How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(26)

The thundering noise above his head set his teeth on edge. They’d rarely put the chromolithograph to work since purchasing the expensive machinery. The original plan had been to add more colored plates in some of the novels they sold, and, of course, Kit Ruthven had grand designs for his literary journal.

The intricate beast of a press ran on steam and took up much of the second floor. Only a few of the young men were trained in its use, and they’d hired one man who was a true master at transferring original art onto the lithographic plates. The process of applying the various layers of ink was messy and could be dangerous once the machine was set in motion. He hoped they were insisting Clary—er, Miss Ruthven—kept a safe distance.

With Sara settled, Miss Ruthven occupied, and the workroom humming with productivity, he settled behind his desk to finally get some work done. He started with vendor correspondence, finished that, and progressed to working on billing statements. Just as he was preparing the second, a ruckus erupted. Clerks in the workroom rose from their chairs, and two of them sprinted toward the stairwell. A moment later, a scream echoed down from upstairs.

Gabe shot up from his chair and rushed toward the stairwell. She was coming down with two clerks at her heels. Gabe’s heart stopped. Blood stained her shirtwaist, her fingers, even her face. He lunged up the steps between them, hands shaking as he reached for her.

“What the bloody hell happened?” he roared at the clerks behind her. “Clarissa, Clary,” he said softly, “where are you injured?”

She turned a miserable gaze his way. “Wherever my pride is located.”

“Pardon?”

The clerks snickered behind her, and Gabe barely resisted throttling them both. Then she started in, a little gurgle of mirth at first and then full-blown laughter. An infectious sound, throaty and enticing. And when his heart started again, he thought he might be amused too, if someone explained what the rotting hell was going on.

One of the lithograph operators skidded to the edge of the landing above. “She got into the paints, sir. We tried to clean the mess, but it doesn’t come off easily.”

She held her breath, trying to control her laughter. Gabe reached for a part of her arm that wasn’t stained and led her to his office.

“It wasn’t her fault, Mr. Adamson,” a clerk shouted in her defense.

Daughtry beelined toward them, fatherly worry etching lines across his wrinkled brow. “Is the lass all right, sir?”

“Find me some rags, water, soap, maybe a bit of turpentine, and bring them to my office.”

Clary allowed him to lead her and had almost calmed by the time he pointed her toward a chair. She refused to sit.

“What if I stain it?”

He didn’t care. All that mattered was that she was in one paint-splotched piece.

She scooted the tray of paper aside on his desk. Even that didn’t irk him. After tipping her head back to inspect the rear of her skirt, she settled her bottom warily against the edge.

Gabe rolled up his shirt-sleeves. “Tell me what happened.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She held up her hands and paint dripped down her wrists. Now that he looked closer, it wasn’t just red. A bit of blue too. At her cuff, they blended into a vibrant purple, a darker version of her eye color.

Daughtry shuffled through the door with a small folding table, his arms brimming with all the other items Gabe had requested. “Can I help, sir?”

“Thank you for your concern, Wilbur,” she answered reassuringly. “I’ll be all right.”

Wilbur? Daughtry cast her a quick grin and ducked out of the room.

“You’ve won him over quickly.” Gabe didn’t want to think about why it irked him so.

She pointed a red-tinted finger at him. “You only think so because I used his given name. See how much friendlier it sounds?”

Gabe started with a damp cloth against her wrist and found much of the paint came off, except for a faint pink stain. He hated to use harsh turpentine on her skin. Returning to the basin to wring out his cloth, he dabbed it against the bar of soap before returning to her. He took her hand in his, and she pulled up her sleeve to give him access. The soap worked better at removing the coloring.

“I could manage this myself,” she said softly as he worked, though she made no move to pull away.

Gabe looked into her eyes a moment, and her breath seemed to catch. “This won’t take long.” He turned her hand over to clean the underside of her arm. “I can see what happened. Why don’t you tell me how.”

She glanced up at the ceiling, down at his hands where he held and washed her, anywhere but into his eyes. “I was curious,” she mumbled. “And I wanted to be useful.”

A few splotches of paint had managed to get on her face, and Gabe pressed two fingers to the edge of her jaw, tipping her head up. “Go on.”

She was warm and soft under his fingertips, and he stretched out his hand to cup her cheek as he rubbed at a spot near her chin.

“The red paint spilled. I didn’t realize how full the container was. And then I accidentally brushed the blue plate while trying to clean up the red.” Her eyes slid closed for a moment, and he missed her violet gaze. “It was a disaster.”

“Hardly. I thought you were injured.”

She opened her eyes, and her mouth fell open as if she’d say more. Her breath came in warm, tickling wisps against his face.