5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

P rior to that afternoon, Adelaide had not known it was possible to sweat from every pore in her body. Her toes were dripping, her ears damp. She suspected her elbows had developed the ability to secrete perspiration. No matter which way she positioned herself on the carriage bench, how quickly she fanned herself with The Odyssey , she remained uncomfortable, sticky .

Poor Will must be miserable out in the sun—

No. If she thought about the blacksmith who had starred in her fantasies the night before, whose face was replacing the rough illustrations in her magazine, she would only grow hotter. They’d barely spoken as he settled her into the carriage. And that was for the best, after all, for what good could come from conversing with him? She was on her way to her husband , the man who would give her the life she wanted.

But is a loveless marriage what you want?

She slapped her book down on her lap, embracing the sting on her thighs. To expect true love was a childish notion born of fairy tales. Love was a transient thing, something ephemeral that carried demands and conditions. She’d believed her mother loved her until Adelaide became a social burden. Her father had ignored her until she secured a fiancé who would give them standing in English society. Love was transactional, doled out in parcels by those in power, yours until you neglected to meet the requirements. She would love Lord Clements as a friend, admire him, support him. He already knew her most cherished secret and admired her for it.

Surely that would be enough.

Another drop of sweat gathered at her collarbone and dripped down between her breasts, and she groaned, wishing she had asked to sit at Will’s side, regardless of how inappropriate it would be. How torturous to spend hours in such proximity to the handsome specimen of masculinity and not see him. Her body was protesting her prolonged confinement, and unless she changed something about her surroundings soon, she’d combust.

A quick glance out the uncovered window revealed no sign of imminent arrival in Saltford, meaning she would be confined to this oven of a coach for several hours more. Growling her frustration, she tugged the laces of her low boots, pulled them off along with her stockings, and tossed the lot on the opposite seat. She wrenched at the bodice of her dress and shifted inside her loosened corset, but her lungs remained constrained, as though there wasn’t enough air in the carriage to sustain her. Her breaths shortened, her exhalations turning into soft whines. Black dots danced in her vision, and, in a panic, she stumbled to the carriage floor, crawled the short distance to the door that seemed unattainable, impossible.

But outside there was air , so much she could drown in it. She stretched a trembling hand, grabbed the handle and twisted. Her periphery narrowed as she pushed, pushed , squirmed further and pushed again, and fresh air flooded the carriage. She was aware of the road rushing in a blur beneath her, the door banging against the side of the coach, but she needed more. Her lungs burned for it. So she leaned further, and the coach was shaking, slowing, good lord she needed more air …

“Adelaide, talk to me.”

She realized several things at the same time. First, her lungs no longer burned. The air was still sticky, but there seemed to be a plentiful supply of it. Second, she wasn’t moving, but was in fact sitting and pressed against something hard and warm. Had she fallen from the carriage? Impossible, she was far too comfortable. Third, Will was speaking to her. Why was Will—

She sat forward with a start and her head swam.

Something wrapped around her, settled below her breasts and steadied her. “Easy, now. You’re not ready to stand yet.”

She eased her back again, grateful she wouldn’t be asked to move yet. Fog clouded her mind, and her current position was far more comfortable than the carriage. Perhaps she was dreaming; if so, she had no intention of forcing herself to wakefulness when she was this content. After a moment, curiosity won out, and she glanced down to see what was holding her in place.

A bare forearm, the linen shirt rolled to the elbow. Cords of muscle dusted with dark hair, a massive hand spread possessively over her ribcage. Her eyes opened wider. She was beneath a large willow tree, its long branches curling over and brushing the surface of the passing creek like the fingertips of a lover. She relaxed further, charmed by the secluded spot, the comfort of Will’s presence, the air caressing the bare skin of her legs oh good God—

Adelaide let out a shriek and grabbed the hem of her skirts, tugging it down over her feet as she rolled off his lap. Landing sideways, she scrambled onto hands and knees and stared at her rescuer.

Will held out his hands like he was taming a wild animal. “Are you all right?”

No! “What happened?”

He eased back but kept his arms extended as though she would topple over. “I heard rattling and was concerned. You were halfway out the door. If I hadn’t stopped when I did, you might have—” He paused, swallowed hard and averted his gaze. “You were unconscious, so I carried you over here.”

“I was hot in the carriage,” she babbled. “I thought it might help if it…” she trailed off, but his gentle smile had returned.

He nodded, removed his hat, and swiped a hand across his forehead. “I would have done the same had it been an option.”

She groaned and pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. "I'm so sorry. How humiliating."

He shook his head. "Don't say that. I need to take care of you."

Such a simple phrase that Adelaide immediately set to picking apart. He needed to take care of her? Was some internal compulsion driving his actions? Was his care designated for her, or would he assist any lady in need?

Certainly it was the latter. He was being compensated for this part of the journey, after all. Of course Adelaide would assign far too much meaning to a simple action.

But now she could see the reddened skin at his collar, and she reached out without thinking. He flinched at the contact. “How selfish of me to make a production of my discomfort. What happened?”

He shrugged. “My hat didn’t cover my neck entirely. It’s not a bother.”

But the sight of the inflamed stripe of flesh made something in her chest squeeze unpleasantly. She tugged a handkerchief from her sleeve and leaned over, letting the fresh water of the stream soak the cloth. After wringing it out, she turned back to Will. “May I?”

His eyes were impossibly warm as he blinked, then nodded.

Reason told her their proximity was a necessity. The man was in pain, albeit minor, and she could relieve it for him. Simple human kindness, that was all. Perhaps if she put some benevolence into the universe, she could expect some in return.

But she heard his breath stutter when she leaned close, then catch when her fingers lifted the collar of his shirt. She laid the cloth gingerly, covering the reddened skin, then set the fabric back in place. “Does that help?” Her voice was weaker than she wished it to be.

“It does.” His was even raspier. Good to know they were both affected.

She sat back, putting necessary space between them. “What awaits you in Saltford? It must be important for you to go through such trouble.”

His brows furrowed and mouth worked for a moment before he pressed his lips together. “An opportunity to apprentice with someone.”

Why did it seem like he was forcing the words out? She nodded once. No need to bother him any more with her inquiries. “Well, it must be with someone special to embark on a Homeric voyage with me.”

The puzzled expression returned to his face, and she realized what she’d done. Her mother had chastised her often for being too erudite for polite company, and now she had confused the poor man who’d only tried to help her. “Homer,” she said, emulating the tone of her favorite governess, “was the Ancient Greek poet who wrote The Odyssey , the book I was reading— well, pretending to read, but I have read it many times. He wrote other things as well, Homer, not the people who wrote the magazine, although—“

His expression shuttered. “I know who Homer is.” He pushed to his feet and stepped up to the back on the creek.

Adelaide scrambled to his side, regaining her equilibrium as she watched Will select a stone and toss it. It skipped along the surface, bobbing and spinning at impossible speeds before it gave out and collapsed beneath the rushing water. The muscles in his forearm twisted and flexed as he picked another pebble, turned it in his fingers, then threw it after the first.

“I’ve offended you,” she said, aching with the need to fix what she’d broken between them.

Pish. How could something exist between two people who had just met?

“I’m sorry.” She stepped in front of him. The cool pebbles lining the bank chilled her bare feet. “I made an assumption, and I suppose it was an incorrect one.”

He nodded, but did not meet her eyes. “You made a fair assumption.”

She hated that response with a strength that surprised her. “But you know who Homer is—was. How is that?”

Will leaned down and sifted through the pebbles by her toes, rejecting several before he picked one. He moved to throw it, but stopped. “My father was the vicar in Wilmslow. I had tutors, but—“

He broke off and tossed the stone, but it sank immediately.

Several beats passed before Adelaide grew impatient. “What happened?”

She suspected he selected the next pebble at random, and he threw it with enough force that it missed the creek entirely and tumbled into the tall grass beyond. “He died when I was sixteen. A fever.”

The ache in her chest intensified, spread beneath her ribs until they swelled. “I’m so sorry.”

“No need to be. Too young to go to university, too old to be a ward. I could have gone to a workhouse, but the blacksmith in town took pity on me, helped me support my mum.” He rubbed a palm over his opposite hand, pressing the knuckles one after the other to extend the joint. “I learned his craft and took over his shop. Could have been far worse.”

“Yes, but it could have been far better.”

He turned to face her, finally , and the ache in her chest eased, as though whatever tenuous bond stretched between them had mended, at least in part.

She exhaled slowly to avoid throwing her arms around him and squeezing tight. “But a better opportunity awaits you in Saltford.”

The tips of his ears turned pink, and she wanted to squeeze him even more. “There’s a blacksmith there who’s creating more decorative pieces—custom door hinges, balustrades, fireplace screens.” He smoothed his hands over his thick thighs. She was suddenly jealous of his palms. “Making horseshoes and nails is good work, steady. But I want something…”

“More,” she finished for him, and the corner of his lips pulled up. He was magnetic, and every part of her wanted to be closer to him, particularly his smile.

“Yes. There can be beauty in something utilitarian.” Will pushed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “What awaits you in Barrington?”

“My husband.”

He spun to face her and recoiled. “Your what ?”

She fluttered her hands in front of her, as though she could wave her impetuous response from his memory. “No, not my husband , I mean, he is supposed to be—he will be—“

“Adelaide,” he barked, taking a long step back. “You’re married?”

“No!” She huffed out a breath. “It’s complicated. John—Lord Clements, he’s a friend, and he was widowed last year.” She worried her lower lip; should she reveal the secret she was marrying to protect?

But Will’s eyes were so eager for an explanation, so primed to listen , she couldn’t hold back.

“I’ve been writing suffragist pamphlets for the past five years under a pseudonym. Venus Unshelled?” His brow furrowed, and she winced. “I know, it’s a terrible name, but I was young and had a book on Botticelli—“

“I’ve read them.” He blinked several times as though sorting this new information into place. “They’re extraordinary.”

The earth stopped in its rotation. She’d heard remarks about the columns before, calling them provocative and subversive; once she’d overheard a matron call them revolutionary, but Adelaide was certain it wasn’t a compliment. But aside from her publisher, whom she’d never met in person, no one had directly praised her work. The small income she collected from their sales was praise alone. “You’ve read them?”

He cuffed the back of his neck, cringed when he touched the raw skin there. “My father preached on abolition in the colonies and women’s suffrage, made some enemies for it. My mother kept up the cause after his death. I think she’s read everything you’ve ever written.”

She was suddenly desperate to meet his mother, an unusual desire to be sure. “Lord Clements wrote to me, through my publisher, after his wife died. She had used my writing to convince her husband to support progressive causes in Parliament, and he wanted to fund me. We struck up correspondence, and…”

“You fell in love.” His words were cautious, selected with the same deliberation he’d shown for the stones he’d tossed across the stream.

“No, well, not in the way you’re thinking. I respect him a great deal, but I suspect he will always love his wife. Our marriage will be a friendly one.”

She swallowed hard as familiar regret formed a lump in her throat. Happy marriages had flourished on far less. But mutual admiration would not keep her warm at night, nor give her children or the love of the family she so wanted.

“So why the rush to Somerset?” There was no chastisement in his words, no judgment, merely curiosity and caution.

“John has invited several members of Parliament to the ceremony on Saturday. The Married Women’s Property Act is going to vote next month,” she said. “He thinks if I write under my name instead of a pseudonym, with my family’s prominence and his title behind me, more lords will support the measure.”

He looked over the water, pulled his lower lip between his teeth before releasing it. “Will you be happy in that role? A political wife?”

“Of course. At least I will be of value to someone.”

A grumbling noise came from his chest. “Your worth isn’t in helping someone else meet their goals. Besides, if you hurt yourself rushing like this, you’re of no value at all.”

“You’re right. I was being silly.” She pushed a stone into the stream with her toe, watched the water change course to accommodate it. Her throat tightened, and she spun on her heel, fleeing toward the carriage with no logical reason for doing so. Well, if she was being exact, it was because she felt foolish. And Adelaide had spent far too much of her time on this earth feeling foolish, and she wasn’t about to do so in front of a man she actually—

What? Was attracted to? Silly, silly girl.

No, this was more than attraction, something stickier, something that had been dipped in sweet honey then placed in her palm. She wouldn’t forget Will Shipley easily.

“Miss Kimball,” Will called from behind her. “Adelaide!”

“I’m sorry.” She stopped, buried her face in her hands. Tears, not perspiration, streaked her cheeks, and she was not about to show it. “It sounds so ludicrous, like I’m a person of great importance, when I’m no one.”

Will grabbed her hands and pulled them from her face. “That’s not true.” His green eyes caught hers and held. “Miss Kimball, you’re worth a great deal.”

She laughed, although it lacked mirth. “You can’t say that. You don’t even know me.”

He stepped back, released her hands as he bit his lower lip. “I don’t,” he finally said, and she thought she heard regret in his voice.

But how would she know? She barely knew him, either.