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“I have to finish—this floor isn’t going to replace itself. I never leave a job half-finished.”
And he never sat around sipping tea with his work partners. Or dreaming about being stranded on desert islands together.
Because his work partners had never been slim-hipped young ladies in tight trousers that left little to the imagination.
And her shirt left even less unseen. She would have to choose a threadbare linen shirt, one that had been laundered so many times it was as fine as silk.
He could clearly see her nipples. He was too busy looking at them to watch what he was doing. He lifted a board so forcefully that it flew up and smacked him in the forehead.
“Ford! What did you do that for? Here, come and sit down.” She took his hand and led him toward a chair. “You’re bleeding.”
He wiped the blood away from his forehead with his shirtsleeve. “It’s only a scratch.”
“I won’t have you injured on the job. Sit,” she said, pointing at a chair. “I won’t be a moment.”
She returned with a basin of water and a clean cloth and proceeded to clean the wound on his brow. Every swipe of the cloth afforded him a delectable view of her breasts.
They were directly at eye level as she wiped the blood from his hair. He sat on his hands to stop from pulling her close and popping one of those nipples into his mouth, tonguing her through linen.
“You have bits of wood in your hair,” she observed.
“And you have smudges of dirt on your cheeks and nose.”
She patted his forehead dry with a cloth.
“Enough, Beatrice.” He caught her wrist. “It’s just a scratch.”
“So you’re allowed to come charging into the opera house and tell me I can’t marry Mayhew, but I’m not allowed to care for your injury?”
“You’re not allowed to care. Full stop.”
“You can’t stop me.”
Chapter Seventeen
Beatrice cared. She couldn’t help herself.
He was strong and confident and yet she sensed vulnerability at the heart of him, that fifteen-year-old boy who’d run away from home and joined the navy, unwilling to serve her father. He’d wanted to see the world, strike out on his own, and he had and now he was back in England.
He was here with her, making her dream of giving the ladies a clubhouse a reality.
And giving her freedom in the process.
He put his arms around her waist and pressed his cheek against her chest.
Her heart skipped wildly. She cradled his head in her arms, resting her chin on top of his head.
“Beatrice, don’t care for me. I’m leaving London.”
“I know you’re leaving. I’ve always known that. I’m leaving London, as well. But we’re here together, right now.”
She wanted to be close to him and she felt no shame about it.
This new space they were creating together, had muffled the stern, castigating voices in her mind.
Here Beatrice smashed plaster and ripped nails from boards. She listened to her own voice.
And what her voice was telling her was this: grab this moment with both hands, don’t be frightened, don’t think too much. Reach for this liberty, this newfound power, and hold on tight.
