Beauty and the Blacksmith (Spindle Cove #3.5)(7)
Author: Tessa Dare

“Miss Highwood . . .”

“Call me Diana.” She let her head fall forward, nestling into his coat.

“Diana.” Until he spoke the name aloud, he hadn’t known how deeply he’d wanted to call her that. Diana, Diana.

“You’re so strong,” she murmured. “And warm. You smell like soap.”

“Diana, I know you. We’ve lived in the same small village for almost two years, and we’ve come through a few trials together. Let’s just say I’ve paid attention. I won’t deny I’ve wanted this, but not this way. You’re confused, upset, and more than a little drunk. This”—he put an arm about her, steadying her—“can’t happen tonight.”

She clung to him, her face stubbornly buried in his coat. He embraced her, trying to keep out the chill. Not entirely selfless valiance on his part. He loved the feel of her in his arms.

He bent his head and murmured in her ear. “I’ll take you home now.”

She made a whimper of protest.

“No, Diana. It has to be now. Else I’ll be tempted to bring you home with me instead, and then you’d be stuck. All those choices you’ve glimpsed tonight would disappear. Ruined, and forced to marry a craftsman? You don’t want that.”

She didn’t answer. Just hugged him tight.

“You don’t want that,” he repeated more firmly.

Or did she?

She was silent for a few moments, which his heart stretched into hopeful lifetimes.

And then she gave her answer—a soft, unmistakable snore.

CHAPTER 3

The next morning, Diana woke with all sorts of regrets. They were stabbing her straight through the eyes, those regrets. Her pounding head felt like . . .

Like a blacksmith’s anvil.

She groaned, putting a hand to her eyes. She had a hazy memory of coming in through the rooming house door, waving a brief good night to her mother and sister, then stumbling up to her bed. Unfortunately, her memories of throwing herself at Aaron Dawes were all too clear.

Oh, the humiliation. What he must think of her.

She pulled the coverlet up over her head, turning to bury her face in the pillow. A mistake. She couldn’t hide from the memory here. As she pressed her face to the mattress, recollections of last night’s embrace assailed her. His warmth, his solid strength. His honorable treatment of her when she’d cast all her good breeding in the mud at his feet.

Her head throbbed. The rest of her ached with a fierce, hopeless yearning.

“Diana?” Charlotte rapped on the door. “Are you well?”

No. No, I’m not well. I am very poorly in the head. And in the heart. Kindly go away.

“The rain’s let up,” Charlotte said, opening the door a crack. “Mama wants to pay a call at Summerfield. Will you join us?”

Diana was tempted to stay abed and plead headache. She wouldn’t even need to exaggerate. But if there was one thing she was proud of doing last night, it was deciding that she wouldn’t be defined by “delicate health” any longer.

She threw back the coverlet. “I’ll join you.”

She rose from bed, dressed, choked down a bit of tea and toast, and donned her sturdiest shoes. Perhaps if she walked far enough, she would leave this feeling of mortification behind.

The walk to Summerfield did loosen some of the knots in her stomach. And they all enjoyed their brief visit with Sir Lewis Finch, who told them the latest news of his granddaughter. By the time they began their walk home, the sky had lightened noticeably. Diana could almost forget the embarrassment of last night.

Almost.

“How did it go last night?” Charlotte asked.

Diana stumbled over a rock. “What do you mean?”

“Your thimble. Did you find it at the Bull and Blossom?”

The thimble. Diana shook her head. “It wasn’t there.”

“That’s so odd.”

“Not really. It’s just a thimble. Thimbles go missing.”

“But just this morning, Mrs. Nichols was missing her ink bottle, too. It’s a mystery.”

Diana smiled. Charlotte’s imagination always led her to see more excitement than was truly there. “I’m sure it’s a coincidence.”

“It’s a tragedy,” Mama exclaimed, stopping in the lane. “Oh, this cannot be borne.”

“The disappearance of my thimble, a tragedy? I think I can survive it.”

“No, look.” Mama gestured toward the sky, where the thick blanket of clouds had parted to reveal a patch of blue—and within it, the bright, cheery face of the sun. “The sun is out. Oh, this is dreadful.”

“Dreadful?” Charlotte laughed. “It’s our first sunshine in a fortnight. It’s marvelous.”

“It is dreadful. Because your sister left the rooming house with only her cloak and no proper bonnet.” She hurried to Diana’s side. “Ten minutes of this, and she will freckle. Oh, and less than a week before our invitation to Ambervale. What will Lord Drewe think?”

“If he notices—which I doubt he will—he will think I’ve been in the sun.”

“Exactly!” She tugged at the hood of Diana’s cloak, drawing it up as far as it would go. “Keep your head down, Diana. Just look at your feet.”

Diana lifted her head, letting her hood fall back. “But then how will I see where I’m going? I might fall on my face. I should think Lord Drewe would take more notice of bruises than he would freckles.”

“Head down, I say.” Mama yanked the hood up again.

“No.” Diana thrust it back. “Mama, you’re being ridiculous. This is a beautiful morning. I mean to enjoy it.”

She braced herself for another round of Tug-o’-Hood, but Mama didn’t care to play. She was distracted by the sounds of hoofbeats and carriage wheels and turned to peer down the lane.

“There is Mr. Keane with his curricle. He will save you.”

“Save me? I survived years of asthma. I don’t believe freckles are a terminal condition.”

“Head down,” she snapped. As the curricle drew near, she lifted one arm and waved to him with her handkerchief, like a drowning sailor in need of a rope. “Mr. Keane! Oh, Mr. Keane, do help!”

“Please don’t trouble him.”

“He is the vicar. He ought to do a good deed.”

The curricle rolled to a halt in the lane. What with the strong sun and the harsh shadows, it was hard to peer into the covered bench seat—but the driver didn’t seem to be the vicar. This man was rather . . . larger.