Chapter 1 #3
She was so busy imagining her possible future, she forgot to look out for her immediate future, where the immediate future involved walking into a person.
Her tray slammed into the man’s upper arm, teetered for a moment as they both lunged for it, then tipped so the empty mugs began to slide toward the floor.
She thought she heard the man curse under his breath as he dropped to his knees the same time as she did.
“I am so sorry!” she cried out, her attention on gathering the dropped mugs. “I was not looking where I was going, and I…”
Her words trailed off when the man grabbed the same mug she did.
His hand closed around hers, and for a moment, they both froze.
An odd sensation traveled up her arm, almost as if a spark had jumped from him to her in that moment, and she was torn between the urge to pull her hand from his or press closer.
Holding her breath, Ember allowed her eyes to travel up his arm to his shoulder, then his neck, and finally, his face. He was wearing a simple suit, as one might quite often find on a traveler who stayed at the inn, but his face…?
Oh my, but his features were—
Ember was finding it difficult to suck in another breath. She wasn’t sure she wanted to.
She knew he was a guest, one she’d seen from afar and admired a few times in the last weeks, but this was the first time she’d seen him up close.
He was darkly handsome, his hair curly under his hat, and his eyes twin pools of the warmest brown.
Each feature by itself was nothing particularly special—a slightly crooked nose, a set of dimples which emerged as he slowly smiled at her intense study of him—but together, they equaled a face which made her feel quite light-headed.
Breathe, you idiot.
Oh, yes. That perhaps would help.
Finally managing to suck in a breath, she blurted out, “Hullo!” And then winced.
Great. Now he thinks you are clumsy and an idiot.
Wait, why did it even matter what this stranger thought of her?
Still grinning, and without dropping her gaze, the man made short work of collecting the mugs to stack on her tray. Then, with one hand, he lifted it and stood. But as he did, he offered her his other hand. So—holding her breath—she took it and allowed him to lift her to her feet as well.
And that same sparky sort of sensation—tingly and warm, and oh-so-curious—traveled up her arm and settled in her chest. And…lower.
She shivered and involuntarily tightened her hold on his hand for just a moment, which, since he wasn’t wearing gloves, she could feel his calluses.
Delightful.
Those dimples were on full display when he lowered his chin in a slight nod and released her hand. While she tried to decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing, he offered her the tray.
“Ma’am.”
That was all he said, but the deep drawl resonated with the warmth in her stomach, and lower, and made her suck in a breath.
And then, a call from the front foyer startled them both. “Are ye coming, man? We have to get ye into yer costume!”
The stranger dipped his head once, as if taking his leave of her, then hurried off toward his companion’s call. After he disappeared, and only then, Ember’s gaze dropped to her hand, the hand he’d touched, which now gripped the tray’s edge.
He’d touched her hand, and she couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so aroused.
Perhaps when she’d borrowed one of Bonnie’s books with the girl being captured by the ship of lusty pirates.
But this man—this stranger—had merely smiled at her and touched her hand, and now she was pressing her thighs together like a mare in heat.
Wait, did mares worry about that sort of thing?
Lord in Heaven, I am going mad, am I not?
He was just a man; a guest at the inn no less. She’d seen handsome men before, and he was no different.
Trying to pretend she believed that, she hurried to return the tray of empty mugs, then lifted her serviceable gray skirts and took the back stairs two at a time to reach the family’s private sitting room.
The sight which met her pushed the stranger’s touch from her mind almost instantly.
Her sisters were stunning!
“Oh, Bonnie! Tiffany! You look…”
Tiffany preened. “Beautiful, I know.” She ran one slim hand down her pink-gowned hip. “I am certain to catch the eye of the Duke, or one of the Oliphant brothers.”
“But the heir will not be there, will he?” Bonnie asked quietly, looking uncomfortable in her golden gown. “He rarely leaves the old castle.”
“The Beast of the Oliphants? He will be there tonight,” Tiffany promised.
“They all have to show their support of their new brother, do they not? So the clan will know the factory is in good hands.” Then, with a little giggle, as if she had no cares about her clan’s future, she swept into a twirl on her stockinged toe.
“Is this gown not simply resplendent? I am sure some lord will fall head over heels for me tonight.”
“I do not doubt it,” Ember assured her, exchanging an indulgent look with Bonnie, amused by her stepsister’s vanity. “But speaking of heels…”
“Do you have them?” Bonnie asked eagerly.
With a flourish, Ember presented her stepsisters with their shoes.
“Oh, Ember,” breathed Bonnie reverently, holding her gold slippers up to the light. “They are…”
“They are perfect!” squealed her sister, already seated on one of the chairs to work her foot into the shoe. “They are going to draw so much attention when I waltz—I cannot wait!”
Ember allowed her sisters’ praise to wrap around her, her lips curling into a smile once more. “I am excited as well.”
Before either sister could respond, their mother swept into the room. “There you are, Ember. Have you dropped off the shoes? Excellent.” She didn’t wait for confirmation before continuing. “Come with me. I have something I need to discuss with you.”
Shooting Bonnie a bemused grin, Ember shrugged and followed her stepmother as Machara led her down the hall to Ember’s small room.
It had been a storage room at one point, but after Da’s death, when her stepmother began to waste his wealth and make her true feelings for Ember known, it had become Ember’s space.
There was barely enough room for a small bed and a cast-off wardrobe, full of equally cast-off gowns she’d managed to mend into serviceable states.
And one other, very special addition.
“What is it, Stepmother?” she asked, reminding herself to be polite. No good would come if the woman suspected her plan to sneak out after they left in the carriage.
“Inside, please,” Machara demanded imperiously, and Ember complied, turning to ask what this was about…just in time to receive a door slammed in her face.
“What—!” she cried out, as she stepped back to avoid a nose full of splinters.
There was no way she could miss the sound of a key turning in the lock.
“Stepmother!” She lunged for the knob, yanking on it. “Baroness, what are you doing?”
“I am locking you in, you stupid girl. Did you think I would not learn of your plans to attend the ball?” Her voice was full of scorn.
“As if dear Tiffany’s tangerine gown would work with that hideous hair of yours.
I will not have you showing up there and detracting everyone’s attention from where it belongs: on my Tiffany. ”
Oh Lord in Heaven, that’s what this was about? “Stepmother, I do not want to attract attention. Not from the Duke, not from the Laird, not from anyone.”
Except, maybe, the stranger downstairs—
No, focus!
“I swear, I just want to see Dumpkins all decorated, all the finery. I want to see my sisters dancing, and my shoes, the shoes they are wearing. They will—” Choking off a sob, Ember pressed her forehead to the wood. “Please, Stepmother,” she whispered.
But there was no sound from the hall.
Machara had taken the key and left, without even listening to Ember’s promises and pleas.
She was alone. She was alone and locked in and had lost her chance to go to the ball.
Except, she had her satchel, did she not?
And her backup plan.
With a sigh, Ember placed her palms on the door.
This would have been so much easier if her stepmother had given her permission to attend. She might not have traveled with Bonnie and Tiffany, but at least she wouldn’t have had to worry about Machara seeing her there.
As it was, Ember would be attending the ball…just very, very carefully. She’d have to make certain she was back here before her stepmother, and she couldn’t draw attention there.
But she would attend.
Taking a deep breath, Ember pushed herself toward the wardrobe.
Stepmother was right about one thing; tangerine wasn’t her color.
But silver went with everything, and set off her red hair.
She pushed aside her winter cloak and breathed a little prayer of thanks when she saw her gown hung, safe and sound.
Holding her breath almost reverently, she pulled the gown from its hiding place.
It had taken her weeks, toiling away in her workshop after dark, to sew this beauty.
It was silk, purchased with her own meager funds from a merchant her stepmother didn’t deal with, and crafted with Ember’s own tiny stitches.
She pressed it against her chest and gave an experimental twirl.
When she’d designed the gown, she’d imagined seed pearls sewn into the skirts, picking out whirling designs of interconnected gears which would match the heels of her shoes.
Unfortunately, she was no seamstress, and the gown which now hung from her arms was much simpler, and cut higher in the front than in the back.
The better to highlight the shoes.
Aye, that was this gown’s purpose.
She spread the silk out on the bed, and reached for her satchel.
As the sound of the carriage leaving the courtyard echoed up through the open window, she pulled out the mask she’d tucked beneath the shoes with the usual reverence reserved for metal.
Here were the gears she’d intended for her gown; picked out in metal and attached to the mask to surround her eyes. Ember had painted the whole mask a glittery silver, which highlighted the burnished bronze of the gears.
Perfection.
Her lips curled as she pressed her palm against the lump of metal beneath her blouse, glad she’d had the forethought to acquire a skeleton key tonight.
Stepmother thought her locked in her room, far from the gown she’d planned to wear to the ball.
But Ember was strong and determined, and was going to make this dream come true.
She’d meet Mr. DeVille, pitch her idea of engraved shoes to the new manager of Oliphant engraving, and be able to see the fuss her sisters would make with their ensembles.
She’d be able to dance, and admire the pageantry and beauty, and escape the drudgery of her life.
If only for a night.
Ember Oliphant would attend the ball.