Page 45 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

Darius gave a start. “Is… is that a problem?” He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed. “You don’t want a comely wife?”

“Oh, I do, sir. Very much.”

Dipping his head, his expression suggesting he was confused, Darius made an odd sound in his throat. “But Miss O’Connor is not comely in the way you want your wife to appear? Is that it?” The query was made in a quieter voice, as if he was attempting to coax Angus into admitting exactly what he wanted in a spouse. “It’s fine if you prefer a woman who possesses hair of another color, or who is shorter or rounder or—”

“Oh, but Miss O’Connor is perfect, sir,” Angus insisted. “She’s just… perfect.”

Darius gave a start. “So… what’s the problem?”

Angus struggled to breathe. “I… I don’t know what to say to her. What if she laughs at me?”

Scoffing, Darius said, “She is not going to laugh at you. Unless you tell a joke, or make fun of yourself, in which case, you want her to laugh at you. With you.”

It was Angus’s turn to give a start. “You’re sure?”

Darius sighed. “Quite. Now, if she says ‘no’ to your offer of a ride, you needn’t take it as if it’s an offense,” he added. “She may already have other plans, or she may be concerned about being seen in the company of a young man when she is still in mourning.”

Angus screwed his face into a pained expression. “I hadn’t considered that,” he whispered. He glanced at the clock and sucked in a breath. “I should be going, sir, or I will be late.”

Lifting a paper from the workbench, Darius held it out. “Here are the particulars for the order. The man at that address will have the block ready at three o’clock,” he explained. “It’s not large. Should fit on the back of your phaeton.”

Angus took the paper and noted the name of the company. “I’ll be there,” he replied, tucking it into a waistcoat pocket. “Thank you, sir.” He rushed out to the back gates, closing them before he led the horse and phaeton out of the stable. A moment later, he had the horse racing toward Picadilly.

Darius watched his assistant take his leave, grinning at the young man’s sudden enthusiasm. He hoped Angus would be able to maintain it once he reached the market, for Darius knew if he took a moment to remember he was shy, he might not have the nerve to approach Iris O’Connor, let alone offer her a ride.

“You can lead a horse to water…” he murmured before closing the carriage doors.

But his concern about his employee’s shyness was short-lived. He had a reverse drive to design.

Chapter Twenty-Two

A Ride on a Phaeton Proves Invigorating

A half hour later, Covent Garden Market

Fearing he might be too late to find Iris still in her stall at the Covent Garden Market, Angus jogged from where he had left his phaeton with a street urchin and hurried into the large building.

The scents of flowers mixed with the odors of fruits and vegetables—some well past their prime—as well as the earthy smells of roots and green herbs assailed his nostrils. He nearly panicked at realizing he had no idea where the Jones’ Nursery stall was located. At first glance, it appeared as if there were hundreds of vendors.

He made his way down the central aisle, his attention darting about. Relief settled over him when he finally caught sight of Miss O’Connor. Despite the hour of the day—she had mentioned having to be at the market at four o’clock in the morning—the black-gowned flower girl appeared content. Happy even. The ringlets at her temples were wilted, though, the ends resting against her shoulders and hinting that the rest of her raven hair was quite long. At the moment, it was still caught up in a bun atop her head.

“Good day, Miss O’Connor,” he said, lifting his cap and bowing as he approached. His concern that he might have arrived too late was now replaced with nervousness.

Iris blinked in surprise, apparently recognizing him right away as she rushed up to him and grinned. She curtsied. “And to you, Mr. Thompson. What brings you to the market on this fine day?”

About to say, “Flowers,” he glanced beyond her to discover the flower buckets were empty.

“What is it?” she asked, her grin fading.

“Are… are they all gone?” he asked, not bothering to hide his disappointment.

She allowed a sad sigh. “Indeed. Mondays aren’t usually the busiest day for me, but… lots of housekeepers were here today, which tells me the wealthy must be hosting entertainments this week.”

He dipped his head. “Well, I had planned to buy you a posy or two… so you would have flowers for your new apartment.”

Iris inhaled softly. “That’s very kind of you, but surely not necessary, seeing as how you gave up most of your Sunday to help me move.” She pulled on a black bonnet before fishing a pair of black gloves from her pocket.

“It was my pleasure, truly,” he commented, watching her pull on the gloves. Despite the kind of work she did, he noticed her hands appeared soft, and her fingernails were perfect ovals. He expected to see scars from prickly thorns, but none were evident. “I’m actually on my way to Lambeth Pier,” he blurted, realizing he shouldn’t be imagining what those fingernails might feel like if they were scraping his scalp—or his back—while they were engaged in what Darius called sexual congress. A shiver passed through his body, and he inhaled sharply. “But I thought I might give you a ride to the bookshop, if you haven’t other plans.”