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“Not now. We have a rainwater cistern, but it’s dependent on the weather, of course.”
“And a mill-wheel pump?”
“No. We’d have to build that part. Unless the servants carried the water up to the tank.”
“Which would be at least as much work as hauling cans of hot water,” said Penelope.
Lord Whitfield nodded.
“Imagine turning a spigot and having hot water!” Penelope looked more closely at the drawing. “The water would be heated in the wall beside the kitchen fires?”
“The fellow said that was the way, because they’re always lit. People would have to come downstairs for a bath.”
“It would be worth it!” She met his eyes, thought of naked limbs lolling in a luxurious bath, and looked away. “You’d have to lay in a good many pipes.”
“You’re very clever with architectural plans.”
“Philip was interested in all sorts of mechanisms.” It was easier to say her brother’s name this time. Perhaps, eventually the pain would fade? “He used to explain new inventions at the dinner table, with illustrations.” She turned the page over. “A water closet, too?”
“That was the plan.”
“You should install it,” said Penelope, imagining a world in which no one had to deal with chamber pots.
“I don’t know.” Lord Whitfield surveyed the cluttered room. “There’s so much else to do.”
“You’d only have to supervise. I’m sure you know the best workmen in the neighborhood.”
“I do. But they’ve never built anything like this.” He gestured at the plans.
“You could get advice from the person who made these.”
“I’ve forgotten his name.”
She pointed to a neat signature at the bottom of the page. “Andre Fontaine. With his address as well.”
Whitfield smiled at her. “You’re very enthusiastic.”
The warmth in his eyes made Penelope feel as if she’d stepped close to a roaring fire. “My family has…had a mechanical bent,” she managed.
He leaned closer again to examine the drawing. His brown hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck. Penelope was seized by an intense desire to run her fingers through those strands.
“All right. Yes, let’s go ahead. If you’ll take charge.”
“What? Me?”
“You’re so efficient.”
“Efficient,” Penelope repeated. It was the sort of compliment she’d sometimes wished for when a dance partner had praised her fine eyes or her grace. Now, it seemed less than satisfactory. He couldn’t know how her heart was beating.
“I’m sure all would go smoothly under your direction,” Whitfield added. “I’m continually amazed at your abilities.”
Penelope couldn’t help herself. She leaned into his warm brown gaze, basking in the admiration she saw there. They were close, closer, and then their lips brushed. A soft, glancing kiss. Fleeting, but volcanic as a rush of desire shuddered through her.
Whitfield jerked back. “I beg your pardon,” he said, sounding breathless.
“You do?”
“I should. I must. You’re a guest in my house, a young lady. I would not offer you insult for the—”
