Beauty and the Blacksmith (Spindle Cove #3.5)(6)

“Because you did not encourage them! If you fancy a gentleman, you must let him know. Not in words, of course, but in the language of female subtleties.”

Female subtleties? Mama possessed all the subtleties of an elephant on parade. She brazenly thrust Diana into the path of every available gentleman.

Meanwhile, the one man Diana found attractive wasn’t a gentleman at all but the village blacksmith. And apparently subtleties weren’t her strong point, because he’d seen right through her.

Aaron Dawes could tell her thoughts weren’t saintly.

But he’d wanted to kiss her anyway.

She glanced out the window again. His mare was still outside the tavern.

“I’m not unfeeling, Mama. Merely careful. You know I’ve had to be.”

She touched a hand to the chain around her neck and the small bottle of tincture hanging there. It was her talisman. The medicine inside was meant to help her in a breathing crisis. She’d suffered from asthma ever since she was a small girl.

For most young people, tantrums and tears and wild whoops of joy were all normal parts of childhood. Not so in Diana’s case. Not only had she been kept inside, prevented from running and playing and stomping through the snow, but she’d also been schooled to temper her feelings. No outbursts of any kind.

Emotions were too dangerous.

Charlotte settled next to her, crushing into the same chair and fondly stroking Diana’s shoulder. She murmured, “You know how I hate to agree with Mama, but I don’t think she’s entirely wrong. You should be Ursula. And flirt with Lord Drewe if you feel like it. This is your time to take the lead.”

“My time to be a martyred medieval virgin?”

“Your time to do whatever you please. You know what Susanna said last year about your asthma. It isn’t coming back. And if you don’t need to worry about dying any longer . . . don’t you want to start living?”

She pushed a copy of the play into Diana’s hand. “Here. Take whatever role you choose. Except Cordula. I want to be Cordula. She gets the most gory execution.”

Diana stared at the play for a moment. Then she handed the folio back at her sister. “Not now. I . . . I think I’ve remembered where I left my thimble.” She rose from the chair.

“Really? Where?”

Diana went to fetch her cloak from a peg by the door. “At the Bull and Blossom. I’ll just run over to get it.”

“But the rain!” her mother called.

Diana closed the door on her mother’s objection and dashed outside.

Charlotte was right. Now that her health had mended, Diana needn’t fear her own emotions any longer.

She did want to start living. And she was going to start tonight.

Aaron told himself his second drink would be the last.

And then he ordered one more.

Fosbury had already sent Pauline home for the evening, and the tavern keeper yawned as he slid the refilled tumbler across the bar.

“I should go,” Aaron said. “It’s late.”

“No, take your time with it.” Fosbury knotted his apron at the waist. “I’ve some yeast dough to start for tomorrow’s bread. Give a shout if you need anything.”

He disappeared into the kitchen, whistling as he went.

Aaron had just grown accustomed to his comfortable pocket of quiet when the creak of the door ripped it open again. He turned his head, expecting to see one of the fishermen or farmers come in for a late pint.

What he saw nearly knocked him off his stool.

Diana Highwood.

She rushed through the door, slammed it closed, then stopped dead in her paces. Staring at him.

Aaron didn’t know what to say, but it seemed she was waiting to hear something. He finally settled on “Good evening.”

“Good evening.”

Another long, uncomfortable pause.

She looked at the empty stool beside his. “Might I join you?”

Bemused, he waved a hand in invitation.

She approached the bar and settled on the seat, daintily arranging her skirts.

Aaron lifted his drink, stealing glimpses at her out of the corner of his eye. He’d spent a great many stolen moments admiring her, but tonight something was different.

She was different. He couldn’t look at her tonight and see a paragon up on a pedestal. She was a disheveled girl sitting on a barstool. Damp from the rain, cheeks flushed, wisps of flaxen hair matted to her brow. She looked impulsive. Sensual.

More beautiful than ever.

Between her intoxicating looks and the fact that he was on his third whiskey, he was addled. He didn’t know what she was doing here, but so long as she was sitting next to him, he was going to stare. He propped his elbow on the bar and drank in every detail of her rain-misted face, savoring.

Her gaze fell to his tumbler of whiskey. “You’re having a drink?”

“Yes.”

She picked up the tumbler and stared into it. “Is it brandy?”

“Actually, it’s—”

Before he could get the words out, she’d lifted the glass to her lips and tossed back half the contents in one swallow.

“ . . . whiskey.”

She set it down. Stared at it, wide-eyed. Coughed. “Oh. So it is. Goodness.”

After a moment’s pause, she lifted the tumbler again.