate refinement didn’t matter anymore. Everyone stared at her with revulsion and fear in their eyes. As though her pretty blue frock had been soiled with soot—and if they came too close, it might stain them, too.

She felt truly ill now. What would they think of her? What would this mean for Charlotte?

One thing was certain—their image of the perfect Miss Highwood was now irretrievably shattered.

Miss Price elbowed her neighbor. “Do it. Someone has to ask.”

“I’ll do it. I’m the landlady. It should be me.” Dear old Mrs. Nichols rose from her seat and clasped her hands together in an attitude of prayer. “Diana, dear,” she began gently. “Did you have anything to tell us? Anything at all, about last night?”

The rain was back. With a vengeance.

Aaron didn’t know what to do with himself. All the Queen’s Ruby ladies would surely be sleeping in today, Diana included. He couldn’t go call on her until late afternoon, and there wasn’t much sense braving this downpour to go anywhere else. He’d looked in on Mr. Maidstone early that morning, after walking Diana back to the rooming house.

He decided to start on a wrought-iron gate for the front garden. He’d long been planning to replace the humble wooden one. He’d just never found the time.

Today, he had all the time he wished.

He built a roaring fire in the forge and took out a length of squared stock. To make spiraling balusters for the gate, he needed to heat the iron to a glowing yellow, crank furiously to secure it in a table vise, grasp the end of the rod with tongs, then twist the metal in as many rotations as he could manage before it cooled.

Then repeat the whole business again. And again.

It was hard, sweaty work—and just the distraction he needed today.

He’d been at it for an hour or two when he saw a figure hurrying up the lane. Who would come out in this weather? He hoped it wasn’t the Maidstone girl again, come to tell him her father had taken a turn for the worse.

But when the door burst open, in came Diana.

She removed her cloak and hung it on a peg near the door, then played stork by standing on one foot, then the other, tugging off the canvas gaiters covering her shoes.

Aaron merely stood and stared, letting his rod of twisted iron go cool in the vise. “You shouldn’t be out in this weather. You’ll catch cold.”

Perhaps he should have greeted her with Good day, or What a pleasant surprise, or Did I tell you last night that I love you to the depths of my soul? But he couldn’t be bothered with pleasantries now. She’d pledged herself to him, always. He wanted “always” to be a long, long time.

“I just needed to see you. To talk to you. It couldn’t wait.” She hurried toward him.

“Stop,” he said.

She stopped, taken aback.

He cursed his thoughtlessness again. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bark at you. But have a care for your hem and slippers.”

He nodded at the ground.

She’d crossed from the paved half of the smithy and trod straight onto the cinders, dragging her damp flounce through the packed soot. That sort of soil was near impossible to clean. Anyone who saw it would know where she’d been.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m cold. I want to be nearer the fire. And you.”

“Then put your hands on my shoulders.” When she complied, he slid a forearm under her hips and lifted, boosting her to sit on the anvil. He kept his hand clenched and out of the way, to keep from mussing her frock.

But once he had here there, sitting sweetly on his anvil . . .

By God, he wanted to muss her all over.

Five minutes ago, he would have sworn there was no sight on earth more enticing than Miss Diana Highwood in her china-blue frock.

But he was wrong.

There was a sight more enticing. It was Miss Diana Highwood in her china-blue frock, damp with rain.

The cloak had protected her from the worst of it, but enough of the weather had seeped through that her bodice might as well have been a coat of paint. Her nipples were hard and perfectly outlined.

Her legs dangled above the cinder floor. He caught a glimpse of her white-clad ankles. No silk stockings today, just sensible wool. He still found them arousing as hell.

“I wasn’t expecting you.” He wiped his brow with his sleeve, then showed her his blackened hands. “Sit here by the forge. I’ll go wash up, find a fresh shirt, build a fire in the cottage. Then I can warm you properly.”

She reached for him. “No, stay. Stay with me.”

“If you like.”

Frowning, he studied her, trying to decide whether her shivering was due to the damp weather or a fragile emotional state. Either way, he didn’t like feeling unable to help her.

He couldn’t warm her with his hands. But hands weren’t the only parts he had.

“Your fingers must be freezing,” he said, glancing down at her balled fists.

She nodded.

She wore those knitted handwarmers that seemed popular with all the ladies this spring. Fingerless gloves, he’d heard them called. In weather like this, “fingerless” struck him as tantamount to “useless,” but he didn’t pretend to understand ladies’ fashions.

He untied his leather apron and cast it aside. Then he jerked his homespun shirt free of his waistband and lifted it in invitation. “Put them here.”

She pressed her chilled hands flat to his torso. Their coolness gave him a jolt.

“Goodness,” she said. “You’re like a furnace.”

Love, you have no idea.

To be sure, her hands were cold. But her cold fingertips had less chance of dampening his lust than ten snowflakes falling on a bonfire.