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“I already told you, remember?” He leaned forward and wrapped his hand around her fingers, stilling her agitated teasing of the ribbon. “This happens only with you.”
Emeline looked down at their fingers. She should snap at him. Set him down properly and let him know that he’d gone too far with his familiarity. But the sight of his brown fingers wrapped around and cradling her own smaller, white ones was mesmerizing somehow. The carriage bumped around a curve, and he withdrew his hand.
She smoothed out the ribbon. “Haven’t you a man of business?”
“Yes, Mr. Kitcher. But he’s a rather dry old man. I thought you’d be better company.”
She snorted softly at that. “Where are these offices?”
“Not far,” he said. “They’ve rented part of a warehouse.”
Her hands were trembling, and she clasped them together in her lap. “Mr. Wedgwood and Mr. Bentley haven’t showrooms?”
“No. They’re relatively new to the trade. Part of the reason I hope to get a bargain from them.”
“Mmm.” Emeline looked at him curiously. Mr. Hartley’s eyes were narrowed and alert as if he were readying for battle. “You like this.”
His eyebrows shot up. “What?”
She waved a hand vaguely. “Trade. Doing business. The hunt of finding a good bargain.”
His sensuous lips curved. “Of course. But I trust you won’t give me away to Bentley.”
Then the carriage was drawing up next to a warehouse. Mr. Hartley jumped down as soon as the steps were set and turned to help Emeline.
She looked at the plain brick and wood building doubtfully. “What do you want me to do?”
“Simply give me your opinion.” He tucked her hand into his elbow as a gentleman in curled wig and rust-colored coat came out of one of the warehouse’s doors.
“Mr. Hartley?” the man exclaimed in a Northern accent. “An honor, sir, an honor to meet your acquaintance. I am Thomas Bentley.”
Mr. Hartley took Mr. Bentley’s hand and shook it. This close, Emeline could see that Mr. Bentley was younger than she had thought—probably not much above thirty years. His face was florid and his middle just a little stout. Mr. Hartley introduced her, and the pottery merchant’s eyes widened when he heard her title.
“Lady Emeline. Why, this is an honor, ma’am; it is indeed. Won’t you take a dish of tea? I’ve just purchased some from India that’s quite nice.”
Emeline smiled at the man, murmuring her assent, and Mr. Bentley showed them into the warehouse. The building soared overhead, dark and cool. She could smell sawdust and damp bricks. Half the space was packed with barrels and crates, but Mr. Bentley led them into a smaller office off the main room. The office was just large enough for a wide desk, some chairs, and a stack of boxes against the wall. In one corner was a small hearth with a kettle already steaming.
“Here we are, then,” he said cheerfully as he held a chair for Emeline. “I’ll just get the tea, shall I?”
“Will Mr. Wedgwood be joining us?” Mr. Hartley asked. He had chosen to remain standing.
“Ah, no,” Mr. Bentley said as he squinted over the pot of tea. “Mr. Wedgwood is the master potter, whilst I am the businessman. He is presently overseeing the making of the pottery in Burslem. There we are.” Mr. Bentley said this last as he set the tea on the desk. He’d had to stack several ledger books on the floor to make room. The man blinked nervously at Mr. Hartley.
But the American merely nodded and raised a brow at her. Emeline sat forward to pour the tea. She wasn’t sure, exactly, of the undercurrents of this meeting, and she didn’t want to upset Mr. Hartley’s position. At the same time, she was intrigued by how he would act in this, his own world. Right now he seemed very still, his expression relaxed but giving nothing away. Mr. Bentley, in contrast, was beginning to look worried. Emeline hid a smile as she sipped her tea. She had the feeling that Mr. Hartley was deliberately making his opponent unsure of his position.
For the next several minutes, the two gentlemen and Emeline took tea and made small talk. She knew that Mr. Hartley must be impatient to see the pottery he wanted to buy, but he didn’t let his impatience show on his face. He leaned on a corner of the desk and sipped his tea as pleasantly as if he were visiting a maiden aunt.
Mr. Bentley shot him several worried looks and then finally put down his teacup. “Would you like to see some of our pottery, sir?”
Mr. Hartley nodded and set aside his own teacup. The pottery merchant went to one of the wooden boxes against the wall and opened the lid, revealing a mass of straw.
Emeline couldn’t help but lean forward. She’d never before thought much about the plates she used—save that they be of the newest design—but now pottery seemed a most important affair. Mr. Hartley shot a glance at her behind Mr. Bentley’s back. He almost imperceptably shook his head once. Emeline wrinkled her nose at him, feeling as if she’d been reproved like a small child. However, she sat back and smoothed her features into an expression of ennui. Mr. Hartley’s mouth twitched as if he found her enthusiasm amusing, and he winked at her. Emeline tilted her nose away from him. She’d have to set the man down. Later.
Meanwhile, Mr. Bentley had carefully removed a layer of straw. Underneath was a lidded jar in the shape of a pineapple with a dark green glaze. Mr. Bentley handed the jar to Mr. Hartley, who took it and examined it without speaking. He brought the jar over and stood it on the desk in front of Emeline, watching as she bent to examine it.
Mr. Bentley was unearthing more pottery, teapots, dishes, cups, bowls, and tureens. Indeed, all manner of pottery soon filled the desk, most glazed a deep green and many in the shapes of cauliflowers or pineapples.
Mr. Hartley cocked an eyebrow at Emeline while Mr. Bentley’s back was turned. She elevated her own eyebrows in return. The fact was that the pottery was all very nice and well made, but nothing out of the ordinary.
