Again the Magic (Wallflowers 0.5)(48)

For once, no soiree, supper, or al fresco party had been scheduled for tonight, as the annual village fair had begun. There would be much drinking and reveling in Stony Cross while practically everyone in the county attended the fair. It had been held once a year since the mid-1300s, a week-long event at which all of Stony Cross was overtaken with happy chaos. High Street was virtually unrecognizable, the usually tidy succession of storefronts surmounted with booths run by jewelers, silk mercers, toymakers, cobblers, and a host of other craftsmen. McKenna still remembered the excitement he had felt as a boy at fair time. The first night always began with music, dancing, and a bonfire located at a short distance from the village. Together he and Aline had watched the conjurors, tumblers, and stilt walkers. Afterward they had always gone to the horse fair, to view dozens of gleaming Thoroughbreds and massive draught horses. He still remembered Aline’s face in the light of the bonfire, her eyes shining with reflected flame, her lips sticky from the iced gingerbread she had bought from one of the merchant stalls.

The object of his thoughts entered the conservatory, and all three men began to stand. Aline smiled and quickly bade them to remain seated.

Although Westcliff and Gideon obediently settled back in their chairs, McKenna stood anyway, taking the tray of iced lemonade from Aline while the footman unfolded the portable table. Aline smiled up at McKenna, her cheeks flushed from the heat, her brown eyes velvety. He wanted to taste her dewy pink skin, lick the salt of her perspiration, and strip away the gown of thin pastel-yellow muslin that clung to her body.

After setting the tray on the table, McKenna straightened and caught Aline staring at the hair-roughened surface of his forearms, where his sleeves had been rolled snugly over his tanned skin. Their gazes meshed, and suddenly it was difficult for him to remember that they were not alone. He could no more hide the fascination in his eyes than Aline could conceal her own helpless attraction.

Turning to the tray, Aline reached for the etched-glass pitcher and poured some lemonade, the brief rattle of ice shards betraying a momentary slip of composure. She gave him the glass, refusing to look into his face again. “Do be seated, kind sir,” she said lightly. “And continue your conversation, gentlemen—I did not intend to interrupt you.”

Gideon received his glass of lemonade with a grateful smile. “This kind of interruption is always welcome, my lady.”

Westcliff motioned for Aline to join them, and she sat gracefully on the arm of his chair as she gave him a glass. The warm friendship the siblings shared was obvious. Interesting, McKenna thought, remembering that in the past, their relationship had been rather distant. Aline had been intimidated by her accomplished older brother, and Marcus had been isolated from the family during his years at school. Now, however, it seemed that Marcus and his sister had formed a close bond.

“We were discussing the question of why British firms don’t sell their products abroad as effectively as the Americans and Germans do,” Westcliff told his sister.

“Because Englishmen don’t like to learn foreign languages?” she suggested cheerfully.

“That’s a myth,” Westcliff told her.

“Is it?” she responded. “Then tell me how many languages you know—aside from Latin, which doesn’t count.”

Westcliff gave his sister a challenging glance. “Why doesn’t Latin count?”

“Because it’s a dead language.”

“It’s still a language,” Westcliff pointed out.

Before the siblings became detoured in an argument, McKenna steered them back on course. “The problem isn’t language,” he said, earning the attention of them both. “The difficulty with British trade abroad is that the manufacturers here have an aversion to mass producing their goods. You value individuality over conformity—and as a result, the average British manufacturer is too small, and their products are too varied. So few of them can afford to launch a strong selling effort in the world markets.”

“But shouldn’t a company please its patrons by offering a variety of products?” Aline asked, her brow puckered in a way that made McKenna want to kiss it smooth.

“Within certain limits,” McKenna said.

“For example,” Gideon broke in, “British locomotive foundries are so specialized that no two engines coming out of any one factory look alike.”

“It’s that way with other British-owned firms,” McKenna continued. “A biscuit factory will make a hundred varieties of biscuits, when it would do far better to offer only twelve. Or a wallpaper printer will produce five thousand designs, even though it would be more profitable to offer one-fifth that amount. It’s too expensive to offer so many different products, especially when one is trying to market them overseas. The numbers don’t support it.”

“But I like having a large assortment of things to choose from,” Aline protested. “I don’t want my walls to look like everyone else’s.”

She looked so adorably perturbed by the notion of having fewer choices of wallpaper that McKenna couldn’t help grinning. Noticing his amusement, Aline raised her brows in a coquettish tilt. “What are you smiling at?”

“When you spoke just now, you sounded very British,” he told her.

“Aren’t you British too, McKenna?”

Still smiling, he shook his head. “Not any longer, my lady.”