Beauty and the Blacksmith (Spindle Cove #3.5)(22)
Author: Tessa Dare

“You know that’s not what I mean. Your own prospects. You’re going to have your season in London soon. And I suspect you want that excitement, even if it didn’t suit your sisters. If Miss Diana marries this far beneath her station”—he quelled Charlotte’s objection with a hand gesture—“there’s bound to be gossip. Fewer invitations, fewer suitors . . .”

He could tell his words were sinking in. She shifted uncomfortably on her stool.

“Listen, Mr. Dawes. I don’t think you’ve understood. I’m meant to be my mother in this scene we’re playing, and you’re stealing all her lines.”

He chuckled. “Let’s just say I’ve realized something. If there’s a member of the Highwood family I must approach for permission, it’s not your mother. It’s you.”

She sat tall. “Well. Don’t I feel important.”

“You are important. I know Diana wouldn’t like to see you hurt.”

“I don’t like to see Diana hurt, either, Mr. Dawes. And yet I’ve watched her hurting ever since I could remember. I’ve held her hand through horrid, endless minutes when she struggled to simply breathe. While I would run and climb and play, she was always kept indoors. I was young then, but I’ve grown up now. I won’t have her penned up for another two years just so I can dance and make merry in Town.” Her gaze lifted to his. “I want, very much, to see my sister happy. If it’s my blessing you need, you have it.”

He nodded slowly. “Very well, then. But you may regret this when the London bucks come chasing after you and your brother-in-law threatens them with a red-hot poker.”

She laughed. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Ask my own sisters.” He rubbed his face. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. I haven’t properly proposed.”

Charlotte hopped down from the stool and reached for her cloak. “That’s one answer you needn’t worry about.”

CHAPTER 10

On Thursday, Aaron took his time getting ready.

After a thorough dousing at the pump, he shaved as close as he could manage. Tonight had to be perfect. He thought of the women making ready at the Queen’s Ruby. All the ladies flitting and hurrying about in their underthings, trading ribbons and hairpins.

Diana, rolling a pale silk stocking up her leg.

That mental picture earned him a nick beneath his jaw. He examined the red line in the tiny looking glass and swore. So much for perfect.

He donned a new starched shirt, holding the collar as wide as possible so as not to spot the thing with blood. As he wrestled with his cuffs, he tried not to remind himself that a proper gentleman would have a valet to help him with these things. Last came his cleaned and mended brown coat—still the best he had, even after the roadside brawl.

Good thing he didn’t possess a full-length mirror, or it surely would have reflected a picture of discouragement.

What sort of miracle was he trying to work, anyhow? She knew him. It wasn’t as though he could fool her into thinking he was something loftier than a village blacksmith.

He started out the door and was halfway through saddling his horse when he stopped short.

In his agitation, he’d nearly forgotten the ring. Of all the things to forget. It was the one item he had to recommend him, after all.

He opened the small lockbox in his bedchamber and pulled it out, letting it glitter on the palm of his hand. He’d used gold—it suited her golden hair, and it was the finest. The band was adorned with leaves, with a small center ruby set amid diamond petals. Even if she wouldn’t marry him, he wanted her to have this. It was the best of him, and the best he knew how to offer.

His guts were in knots. This was absurd.

He was who he was. She would have him, or she wouldn’t. After tonight, he’d know.

“Mr. Dawes!” The voice came from the smithy. “Mr. Dawes!”

Aaron slipped the ring in his breast pocket before walking out and around to the front. He found Cora Maidstone, the daughter of one of the local farmers. From the state of her flushed cheeks and muddied hem, he surmised she’d run all the way here.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s my father,” she said, breathless. “Our mare’s been tetchy lately, and she rolled him. Broke his leg. Bad.”

Aaron passed a hand over his face. The Maidstone family, like so many of the farming families, lived year to year. This was planting season, and his sons weren’t old enough yet to take on the plowing. If that leg didn’t heal properly—or didn’t heal at all—the whole family could starve.

“Please,” she said. “He’s hurting something fierce.”

“Of course. Give me a moment.”

He strode back into his cottage, shrugged out of his coat, and slung it on a hook. He gathered an apron and the kit of laudanum, bandages, and such that Lady Rycliff had given him to keep on hand for bonesettings.

Last, he put that gold and ruby ring back into the lockbox and shut it tight. There’d be no theatricals or parties for him today. He had work to do, and there was no way around it.

He was who he was.

As for whether Diana would have him—he could only pray she’d give him another chance to ask.

Several fatiguing, bloody hours later, Aaron rode through the village on his way back. It was out of his way, but something wouldn’t let him go home until he passed by the cheerful façade of the Queen’s Ruby, with its begonia-stuffed window boxes and green shutters.

He stared up at the window he knew to be hers. Dark, like all the others. Ambervale was a few hours’ distance, and it would likely be almost dawn before the ladies returned home. Aaron hated to imagine what Diana would think of him, promising to attend and then failing to appear. He should have thought to send word at least, but there hadn’t been time.

Well, there was nothing for it but to apologize tomorrow.

He nudged his horse and turned down the lane that led home. As he neared the cottage, he saw a weak light burning from within. Strange. In his hurry, he must have neglected to extinguish his lamp before leaving.

He took his time putting up the horse, making sure the mare had water, feed, and a good brushing down. Then Aaron had a glance at himself and grimaced. The fresh new shirt he’d worn for the occasion was spattered with blood. He gave a grim chuckle, thinking of how he’d been so careful not to mar it with the smallest drop from his shaving accident.

Right there by the pump, he yanked the shirt loose of his waistband, pulled it over his head, and cast it into a bucket of water to soak. No use bringing the thing inside. Then he doused his own head, torso, and hands, washing away all the evidence of that evening’s miserable, bloody work. Finally, he stood erect, pushed the water from his face and hair, and went into the cottage.