1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Somewhere outside Bristol, 1882

A delaide couldn’t stop thinking about the blacksmith’s hands.

Were it not the hottest day in June thus far, she would have been inside the carriage with her nose buried in her copy of The Odyssey and missed the man, which would be ludicrous because he was enormous. But she’d been gulping down fresh air after being trapped for hours, waiting for someone to attend to the horse’s thrown shoe, when she saw him.

The way he’d lifted the leg of that massive horse, the thick fingers wrapping around, holding the hoof in place while he crooned softly to calm the beast. What would those hands feel like gripping her thighs, her breasts—

“Miss Kimball?”

Her eyes flew up to meet those of her chaperone, the appropriately named Mrs. Bumbletwit. From the moment one of her father’s underlings assigned the curmudgeonly woman and her equally irritating husband as Adelaide’s companions for the journey, she had buzzed around her charge as a constant irritation.

She must have noticed Adelaide’s hungry gazes towards the blacksmith, because the woman had shuffled her inside the stifling carriage, leaving them both to sweat profusely in the name of propriety. “Yes?”

Her chaperone blinked owlishly, as though she hadn’t planned on what to do if Adelaide responded. “How is your book?”

“Delightful. I’ve just reached the point where Calypso releases Odysseus from captivity. It’s quite tragic, with his wife left behind and longing for him. Should I summarize the first four books for you?”

Mrs. Bumbletwit’s eyes glazed over before she blinked again. “No, no, that won’t be necessary.”

Adelaide mentally cheered. She’d read The Odyssey enough times that she could recite the story with sufficient excruciating detail to bore her chaperone into a slumber without reading directly from the text.

A good thing, as she’d pasted pages from the erotic magazine The Pearl over Homer’s poetry. A girl had to keep occupied somehow.

“Have you considered what you’ll do if your husband doesn’t enjoy the classics?”

Adelaide mimicked a mien of deep thought. She’d never been an expert on appropriate conversation topics for the English, despite having resided among them for nearly two decades. When famed industrialist Jeremiah Kimball had extracted all the wealth he could manage from North America, he took his railroad empire overseas, dragging his reluctant wife and adolescent daughter along. The American interloper bought an ostentatious estate out from under an indebted lord and set his sights on implanting the Kimballs in the haut ton .

Her obscene wealth ensured Adelaide was the best-dressed woman in every ballroom, but, as her first and second seasons came and went without a proposal, she learned having access and gaining acceptance were distinct entities. High society treated her with caution, as though being nouveau riche was contagious. Suitors intrigued by her dowry were quick to dismiss her once they discovered she would never be tamed into a demure Englishwoman, someone who spoke softly, practiced her watercolors and needlepoint, and knew the proper way to address peers of the realm.

Adelaide would rather debate the Married Women’s Property Act and smoke cigars.

“Lord Clements and I will have other things to discuss, I’m sure,” Adelaide said in a saccharine tone.

The woman harrumphed, causing the clump of mismatched feathers on her hat to dip far enough to tickle her upturned nose. “I can’t imagine what. I’ve heard his politics are liberal .”

She pressed her hand to her chest in mock outrage. “However shall I survive?”

“He’ll be grateful to have that dowry of yours,” Mrs. Bumbletwit continued, apparently not noticing how Adelaide’s mouth had twisted into a grimace.

“I’m sure he’d rather have his wife.”

Another sigh, and Adelaide wondered if her chaperone had even heard her. “You’re fortunate he has no need of an heir.” She shuddered, then took up her needlepoint, stabbing repeatedly at what was either an ugly robin or a gruesomely deformed hedgehog. “Nasty business, that.”

“My understanding is the heir-making process can be rather fun, but it’s the birthing of said heir that’s a hassle.”

The older woman paused her stitching and fixed Adelaide with a look sharper than any needle. “Ladies don’t speak of such things in polite company.”

Adelaide hummed as she brought her attention back to her book, calculating how many more hours she’d have to suffer the woman’s companionship before they arrived at her new home in the village of Barrington, deep in the heart of Somerset. Her marriage to Lord Clements would not be a passionate one, but any sexual titillation she required could come from the pages of a magazine.

Adelaide had read her fair share of erotic literature. Impressive illustrations of cockstands, vivid descriptions of sensual prowess and carnal endurance, explanations of creative combinations of menages… But nothing she’d read had prepared her for how enticing she found the blacksmith’s hands.

Long, thick fingers with the slightest dusting of dark hair. Rough palms, striped with scars. Those hands contained power, able to control and create. But he’d treated the massive bay with unexpected care. And as large as his hands were, the rest of him must be…

The door to the carriage swung open, and Mr. Bumbletwit, his bowler askew, popped his head inside. “Wonderful news, ladies. Mr. Shipley has everything back in order and we’re set to depart.”

“Who is Mr. Shipley?” Mrs. Bumbletwit asked.

Her husband looked at her as though she were simple. “The blacksmith. Quiet bloke, but capable. We’re taking him as far as Saltford in lieu of payment.” He patted his pocket and grinned. “Saved us a pretty penny, I did.”

He’d also saved them a pretty penny by insisting on driving the carriage himself, resulting in a nausea-inducing first day on the road. She wasn’t certain she could survive too many additional hours in the conveyance.

“Won’t that take us out of the way?” she asked. Lord Clements had planned their wedding ceremony for the following Saturday, and they’d already lost a day of travel to poor weather.

Mr. Bumbletwit shrugged. “A bit, but it won’t cost us more than half a day. We’ll arrive in Barrington with plenty of time before your nuptials. Shall we?” He didn’t wait for a response before slamming the door shut.

A small thrill coursed through her with the knowledge of the blacksmith’s continued proximity. Perhaps she could speak to him tonight at the inn, maybe even touch those hands—

The men she danced with at balls always felt spindly, as though they’d snap in half if she turned too forcefully. She wondered if the English didn’t have sufficient nutrition as children and thus grew to occupy as little space as possible. Her father was the grandson of German farmers and had the frame of a man who belonged behind the plow. Unfortunately for her modiste, Adelaide took after her broad and stocky sire and not her willowy mother.

The blacksmith looked like he wouldn’t hesitate to put his hands on her waist, to lift her and toss her around a bit. But she would never learn how his touch felt, nor the touch of desire from any man. A twist of regret stirred in her belly, but she ignored it. The elation she’d feel when she helped women achieve equality with men would extinguish any remorse she may experience in a passionless marriage. She had every intention of being faithful to her future husband.

But she wasn’t married yet, and Adelaide intended on enjoying the next three days to their fullest.