“Even if what they say isn’t pleasant?” he asked.
“I’d rather hear the truth.”
“The truth.” He moved again, but a grimace stretched his lips.
Florence clicked her tongue. “Is that leg, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” His brow creased.
“You should try rubbing warm yarrow oil on it. It does miracles.” Florence tapped her leg. “It fixed my bad knee. I’ll buy some yarrow oil for you, My Lord.”
Christopher grumbled a “Thank you.”
Poplar and oak trees flew past as the landau sped up on a paved road. While Christopher stared out of the window and Florence blabbed about a new recipe to cook mutton, Pearl spied his profile, the straight nose, the strong jaw, and the unshaven chin. She wondered how it’d feel on her cheek, on her neck, or her breasts.
He turned to her and held her stare. She didn’t gaze away. It was inappropriate, but . . . but she couldn’t help it. Her lips parted when his gaze dipped on her neckline before fixing on her mouth. How could he ignite her blood with only one stare?
The carriage rolled to a halt, causing her to break the staring contest. The footman opened the door.
Christopher exited first and offered his hand. “Madam.”
“Thank you.” Pearl slipped her hand in his and closed her fingers around his firmly.
He sucked in a breath while gently leading her onto the pavement. She didn’t withdraw her hand, and they stood for a moment touching. Mrs Armstrong would’ve fainted.
His obsidian eyes gave nothing away. No emotions swirled in their depth, no anticipation. But a vein in his neck beat a wild pulse.
Florence coughed and broke the spell. “I beg your pardon, but shall we go?”
“Of course.” Pearl released Christopher’s hand.
A bell rang when Christopher pushed the shop’s door. A sign on the top read ‘Thompsons & Wiley.’ The intense smell of pine resin, coming from the wooden furniture, hit her nostrils. It was like walking into a forest.
A couple of couches clad in light-green silk took up a corner while a long table, big enough to accommodate ten people, occupied the opposing wall.
“Welcome.” The man behind the counter glanced at them from the rim of half-moon glasses. “Can I help you with anything?”
“I’m here with Lord Lyons for the furniture order,” Pearl said with a bow of her head.
“My Lord, sorry I didn’t recognise you.” The man stiffened and bowed from the waist.
Christopher’s jaw clenched, hard to say if he was annoyed by the man’s welcome or if he didn’t want to be recognised.
“I’m Mr Wiley.” The man adjusted his glasses. “The order is ready for you to review. Please follow me.”
Mr Wiley led them to the back of the shop through a double door. Sawdust and drops of enamel littered the floor. A couple of young men were working on milling wooden boards. At the end of the room, a couch big enough for four people glimmered in the light of the gas lamps. Budding roses were embroidered in its pale blue silk. The polished wood of the armrests and the legs gleamed with a glossy hue.
“It’s beautiful.” She ran a hand over the back, feeling the soft, smooth fabric under her fingers.
“We have two more samples of this couch if you like it,” Wiley said. “And matching armchairs.”
“Fine piece, in my opinion.” Florence gave an assessing look at the couch. “Just fine.”
Pearl turned to Christopher. “What do you think?”
He smiled. It was a disarming smile that shattered her heart. “If you like it, I’ll take the other couches and the matching armchairs.”
“Splendid.” Wiley produced a notebook and a pencil from his pocket and scribbled something. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to organise the shipment.” He snapped his fingers. “Boys, follow me.”
