Beauty and the Blacksmith(6)

“If he notices—which I doubt he will—he will think I’ve been in the sun.”

“Exactly!” She tugged at the hood of Diana’s cloak, drawing it up as far as it would go. “Keep your head down, Diana. Just look at your feet.”

Diana lifted her head, letting her hood fall back. “But then how will I see where I’m going? I might fall on my face. I should think Lord Drewe would take more notice of bruises than he would freckles.”

“Head down, I say.” Mama yanked the hood up again.

“No.” Diana thrust it back. “Mama, you’re being ridiculous. This is a beautiful morning. I mean to enjoy it.”

She braced herself for another round of Tug-o’-Hood, but Mama didn’t care to play. She was distracted by the sounds of hoofbeats and carriage wheels and turned to peer down the lane.

“There is Mr. Keane with his curricle. He will save you.”

“Save me? I survived years of asthma. I don’t believe freckles are a terminal condition.”

“Head down,” she snapped. As the curricle drew near, she lifted one arm and waved to him with her handkerchief, like a drowning sailor in need of a rope. “Mr. Keane! Oh, Mr. Keane, do help!”

“Please don’t trouble him.”

“He is the vicar. He ought to do a good deed.”

The curricle rolled to a halt in the lane. What with the strong sun and the harsh shadows, it was hard to peer into the covered bench seat—but the driver didn’t seem to be the vicar. This man was rather . . . larger.

“Is there some problem?” he asked in a dark, all-too-familiar baritone.

Oh no. No. It couldn’t be.

What wretched luck. Diana took her mother’s advice. She drew her hood up and stared at her boots.

“Why, Mr. Dawes,” her mother said, her tone wary. “What are you doing with Mr. Keane’s curricle?”

“Mama,” Diana hissed. Good Lord, she made it sound as if he’d stolen the thing.

“And good morning to you, Mrs. Highwood,” Mr. Dawes answered patiently. Out of the corner of her eye, Diana saw him tip his cap. “Miss Charlotte. Miss Highwood.”

She felt his gaze on her. Now it didn’t matter if she stayed out of the sun. A blush this furious would surely stain her cheeks for a month.

“Mr. Keane asked me to mend the axle,” he explained. “I’m out for a short drive to test the repair before I return it. Is something wrong?”

As she listened to her mother carry on about the tragedy of sunshine and the need to keep her daughter’s complexion unmarred for Lord Drewe, Diana squirmed with shame.

“Surely you can drive her back to the rooming house,” Mama said. “I know it’s a liberty, as you are a hired man. But I daresay I can grant permission in Mr. Keane’s stead. It’s what he would do, as a gentleman.”

Mother!

In how many ways could she insult him? Mr. Dawes was not a “hired man.” He was a skilled craftsman and artisan, and everyone in the village—Mr. Keane included—respected him.

Diana had to look up now. “Please don’t let us trouble you, Mr. Dawes. I’m perfectly fine walking.”

“Perfectly fine!” her mother squawked. “You’ll be perfectly crisped.”

She caught his gaze and tried to send an apologetic look. Forgive her. And me.

His expression was impossible to read. “I’d be glad to give Miss Highwood a ride into the village. I’m going there anyway.”

“That is very good of you,” her mother said. “When I see him, I will be sure to speak highly of your service to Mr. Keane. Perhaps there will be a shilling in it for you.”

“Very kind of you, ma’am.”

Mr. Dawes alighted from the curricle, adjusted the folding hood for maximum shade, then offered his hand to help Diana. Despite the awkwardness of the situation, she took a thrill from the feel of his hand dwarfing hers and the easy strength with which he boosted her onto the seat.

When he joined her, she pressed herself all the way to the opposite side.

“We’ll see you back at the Queen’s Ruby,” Mother said. “Don’t fret about me walking. I will be fine. Even at my age.”

“I’m sure you will be,” Diana muttered.

As Mr. Dawes flicked the reins and set the curricle in motion, Diana slunk down in her corner of the seat.

She learned something new as they rattled down the lane.

Awkwardness wasn’t characterized by silence. Oh, no—awkwardness had a symphony all its own. The thump of an erratic heartbeat, contrasting with the steady squelch of hooves on packed mud. The roar of a thousand unspoken words piled up in one’s throat, all clamoring to get loose. The sound of fence posts whooshing past—each one brought them closer to the village, and each one felt like a stinging lash of rebuke. Another opportunity missed.

Frantic emotion built in her chest. She couldn’t stay quiet any longer.

“Mr. Dawes. Please let me apologize. For my mother just now. And for my behavior last night. And yesterday afternoon. I don’t know what—”

He held up a hand, gently shushing her.

“Truly. You must think me the most presumptuous—”

“Nothing of the sort,” he said, keeping his eyes on the road. “I’m just trying to listen for the axle. I think I heard it creak.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” She bit her lip, hard. Stop talking, ninny.

“Have these for a moment.” He passed her the reins, then bent and twisted away from her, looking over the curricle’s side to observe the axle in motion.

Diana stared down at the leather braids in her hands. Then she looked at the trotting horses and the muddy road flying by beneath them.

“Mr. Dawes,” she whispered, hoarse with fear. “Mr. Dawes, I’ve never—”

He held up that hand again, requesting silence. “Just a moment.”

This couldn’t wait a moment.

“Mr. Dawes.”

He straightened and turned to her. “What’s the matter?”

“Kindly take the reins,” she begged. “I don’t know how to drive.”

“You seem to be driving right now.”

“But what if we have to turn? Or slow down? Or stop?” She tightened her grip. “Oh dear. Now they’re going faster.”

He eased closer to her on the seat. His arm pressed against hers. “You’re doing fine. It’s not a busy road, and the horses know their way.” He put his hands over her wrists, shaking lightly. “Just lift the reins a bit and loosen your grip. These are good horses. They’re trained to a soft touch.”

He helped her position the reins, sliding them between her fingers.

“Like this?” she asked, sitting straight.

“That’s just it. You’re doing well.”

His low, gentle voice entranced her and gave her confidence.

He showed her the commands for right and left; how to urge the horses faster and draw them to a halt. The lesson made for welcome distraction. At least they had something to discuss other than the mortifying events of yesterday.

“Every woman should learn to drive,” he said. “I taught my own sisters when they were old enough. I never understood why the Spindle Cove ladies spend all those mornings shooting pistols and muskets, yet never have driving or riding lessons.”

“I suppose the shooting lessons make us feel strong. In control of ourselves and our lives.” At least, that’s what the ladies’ weekly target practice did for Diana.

He shrugged. “I’m not saying it’s bad. But there’s feeling powerful, and then there’s actually taking the reins. They are a great many situations a woman might do well to drive away from. Very few where it’s advisable to shoot her way out.”

He was right, Diana thought. Loading and shooting a pistol might give a lady a rush of exhilaration, but this was true power. The freedom to choose her own direction, and harnessing the power to take her there.

“There, now you know how to drive.” He moved back to his side of the seat. “Where do you want to go?”

Diana pulled on the reins, drawing the horses to a lurching halt in the middle of the empty lane. “I want to stop right here and apologize to you. I know you don’t wish to speak of yesterday, but I cannot be easy until I say this. You were very kind to me, and I can’t . . . I heard the way my mother spoke to you just now, and I need you to know I don’t think of you that way. When I came to the tavern last night, I wasn’t just seeking a moment of rebellion. I . . .”

She’d been staring at her hands all this time, but she forced herself to look up. At him.

His handsome features were a mask of confusion. Oh, she was making a hash of this.

“May I be honest with you?” she asked. “I think that’s the best strategy. I’ll just say everything I’ve been keeping to myself. And when it’s out, it will surely sound ridiculous. We’ll have a good laugh, and that will be the end of things. Can you bear it?”