The Suffragette Scandal (Brothers Sinister #4)(100)

The metal went from dark gray to dull red, coming up on orange. He picked up a tool—something that looked like a pincers—and then tapped the metal with it, shaping it with light, gentle touches, coaxing it into a graceful curve.

“There,” he said to the man working the bellows. “Now to heat the end. This will have to be damned hot, Jeffreys—work the bellows hard, until the iron is almost yellow.” He held the tip in the fire, watching. “Yes. Precisely like that.”

Before she could understand what was happening, he’d set something on the table, something small and shiny. He touched the heated end of his iron to that thing, holding it in place for a moment.

“There. That’s the last one, Jeffreys.”

The man left off working the bellows. “You know your way around a forge, sir. My lord, I mean.”

Edward’s nose wrinkled at that last, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he crossed to a barrel. He slipped the thin metal inside and steam rose in clouds.

“There.” He pulled it out, turning it from side to side, considering.

She’d not had a good view of the thing before. She could see it now. It looked like a flower. A flower made of iron, the base sporting graceful leaves, the stem rising up in a gentle curve, leaning into some unseen wind. It terminated in what looked like a tiny iron bell.

No. She leaned forward squinting. That wasn’t a bell.

He nodded at his handiwork and then turned around. That was when he saw her. His eyes widened slightly. “Free.”

“Edward.” She looked at him. “You awoke early.”

“Not precisely.” He gave her a small, tired smile. “I’ve not slept yet. Now shut your eyes, Free. And Jeffreys—you can take yourself off. Thank you for your help.” Edward jerked his head, and the man who’d worked the bellows smiled slightly, bowed, and slipped away.

“Shut my eyes?” Free didn’t comply. She looked around instead. “Why would I—” And then she stopped, her breath taken away. Because there were others—an entire pail of these plants, stems rising gracefully to belled flowers. It was like looking at a meadow of metal flowers waving in some spring breeze.

She took a step forward.

No, those really weren’t bells. They were thimbles—he must have taken a handful from the seamstress’s room. He’d made all these flowers from those.

She could suddenly feel the pebbles beneath her slippers, hard, gritty little dots pressing into the soles of her feet.

“Last night,” he said, “after you fell asleep, I kept thinking. Of all the things you said, of all the things I know you want. You told me that everyone tempered their dreams over time—eventually.”

“I did.” What this had to do with a sheaf of iron bluebells, she didn’t know.

“You told me you wanted to believe in me,” he said. “And—here’s the thing, Free. What I remembered most was that day in your office. The day I fell completely, irrevocably, head over heels in love with you. I was a complete ass to you, and I told you that you were trying to drain the Thames with thimbles.”

She smiled faintly. “I remember that.”

“You told me I’d had it wrong. That you weren’t trying to drain the Thames—you were watering a garden, drop by drop. You made me think, for the first time in my life, that there was a way to win against all of this.” He stretched his arms wide.

Her throat felt scratchy.

“So that’s what I was doing last night.” His voice was low. “You told me to believe in myself, and so I made you a garden of thimbles. A promise, Free, that we won’t compromise. That our marriage won’t be almost what you wished for, that your dreams will not be tempered. That I will not be the one who holds you back, but the man who carries thimbles to water your garden when your arms tire.”

A breeze came up, swirling between them, and the stems danced in the wind, the flowers clanging merrily together.

“That’s how I thought I could make it up to you,” he said. “Drop by drop. Thimble by thimble. But about halfway through making these, I knew it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t ask you to become another viscountess. I’d be miserable; you’d be miserable. And you’d do a bang-up job, but there are a hundred women who could be viscountesses. There’s only one of you.”

She was feeling almost hazy. Her knees felt weak. But he was the one who took her hand. “So I’m asking you, Free. Don’t be my viscountess. Don’t throw my parties. Don’t run my estate. Let me be your thimble carrier. Be you, the most wonderful woman I have ever known. I’ll be the one making sure that you never run out of water.”

“How?” Her voice cracked. “You have a seat in Parliament, an estate that needs care. Your wife needs to make sure that…”

“No,” he said softly.

“I mean, it, Edward. I have no patience for those lords who neglect their duties.”

He came up to her and touched her cheek. “The lovely thing about being a complete and utter scoundrel is that I don’t have to accept everyone else’s reality. I had this idea last night. This strange, incomprehensible idea. Why do we have to make decisions about the estate? I’ve spent the last seven years of my life blackmailing people and forging letters. I know nothing of estate management.”