Beauty and the Blacksmith

chapter 6


“Why, Mr. Dawes,” Charlotte said. “I almost didn’t recognize you, you look so smart this morning.”

Aaron pulled a face of male modesty.

“Doesn’t he look smart, Diana?”

Diana smiled. “Mr. Dawes looks quite fine.”

“I’m on business today,” he said, tugging down the brim of his hat. “Best to look the part.”

He did look splendid, Diana had to agree. He was dressed in a rich brown topcoat that made her think of melted chocolate. His freshly starched neckcloth made a delicious contrast with his bronzed skin and dark hair.

That hair was still a touch too long, curling in dark waves at his collar. Staring at it made her wistful.

They didn’t have Mr. Keane’s curricle today—just Aaron’s own wagon. The seat was wide enough to fit three, and Diana took the middle. The morning was brisk, and he tucked a rug over their laps.

Hastings was almost two hours’ distance away, and they passed the first hour or so in near silence. Which was not to say that no communication was happening. One side of Diana’s body—the side pressed against him—had developed a manner of speaking all its own. They were having a whole conversation in subtle exchanges of heat and pressure and “accidental” brushes of arm against arm, knee against knee. Each touch electrified her. She had to ration her glances in his direction so as not to give Charlotte any idea.

The secret pleasure of their flirtation made her giddy. They weren’t even halfway to their destination, and already this was her favorite outing in years.

“Lud, you two are silent,” Charlotte finally declared. “We must talk about something.”

“I’m glad we’ve had this break in the rain,” Diana said.

“And not the weather!” Charlotte complained. “I’m exhausted of everyone discussing the weather.”

“What is it you’ll be needing in town?” Aaron asked. “Where can I drop you when we reach Hastings?”

“We must visit the draper’s first,” Charlotte answered. “That’s our main errand. We need yards and yards of white for Diana’s costume, and there wasn’t enough in the All Things shop.”

“Miss Highwood’s wearing a costume?”

Diana forgot she hadn’t told him about the theatrical. Whenever they’d been alone together, there had been too many other things to discuss. And too many kisses to share.

“Yes, that’s why we’re going to Ambervale on Thursday,” Charlotte explained. “We’re presenting a theatrical. A pantomime on the life and death of Saint Ursula. I’m playing Cordula, and Diana is playing the lead.”

“Oh, is she?” Aaron slid her an amused look. “Now that would be something to see.”

“You should come,” Charlotte said eagerly. “Everyone’s coming. Captain Thorne will be there, of course. And I just received a letter from Minerva yesterday. She and Lord Payne will be coming down from London to attend.”

“I might like to see them. What do you think, Miss Highwood?” he asked. “Would I be welcome?”

“I suppose. So long as you promise not to laugh.”

When they reached Hastings, Aaron saw them to the draper’s before taking his wagon to the mews and completing his business. Diana and Charlotte spent the next hour debating sateen versus crepe, then purchasing great spools of ribbon and gold braid to make headdresses for each of Ursula’s eleven handmaidens.

“When he’s playing Prince Meriadoc, do you think Lord Drewe will wear a codpiece?” Charlotte whispered.

“What a question! I’m sure I don’t want to notice it if he does.”

“Well, he’s going to notice you.” Charlotte draped a length of white brocade over Diana’s shoulder. “You’ll be stunning.”

Uncomfortable with that line of conversation, Diana took the fabric and folded it away. She moved on to the display cases. “I must find a new lorgnette for Mama. Hers has disappeared.”

Her sister clucked her tongue. “I tell you, something strange is going on at the rooming house. I think we have a thief in the Queen’s Ruby.”

“I think you just enjoy believing so.”

“I have my eye on Miss Bertram. She’s such an odd duck.”

“Well. Mr. Evermoore must like odd ducks.”

Charlotte just laughed. “Speaking of birds, I’m going to have a look at the plumes.”

Her sister drifted away, and Diana concentrated on the display of lorgnettes. They didn’t have any that matched the style of Mama’s missing one, so she was left to choose the next best. She was just about to ask the shopgirl to bring out two for comparison when a man clad in dark chocolate brown approached her and interrupted in a deep voice.

“I beg your pardon, miss.”

Her heart skipped a beat.

Aaron.

She turned to him, taking his cue and playing as though they were strangers. “Yes, sir?”

“Might I ask your opinion, as a lady?”

She looked him down, then up. “I should be glad to help if I can be of service.”

He drew to the side, motioning for her to follow. He paused over a case filled with beaded reticules and lace gloves and tooled ivory fans.

“I’d like to buy a gift for my sweetheart,” he said. “And I’m not sure what she’d like. I thought perhaps you might be so good as to help me choose.”

A helpless smile tugged at her lips. He didn’t need to buy her anything, but she couldn’t deny the thought made her dizzy with joy.

Until Charlotte popped between them. “Mr. Dawes, you have a sweetheart? Who is it? Who?”

Aaron watched as Diana’s cheeks paled. She gave him a look of pure panic.

“Do tell, do tell.” Miss Charlotte bounced on her toes. “Who is your sweetheart, Mr. Dawes?”

“I . . .”

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to lie, but clearly Diana hadn’t told her sister anything about the two of them. That struck him as a mite strange—his own sisters had told one another everything about their romances. But they were closer in age than the eldest and youngest Highwoods were. And more to the point, they’d never gone courting with young men from a different social class.

“Charlotte, don’t harass him so,” Diana chided. “Is your business complete, Mr. Dawes?” She was clearly anxious to change the subject.

“Yes, thank you. And your shopping?”

“Nearly done.” She called to the shopgirl and asked her to wrap up one of the lorgnettes.

“We have some time before we need to start back,” Aaron said. “I thought perhaps the three of us could take some luncheon at—”

“But you haven’t purchased your sweetheart’s gift yet,” Charlotte said.

God, the girl was like a bulldog with a bone.

“Do tell us who it is, and we’ll help you choose. Is it Sally? Pauline? Oh! I know. Gertrude, the upstairs maid from Summerfield.”

Aaron shook his head. “None of those.”

Charlotte snapped her fingers. “One of the Willett girls. Or that miller’s daughter from the next parish. What’s her name again? Betsy?”

He shook his head.

“Do we know her?” she asked.

“I . . . I’m fairly certain you do.”

Diana gathered her purchase from the shopgirl and thumped her sister with it. “Charlotte, stop. You’re embarrassing him.”

Embarrassing her, too, Aaron would warrant.

“We’d be glad to take some luncheon,” she went on. “Thank you very much for the suggestion, Mr. Dawes.”

He was quiet over their meal of pigeon pie. He didn’t know what to make of her reluctance to tell the truth. She wasn’t ready to tell anyone, obviously. He supposed it was understandable, this soon. But would she ever be ready? That was the larger question.

Perhaps she didn’t see matters going that far.

Aaron surreptitiously touched the packet buried deep in his breast pocket—the small quantity of gold and gemstones he’d accepted in payment from the jeweler. He’d requested compensation in materials rather than coin, thinking he’d make something special with it.

Like maybe a ring.

But now he was feeling like a fool. If Diana didn’t even feel ready to tell her own sister about them, Aaron was getting too far ahead of himself.

He lifted his ale and regarded her over it. Like she did so often, she fidgeted with the slender chain always about her neck and the vial of tincture at the end of it.

Except . . .

He blinked and looked closer.

She wasn’t wearing the vial on her chain today. Instead, he saw his pendant. The quatrefoil one he’d made for her. The one she’d been hiding in pockets and under pillows for months. Until today.

It wasn’t a public confession. But it was something, that.

He drained his ale and thumped the tankard on the table. “If you don’t mind,” he announced, “I’ve an errand on our way back to Spindle Cove. Someone I promised I’d call on today.”

Charlotte perked with interest. “Is it your sweetheart?” And close on the heels of her question, “Ow!”

He was certain Diana had kicked her under the table.

“No, Miss Charlotte, it’s not my sweetheart. It’s my sister.”