Chemistry of Magic: Unexpected Magic Book Five (Unexpected Magic #5)(30)

“Bessie? She will if I tell her to. But she has more important tasks.”

“Does she sew your clothing, then? I thought you had a modiste for that.”

Emilia stopped in the upper corridor to examine him quizzically. “Does it matter what Bessie does? I am not asking what your James does all day.”

Dare flashed her one of his charming grins, but it didn’t seem to quite reach his eyes. Her husband was a man of many layers.

“My clothing trunks weren’t in that jumble down there,” he informed her. “While your Bessie was twiddling her thumbs, James has probably filled all the wardrobes in the suite with my attire. You’ll have to fight for shelf space. I daresay he has hot water heating and my evening clothes pressed and laid out, although he knows by now not to expect me to actually wear them.”

Emilia glared. “I do not need anyone to wash and dress me, and until now, my clothes were always in my wardrobe exactly where I want them. Bessie has better uses.” She turned in the opposite direction of their suite, her husband still on her heels. She’d swear he radiated curiosity.

She opened the door on the chamber her grandfather had once used as his private office. Bessie glanced up from her work, and left an ink smudge on her brow as she brushed a wisp of hair out of her face. “M’lady? Do you need me?”

Dare leaned his shoulder against the jamb and studied the dusty bookshelves and old-fashioned walnut secretary desk. “Are those botanical prints?” He nodded at the frames studding the walls.

“Pressed leaves with inscriptions,” Emilia replied curtly. “They were my first herbals. I learned from the books on that wall.”

She crossed to examine the pages Bessie worked on. “You are a wonder, thank you. You should probably rest your eyes and hands for a while. It’s almost time for dinner.”

“Yes, ma’am, m’lady. Let me finish up this sketch, and I’ll be right with you.” She picked up the watercolor brush resting in a glass swirling with colored water.

Dare loomed over Emilia’s shoulder, studying the pages Bessie worked on. “She’s your secretary?” He glanced over at the valise she’d carried in the coach with them. “This is your pharmacopeia?”

Emilia nodded, swung on her heel, and walked out. “I have only the one complete draft besides my notes. Bessie is creating a final copy for the printer.” The printer she would have to pay herself because no male publisher believed the book worth the paper it was written on. She seethed with irritation, but it was an old story. One she had learned to overcome—with money.

“One copy?” he asked in disbelief. “One copy could be lost in fire, to thieves, flood, anything!”

“You think I have not thought of that?” She marched back to their suite. “Do you have any idea how long it took to find someone to make a fair copy? Finding a reasonably competent artist took forever and then I had to train Bessie after Aster found her. It’s taken a year to reach this stage. I made the first draft from my notes, staying up in the evenings to do so when everyone else was attending balls and the theater. I could not spend additional years making a second copy. I’ve learned so much more. . . I really need to be editing this edition.”

All her frustration, anger, and hopes were tied up in that office with Bessie. She didn’t know how to express them to her new husband without pounding him and the walls with her fists. She’d certainly pounded enough desks over the past year.

The moment their door closed and they were alone, Dare pulled her into his arms and hugged her. Briefly, she risked resting her head against his wide shoulder. His embrace had a way of depleting her temper. She’d never allowed anyone to hold her because she hadn’t been able to deal with the. . . connection. . . established. It wasn’t just the prickles and pain, but an elemental drain of energy she could not quite describe.

But oddly, Dare blunted the pain that others exacted. And her own emotions wrapped her in a hot blanket akin to steam—almost painful but also relaxing and comforting. She sank into his embrace as she would never venture to do with any other.

“I apologize for thinking your work was no more than my mother’s foolish embroidery,” he said into her hair. “Ladies have to occupy their time and minds, I know, but I had no notion. . .” He hugged her tighter and kissed her ear. “I wish I had you and Bessie to organize my chaos of notes. It has not once occurred to me to hire someone to do so, much less train anyone!”

She relaxed even more and nodded against him. “I can help with hiring and training. But I suspect you’ll have to keep your own notes. Most secretaries do not wish to be blown to bits.”

“Are you laughing at me?” he asked, setting her back to study her expression, grinning lopsidedly as he did so. “I’ll admit my methods aren’t orderly, but my few attempts at articles have been accepted in scientific journals.”

“While you ride about investing in railroads and steam engines and microscope glass and things my father refrained from telling me about,” she replied, stepping away from his aches and his warmth. “Do not think I walked blindly into this marriage. Whereas I approach all change with caution, you, sir, are a risk taker.”

“I am.” He crossed his arms and accepted her accusation. “And I have wrecked my health as a consequence, I know. But it had to be done.”