Читать книгу One Snowy Regency Christmas: A Regency Christmas Carol / Snowbound with the Notorious Rake - Christine Merrill, Christine Merrill - Страница 11

IN THE little corner of the Lampett kitchen set aside as a still room, Barbara inhaled deeply and sighed. After the ruckus of yesterday it was comforting to be home again, immersed in the sights and scents and sounds of Christmas preparation. There were mince pies cooling on a shelf beside the pudding bowl, and the makings for a good bowl of punch set aside against any guests they might have between now and Twelfth Night. Before her she’d arranged what fragrant ingredients she could find—dried rose petals and lavender, cloves, the saved rinds of the year’s oranges and handfuls of pine needles to refill pomanders and refresh sachets in recently tidied closets and drawers.

She glanced down at her apron, pleased to see that there were few marks on it to reveal the labours of the day. Everything spoke of order, cleanliness and control. She smiled. All was as it should be, and as she liked it.

Suddenly the back door burst open and her mother rushed into the room, dropping the empty market basket and looking hurriedly around her.

Barbara stood, fearing the worst. ‘What has happened?’

‘Your father? Is he here with you?’

‘No. He was in the parlour, reading his paper. I’ve heard nothing unusual.’ Barbara rushed to the kitchen door, opening it and staring into the empty front room.

‘On the way to the village I passed Mrs Betts. She had seen him heading towards the mill. He was carrying the axe.’

Barbara stripped off her apron, pushing past her mother to grab a shawl and bonnet from pegs by the door. ‘I will go. You stay here. Do not worry. Whatever he is up to, I will put a stop to it before any real damage is done.’

There could be little question as to what he meant to do if he had taken a tool of destruction. The papers were full of reports from other villages of the frame-breakers—followers of Ned Ludd got out of hand—destroying machinery. And of mill owners dead in their beds or at their factories by violence. While there was much that annoyed her about Mr Stratford, he hardly deserved death.

It might go hard for her family if her father was left unchecked. He could well lose his freedom over this—or his life. She thought of the pistol in Stratford’s hand the previous day. His first shot had been fired into the air. If he felt himself sufficiently threatened he might aim lower, and her father would be the one to suffer for it.

She ran down the path from the Lampett cottage, forgoing the road and heading cross-country over the patch of moor that separated the mill from the village. She splashed through the shallow stream, feeling the icy water seeping into her shoes and chilling her feet near to freezing, making her stumble as she came up the bank. The thorns in the thicket tore at her skirts and her hem was muddy, the dress practically ruined.

It was a risky journey. But if she wished to catch her father before he did harm she must trust that the ground was solid enough that she would not be sucked down into the peat before she reached her destination. Even the smallest delay might cost her dearly.

When she reached the front gate to Stratford’s mill she found it chained and locked. She wondered if Mr Stratford had left it thus, or if her father had gone through and then locked it behind him, the better to do his mischief in privacy. For a moment she imagined Joseph Stratford, working unawares in the office as an assailant crept stealthily up behind him, axe raised …

She threw herself at the wrought-iron bars, crying out a warning, shaking them and feeling no movement under her hands. And then she was climbing, using the crossbars and the masonry of the wall to help her up. Mr Stratford had made it look simple when he had climbed to face the crowd. But he had not done so in a sodden dress and petticoats. She struggled under the weight of them, stumbling as she reached the top. What she’d hoped would be a leap to the ground on the inside was more of a stagger and a fall, and she felt something in her ankle twist and give as she landed.

It slowed her, but she did not stop, limping the last of the way to the wide back entrance. She passed through the open dock, where the vans and carts would bring materials and take away the finished goods, through the high-ceilinged storeroom waiting to hold the finished bolts of cloth. She passed the boiler room and the office and counting house, which were quiet and empty, and continued on to the floor of the factory proper, with its row upon row of orderly machinery, still new and smelling of green wood and machine oil.

From the far side of the big room she heard voices. Her father’s was raised in threat. Mr Stratford’s firm baritone answered him. The two men stood facing each other by the wreckage of a loom. Her father’s axe was raised, and the look in his eyes was wild.

Stratford must have been disturbed in working with the machinery. He was coatless, the collar of his shirt open and its sleeves rolled up and out of the way, with a leather apron tied around his waist and smudged with grease. In one hand he held a hammer. Though his arm was lowered, Barbara could see the tensed muscles that told her he would use it in defence when her father rushed him.

‘Hello?’ she called out. ‘What are you doing, Father? I have come to take you home for dinner.’

‘Go home yourself, gel, for you do not need to see what is like to occur.’ Father’s voice was coarse, half-mad and dismissive. There was nothing left of the soft, rather pedantic tone she knew and loved.

‘Your father is right, Miss Lampett. It is unnecessary for you to remain. Let we gentlemen work this out between us.’ Stratford sounded calm and reassuring, though the smile he shot in her direction was tight with worry. His eyes never left the man in front of him. ‘You will see your father directly.’

‘Perhaps I will,’ she answered. ‘In jail or at his funeral. That is how this is likely to end if I allow it to continue.’ She hobbled forwards and stepped between them. And between axe and hammer as well, trusting that neither was so angry as to try and strike around her.

‘Miss Lampett,’ Stratford said sharply. ‘What have you done to yourself? Observe, sir, she is limping. Assist me and we will help her to a chair.’ He sounded sincerely worried. But she detected another note in his voice as well, as though he was seizing on a welcome distraction.

‘My Lord, Barbara, he is right. What have you done to yourself now?’

Her father dropped his axe immediately, forgetting his plans, and came to take her arm. Sometimes these violent spells passed as quickly as they came. This one had faded the moment he had recognised her injury.

Stratford had her other elbow, but she noticed the handle of his hammer protruding from an apron pocket, still close by should he need a weapon.

‘I fell when climbing down from the gate. I am sure it is nothing serious.’ Though the pain was not bad, and she could easily have managed for herself, she exaggerated the limp and let the two men work together to bear her forwards towards a chair.

‘The front gate?’ Stratford said in surprise. ‘That is nearly eight feet tall.’

Her father laughed, as though lost in a happier time. ‘My Barb always was a spirited one as a youngster. Constantly climbing into trees and taking the short way back to the ground. It is a good thing that the Lampett heads are hard, or we’d have lost her by now. Sit down, Barbara, and let me have a look at your foot.’

She took the seat they had pressed her to, and her father knelt at her feet and pulled off her muddy boot, probing gently at the foot to search for breaks.

She sat patiently and watched as Stratford’s expression changed from concern to interest at the sight of her stocking-clad leg. Then he hurriedly looked away, embarrassed that he’d been caught staring. He gave her a rueful smile and a half-shrug, as if to say he could hardly be blamed for looking at something so attractive, and then offered a benign, ‘I hope it is nothing serious.’

‘A mild sprain, nothing more,’ her father assured him.

For a change, his tone was as placid as it had ever been. He was the simple schoolmaster, the kind father she remembered and still knew, but a man the world rarely saw. She wanted to shout into the face of the mill owner to make him notice the change.

This is who he is. This is who we all are. We are not your enemies. We need you, just as you need us. If only you were to listen you might know us. You might like us.

‘Would it help for her to sit with her foot on a cushion for a bit?’ Mr Stratford responded as he was addressed, behaving as though she had twisted an ankle during a picnic, and not while haring to her father’s rescue. ‘My carriage is waiting at the back gate, just around the corner of the building.’

‘That will not be necessary,’ she said. This had hardly begun as a social call, though both men now seemed ready to treat it as such. While she doubted her father capable of guile, she did not know if this new and gentler Stratford was the truth. What proof did she have that they were not being led into a trap so that he could call the authorities? Even if he did not, at any time her father might recollect who had made the offer and turn again to the wild man she had found a few moments ago.

‘A ride would be most welcome,’ her father said, loud enough to drown out her objections. His axe still lay, forgotten, on the floor behind them. For now he was willing to accept the hospitality of a man he’d been angry enough to threaten only a moment ago.

‘Then, with your permission, Mr Lampett, and with apologies to you, miss, for the liberty …’ Joseph Stratford pulled off his apron, tossed it aside, then reached around her and lifted her easily off the stool and into his arms.

While it was a relief to see how easily he’d managed her father, it was rather annoying to see how easily he could manage her as well. He was carrying her through the factory as though she weighed nothing. And she was allowing him to do it—without protest. The worst of it was, she rather liked the sensation. She could feel far too much of his body through the fabric of his shirt, and her face was close enough to his bare skin to smell the blending of soap and sweat and cologne that was unique to him. Such overt masculinity should have repelled her. Instead she found herself wishing she could press her face into the hollow of his throat. At least she might lay her head against his shoulder, feigning a swoon.

That would be utter nonsense. She was not the sort to swoon under any circumstances, and she would not play at it now. Though she did allow herself to slip an arm around his neck under the guise of steadying herself. His arms were wrapped tightly, protectively, around her already, and such extra support was not really necessary. But it gave her the opportunity to feel more of him, and to bring her body even closer to his as he moved.

‘It seems I am always to be rescuing you, Miss Lampett,’ he said into her ear, so quietly that her father could not overhear.

‘You needn’t have bothered,’ she whispered back. ‘I am shamming.’

‘As you were when the crowd knocked you down yesterday?’

Then he spoke louder, and directly to her father. ‘If you would precede us, sir? I do not wish to risk upsetting the lady with too rough a gait. Tell the coachman of our difficulties. Perhaps he can find an extra cushion and a lap robe so that Miss Lampett will be comfortable on the journey.’

‘Very good.’

As her father hurried ahead, Stratford stopped to kick the axe he had been wielding into a darkened corner. ‘Though you may not want my help, I think it is quite necessary today, for the safety of all concerned, that we play this to the very hilt.’ He started again towards the carriage at a stately pace, stopping only long enough at the door to lean against it and push it shut behind him. ‘Do you really wish to protest good health and risk your father remembering and using his weapon?’

She shifted a little in his grasp, feeling quite ridiculous to be treated as some sort of porcelain doll. ‘Of course not. But I do not wish you to make a habit of swooping in to care for me when I am quite capable of seeing to my own needs.’

‘Your independence is duly noted and admired,’ he said. Then he dipped his head a little, so he could catch her scent. ‘Though I find your infirmity has advantages as well.’

She slapped hard at his arm. ‘You are incorrigible.’

‘You are not the first to have told me so. And here we are.’ He said the last louder, for the benefit of her father, to signal that their intimate conversation was at an end.

She frowned. Stratford could easily have ridden the distance between the manor and here, or perhaps even walked. To bring a full equipage and servants to wait after him while he worked was just the sort of excess she had come to expect from him—and just the sort of thing that was angering the locals. Or it could mean that he had a sensible fear of being set upon, should he travel alone and vulnerable along a road that might be lined with enemies.

He set her down briefly, only to lift her again, up into the body of the carriage, settling her beside her father on a totally unnecessary mound of cushions, her injured ankle stretched out before her to rest on the seat at Stratford’s side.

The carriage was new, as was everything he owned, and practically shining with it. The upholstery was a deep burgundy leather, soft and well padded. There were heavy robes for her legs to keep out the cold, and a pan of coals to warm the foot that still rested on the floor. The other was tucked up securely, the stocking-clad toes dangerously close to the gentleman there. The foot was chilled, and she resisted the urge to press it against his leg to steal some warmth.

Stratford had noticed it. He stared down for a moment, and then, as unobtrusively as possible, he tossed the tail of his coat over it and shifted his weight to be nearer.

Barbara warmed instantly—from the contact with his body and the embarrassment accompanying it. It was a practical solution, of course. But she would be the talk of the town if anyone heard of it. And by the smug smile on his face Joseph Stratford knew it, and was enjoying her discomfiture.

Then he signalled the driver and they set off, with barely a sway to tell her of the moment. It was by far the richest and most comfortable trip she’d taken, and she had to struggle not to enjoy it. Her subdued pleasure turned to suspicion, for at another signal to the driver they proceeded through the unlocked gates down the road towards Clairemont Manor.

‘This is not the way to our home,’ she said, stating the obvious.

‘My house is nearer. You can both come for tea. I will send you home once I am assured that you are warmed and refreshed, and that no harm has come to you while on my property.’

‘That is most kind of you,’ her father said.

It was not at all kind. It was annoying. And she was sure that there must be some sort of ulterior motive to his sudden solicitousness.

But when she opened her mouth to say so, her father went on. ‘There are not many who are such good neighbours.

And are you new here, Mr …?’ He struggled for a name. ‘I am sorry. My memory is not what it once was.’

Barbara coloured, part relieved and part ashamed. She needn’t worry that her father was likely to turn violent again, for it was clear that he had lost the thread of things and forgotten all about Mr Stratford while concerned for her ankle. But what was she to do now? Should she remind him that his host was the same man who, according to her father’s own words, treated his workers ‘like chattel to be cast off in pursuit of Mammon’? Or should she continue to let him display his mental confusion in front of his enemy and become an object of scorn and pity?

Stratford seemed unbothered, and responded with the barest of pauses. ‘We have met only briefly, and I do not fault you for not recalling. I am Joseph Stratford, and I have taken residence of Clairemont Manor now that the family has relocated closer to the village.’

Her father gave a nod in response, still not associating the man across from them with the evil mill owner he despised.

‘Would you do me the honour of an introduction to your daughter, sir?’

As her father presented her to this supposed stranger with all necessary formality, she thought she detected a slight twitch at the corners of Stratford’s mouth. If he meant to make sport at the expense of her father’s failed memory she would find a way to pay him out. But, after the briefest lapse, he was straight-faced and respectful again, enquiring after her father’s work and commiserating with him on the closing of the little school where he had taught, and his recent difficulties in finding another occupation.

Mr Stratford had changed much since the last time she’d seen him brandishing a pistol and taunting the crowd. Though she could not say she liked him, she’d felt an illogical thrill at the power of him then, and the masterful way he had come to her aid. Now she was left with time to admire him as he conversed with her father, displaying intelligence and a thoughtful nature that had not been in evidence before. She found herself wishing that things could be different from the way they were and that this might be their first meeting. If she could look on him with fresh eyes, knowing none of his behaviour in the recent past, it might be possible to trust him. But she could not help thinking that this display of good manners was as false as her sprained ankle.

He had let the groom help him on with his coat again before they had taken off, and she could see that it was the height of London fashion, tailored to perfection and designed to give a gentlemanly outline to the work-broadened shoulders she had felt as he carried her. He was clean-shaven. But his hair was a trifle too long, as though he could not be bothered to spare the few extra minutes that the cutting of it would take. A lock of it fell into his eyes as he nodded at something her father had said, and he brushed it out of his face with an impatient flick of his hand. Though she could not call them graceful, his movements were precise. She could imagine that these were hands better at tending machinery than creating art, more efficient than gentle.

He made conversation with her father in an accent carefully smoothed to remind the listener of London, though she doubted that his tongue had been born to it. He spoke nothing of himself or his own past. But in the questions that drew her father to conversation Barbara heard the occasional lilt or drawl that was the true Joseph Stratford. He was a Northerner. But for some reason he did not like to show it.

She looked away before he could catch her staring. Even if he was nothing more than a tradesman masquerading as gentry, he deserved more courtesy than she was giving him. They were drawing up the long drive towards the great house where she had played as a child. That was before Mary had died, of course, and before her sister Anne had grown into such a great and unapproachable lady. Had the manor changed as well? she wondered. Were the places she’d hidden under chairs and behind statues the same or different? Although she wished the circumstances had been different, she very much wanted to see the place—just once more.

She could feel the eyes of the other man on her, watching her reaction to the house. So she worked to relax her posture and not stare so, or appear eager for a visit to it. It was little better than staring directly at him to admire his property as though she coveted or desired the luxury he took for granted.

‘I had a friend who lived here once,’ she blurted, to explain her interest.

‘And perhaps you will again,’ he replied easily.

She looked up sharply into a face that was all bland innocence. The carriage pulled up before the great front entry, and as it stopped he signalled for the door to be opened, allowing her father to exit first so that he might help her on the steps.

For a moment they were alone again, and he touched her hand and smiled. ‘There is no reason for us to be enemies,’ he said.

‘Nor any particular reason for friendship,’ she reminded him, drawing her hand away.

‘I think it is too soon for either of us to tell,’ he announced, ignoring her animosity.

The process of entering the house was much the same as their setting off from the mill had been, with him carrying her while she protested, her shoeless foot waving in the air. There was a flurry of alarm amongst the servants, many of whom recognised her and her father.

‘Put me down now,’ she insisted. ‘Talk of this will reach the village. It will be the ruin of me.’

‘If it is, your father is right here to set them straight.’ He was smiling again, as though he knew how likely it was that her father would have no real memory of the event, for good or ill.

‘I would prefer that no explanation be needed,’ she said.

‘And I would prefer that people think me less of an ogre,’ Stratford replied. ‘I will not have you limping about my house while I offer no assistance. Then it will get round that I let you suffer as a punishment to your father.’

For her own sake, and to preserve her reputation, he explained in a loud voice for the benefit of the staff that Miss Lampett had fallen, and he did not wish to risk further injury until she had rested her foot. But as he did so his hands tightened on her body, to prove to Barbara that he was enjoying the experience at her expense.

‘You may put me down, and I will take my chances,’ she said, glancing at a parlour maid who stood, wide-eyed, taking in the sight. ‘I feel quite all right now.’

He pretended that he had not heard, and called for tea to be brought to the library, carrying her down the wide hall and depositing her on a couch by the fire.

How had Mr Stratford known, she wondered, the calming effect that the presence of books had on her father? Though he seemed to have more difficulty with people since the accident, the printed word still gave him great comfort. The Clairemont Manor library was the largest in the area and the best possible place to cement her father’s recovery.

As the servants prepared tea, her father stood and ran a hand along the rows of leather-bound volumes. Stratford studied the behaviour and then invited him to help himself to whatever he liked, lamenting that business gave him little time to enjoy the books there.

Her father gave a grateful nod and fell quickly to silence, ignoring the cup that had been poured for him, and the plate of sandwiches, in favour of the Roman history in his hand.

Stratford gave her a wry smile. ‘While your father is preoccupied, would you enjoy a brief walk down the corridor? If your ankle is better, as you claim, a spot of exercise will assure me that it is safe to send you home.’

She wanted to snap that she did not need him seeing to her safety. She had not wanted to come here at all. And now that she was here she would go home when she was ready, and not at his bidding. But it would be shaming to discuss her father’s rude behaviour while she shared a room with him, so it was best that she allow herself to be drawn away.

‘That would be lovely,’ she lied.

He went to fetch her boot and helped her with the lacing of it, commenting that the lack of swelling was an encouraging sign. Behind a placid smile, she gritted her teeth against the contact of his fingers against her foot and ankle. He was very gentle, as though he cared enough not to cause injury to a weakened joint. But she suspected the occasional fleeting touches she felt against her stocking were not the least bit accidental. He was touching her for his own pleasure. Much as she did not wish to, she found it wickedly exciting.

Then he rose and went ahead to open the door for her, standing respectfully to the side so that she might pass. She forced herself to stifle the unquiet feeling that it gave her to have him at her back—even for a moment.

It was possible that this latest offer masked something much darker. Perhaps he had designs upon her virtue. For, this close, she could not deny the virile air that he seemed to carry about with him, and the sense that he had a man’s needs and would not scruple to act upon them. She gave a small shudder, barely enough to be noticeable.

‘Is the house too cold for you?’ he prompted. ‘If so, I could have a servant build up the fire, or perhaps bring you a wrap …’

‘No, I am fine. I suspect that I took a slight chill on the moors.’

‘Your clothing is still damp from the fall. And I took you away from the tea I had promised.’ He frowned. ‘But I wished to speak alone with you for a moment, so that you might know I bear you no ill will because of recent events.’ He rubbed his brow, as though tired. ‘One can hardly be held responsible for the actions of one’s parent. I myself have a troublesome father.’

He stopped.

‘Had,’ he corrected. ‘I had a difficult father. He is dead now. For a moment I had quite forgotten.’

‘I am sorry for your loss,’ she said politely. ‘I assume the passing is a recent one, if you still forget it?’

He looked away, as though embarrassed. ‘Almost seven years, actually. It is just that he has been on my mind of late. He was a weaver, you see.’

‘You are the son of a weaver?’ she said.

‘Is that so surprising?’ There was a cant to his head, a jutting of the chin as though he were ready to respond to a challenge. ‘With all your father’s fine talk of supporting the workers, I did not think to find you snobbish, Miss Lampett.’

‘I am not snobbish,’ she retorted. ‘It merely surprises me that my father would need to tell a weaver’s son the damage automation does to the livelihoods of the men here.’

‘What you call damage, Miss Lampett, I call freedom. The ability to do more work in less time means the workers do not need to toil from first light to last. Perhaps they will have time for education, and those books your father finds so precious.’

‘The workers who are put from their places by these machines will have more time as well. And no money. Time is no blessing when there is no food on the table.’

He snorted. ‘The reason they are without work this Christmas has nothing to do with me. Was it not they and their like who burned the last mill to the ground and ran off the mill owner and his family? Now they complain that they have no source of income.’

‘When men are desperate enough, they resort to desperate actions,’ she said. ‘The owner, Mr Mackay, was a harsh man who cared little for those he employed, taking them on and casting them off like chattel. It is little wonder that their spirits broke.’

‘And I am sure that it did not help to have your father raising the rabble and inciting them to mischief.’ He looked at her with narrowed eyes.

‘That is a lie,’ she snapped. ‘He had nothing to do with that argument. He did not support either side, and worked to moderate the cruelty of the one with the need of the other.’

Stratford scoffed. ‘He saves his rage for me, then, who has not been here long enough to prove myself cruel or kind?’

‘He was not always as you see him,’ she argued. ‘A recent accident has addled his wits. Until that night he was the mildest of gentlemen, much as you see him now. But of late, when he takes an idea into his head, he can become quite agitated.’ When he recalled the scene she had come upon at the mill, just a short time ago, he must know that ‘agitated’ was an understatement. ‘Mother and I do not know what to do about it.’

‘You had best do something,’ Stratford said. ‘He appears to be getting worse and not better. If you had not come along today …’ He paused. ‘Your arrival prevented anyone from coming to harm, at least for now.’

From his tone, it did not seem that he feared for his own life. ‘Are you threatening my father, Mr Stratford?’

‘Not without cause, I assure you. He is a violent man. If necessary I will call in the law to stop him. That would be a shame if it is as you say—that the rage in him is a thing which he cannot control. But you must see that the results are likely to be all the same whether they proceed from malice, madness or politics.’

‘Just what do you propose we do? Lock him up?’

‘If necessary,’ Stratford said, with no real feeling. ‘At least that will prevent me from having him transported.’

‘You would do that, wouldn’t you?’ With his understanding behaviour, and his offers of tea and books, she had allowed herself to believe—just for a moment—that he was capable of understanding. And that if she confided in him he might use his ingenuity to come up with a solution to her family’s problems. But he was proving to be just as hard as she’d thought him when she’d seen him taunting the mob of weavers. ‘You have no heart at all to make such threats at Christmas.’

Joseph Stratford shrugged. ‘I fail to see what the date on the calendar has to do with it. The mill will open in January, whether your father likes it or not. But there is much work I must do, and plans that must be secured between then and now. I will not allow him to ruin the schemes already in progress with his wild accusations and threats of violence. Is that understood, Miss Lampett?’

‘You do not wish our coarseness and our poverty to offend the fancy guests you are inviting from London,’ she said with scorn. Everyone in the village had heard the rumours of strangers coming to the manor for the holiday, and would be speculating about their feasting and dancing while eating their meagre dinners in Fiddleton. ‘And you have the nerve to request that I chain my father in our cottage like a mad dog, so that he will not trouble you and your friends with the discomfort of your workers?’ She was sounding like her father at the beginning of some rabble-rousing rant. And she was foolish enough to be doing it while alone with a man who solved his problems with a loaded pistol.

‘There was a time when I was little better than they are now,’ he snapped.

‘Then you must have forgotten it, to let the people suffer so.’

‘Forgotten?’ He stepped closer, his eyes hard and angry. ‘There is nothing romantic about the life of a labourer. Only a woman who has known no real work would struggle so hard to preserve the rights of others to die young from overwork.’ He reached out suddenly and seized her hands, turning them over to rub his fingers over the palms. ‘As I thought. Soft and smooth. A lady’s hands.’

‘There is no shame in being a lady,’ she said, with as much dignity as she could manage. She did not try to pull away. He could easily manage to hold her if he wanted to. And if he did not respond to her struggle the slight fear she felt at the nearness of him would turn into panic.

His fingers closed on hers, and his eyes seemed to go dark. ‘But neither is there any pride in being poor. It is nice, is it not, to go to a soft bed with a full belly? To have hands as smooth as silk?’ His thumbs were stroking her, and the little roughness of them seemed to remind her just how soft she was. There was something both soothing and exciting about the feel of his fingers moving against hers, the way they twined, untwined and twined again.

‘That does not mean that we should not feel sympathy for those less fortunate than ourselves.’ He was standing a little too close to be proper, and her protest sounded breathless and excited.

‘Less fortunate, eh? Less in some ways, more in others. Without the machines they are fighting I would be no different than they are now—scrabbling to make a living instead of holding the hands of a beautiful lady in my own great house.’

It was not his house at all. He had taken it—just as he had taken her hands. ‘I did not give you leave to do so,’ she reminded him.

‘You gave me no leave to carry you before either,’ he said. ‘But I wanted to, and so I did. You felt very good in my arms.’ He pulled her even closer, until her skirts were brushing against the legs of his trousers. She did not move, even though he had freed her hands. ‘It is fortunate for me that you are prone to pity a poor working man. Perhaps you will share some of that sweet sympathy with me.’ He ran a finger down her cheek, as though to measure its softness.

She stood very still indeed, not wishing him to see how near she was to trembling. If she cried out it would draw the house down upon them and bring this meeting to a sudden end. But her words had failed her, and she could manage no clever quip that would make him think her sophisticated. Nor could she raise a maidenly insistence that he revolted her. He did not. His touch was gentle, and it made her forget all that had come before.

He seemed to forget as well, for his voice was softer, deeper and slower. ‘Your father broke one of my looms today. But it will be replaced, and I will say nothing of how the destruction happened.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered, wetting her lips.

‘If you wish to make a proper apology, I would like something more.’ His head dipped forwards, slowly, and his lips were nearing hers.

Although she knew what was about to happen she stayed still and closed her eyes. His lips were touching hers, moving lightly over them. It was as it had been when he had touched her ankle and held her hands. She could feel everything in the world in that single light touch. Her whole body felt warm and alive. Hairs rose on her arms and neck—not from the chill but as though they were eager to be soothed back to smoothness by roving hands.

She kissed him back, moving her lips on his as he had on hers. His mouth was rough, and imperfect. One corner of his smile was slightly higher than the other, and she touched it with the tip of her tongue, felt the dimple beside it deepen in surprise.

In response, he gave a playful lick against her upper lip, daring her. Her body’s response was an immediate tightening, and she pressed herself against him, opening her mouth. And what had been wonderful became amazing.

He encircled her, and his arms made a warm, safe place for their exploration—just as they had when he’d carried her. The slow stroking of hands and tongue seemed to open her to more sensations, and the tingling of her body assured her of the rightness of it, the perfection and the bliss. Although she knew all the places on her body that he must not touch, she was eager to feel his fingers there, and perhaps his tongue.

Just the idea made her tremble with eagerness, with embarrassment, and the knowledge that had seemed quite innocent was near to blazing out of control. And it was not only his doing. Even now she had taken his tongue into her mouth, and it was she who held it captive there, closing her lips upon it.

She could tell by his sigh of pleasure that he enjoyed what she’d done. But his only other response was to go still against her. His passivity coaxed her to experiment, raking his tongue with her teeth and circling it with her own, urging him to react.

He had trapped her into being the aggressor. At the realisation, she pulled away suddenly. He let her go, staring down at her in mock surprise, touching his own lips gingerly, as though they might be hot enough to burn his fingers.

‘Stop that immediately,’ she said.

He smiled. ‘You have stopped it quickly enough for both of us. And now I suppose you wish me to apologise for the way you kissed me?’

‘Only if you wish me to think you any sort of gentleman,’ she said, feeling ridiculous.

‘But I am not a gentleman,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Isn’t that half the problem between us? I sit here, a trumped-up worker, in a house that should belong to my betters, had they not lost it through monetary foolishness. My presence in this house upsets the natural order of things. My touching you …’

‘That is not the problem at all,’ she snapped. ‘I do not care who you are.’

‘If you do not care who I am, it was highly indiscriminate of you to allow me the kiss. And even worse that you returned it.’

‘You are twisting my words,’ she said. ‘I meant that it should not have happened at all. Not with any man. But especially not with you.’

‘I don’t know,’ he said with an ironic laugh. ‘I might be the best choice for such dalliance. If you complain to your father, I would be obligated to do right by you. Then my house and my fortune would be yours. You might trap me with your considerable charms and force me to marry you.’

‘But to do that I would have to admit to Father that you had touched me, Mr Stratford. I think we can safely say that such a circumstance will never happen. Not for all the money in the world, and Clairemont Manor thrown into the mix. Now, please return me to the library.’

He smiled in triumph, as though that had been his end all along. ‘Very well, then. Let us go back to your father, and both of you can be gone. I trust that now we have spoken on the subject I will see no more of you, or be forced to endure any more of your father’s tirades? For, while I can see that there is more than a little madness to them, they cannot be allowed to continue. If arms are raised against me and the opening of the mill disrupted, or my equipment damaged further, I will be forced to take action. While I am sure that neither of us wants it, you must see that I do not intend to be displaced now that I am so near to success.’

He turned and led her back towards the library. As he opened the door he made idle comments about the furnishings and art, as though they had just returned from a tour of his home. It was all the more galling to know that some of the things he said were inaccurate, proving that he knew little more about the things he owned than how to pay for them. He really was no better than he had said: a man ignorant in all but one thing. He had made a fine profit by it. But what did that matter if it had left him coarse and cruel?

As they entered, her father looked up as though he had forgotten how he had come to be there. ‘I think it is time that we were going, Father,’ she said firmly. ‘We have abused Mr Stratford’s hospitality for quite long enough.’

Her father looked with longing at the book in his hands.

Joseph Stratford responded without missing a beat. ‘I hate to take you from your reading, sir. Please accept the volume as my gift to you. You are welcome to come here whenever you like and avail yourself of these works. It pleases me greatly to see them in the hands of one who enjoys them.’

Because you have no use for them, you illiterate lout, she thought. She responded with a smile that was almost too bright, ‘How thoughtful of you, Mr Stratford.’

Her father agreed. ‘Books are a precious commodity in the area, and it is rare that we get anything new from London that is not a newspaper or a fashion plate.’ He wrinkled his nose at the inadequacy of such fare to a man of letters.

Stratford nodded in sympathy. ‘Then we will see what can be done to correct the deficiency. If there is anything you desire from my library, send word. I will have it delivered to you. And now it appears that your daughter is properly recovered. If I may offer you a ride back to the village?’

Her father stood, and the men chatted as they walked to the door as though they were old friends. In a scant hour Bernard Lampett had quite recovered from his fit of rage, and Mr Stratford was behaving as though the incidents in the mill and in the hall had not occurred. If he remembered them at all, he appeared untouched by them.

But in the space of that same hour Barbara felt irrevocably changed, and less sure of herself than she had ever been.