Chapter 8
Ember’s hand shook as she tried to place the tip of the graver into the divot she’d created just before her stepmother’s screeching demands had pulled her away. Tea! She’d had to serve tea to the front parlor, and Ember had decided it was easier to give in—as usual—than listen to Machara squawk.
Little had she known who was waiting in that parlor.
Viscount Whatever-his-title-is had come to call on Tiffany, yes, but he’d brought his good friend, Mr. DeVille, along with him.
Mr. DeVille.
Max.
The man she thought she’d been falling in love with!
Forcing herself to take a deep breath, Ember shook out her hands and rolled her shoulders.
Max was actually Mr. DeVille, the man she’d been set on impressing with this design.
Last night, she’d blithely handed him her shoe, blathering on about how she hoped he’d put in a good word with his boss, Mr. DeVille.
And he never once thought to mention who he was!
Hot, angry tears threatened to leak from the corner of her eyes, so she squeezed them shut. Damn him! Had he been laughing at her, at her stupidity, the entire time? Chuckling how this stupid little serving lass hadn’t realized who he was?
No! She wasn’t at fault, he was! He was the one who’d lied to her!
Did he though? You only spoke about his boss last night, so maybe he assumed you meant someone else.
Surely she’d referred to Mr. DeVille? Surely he’d heard her refer to them as separate people, and simply hadn’t bothered to correct her?
She was an idiot for thinking he could be trusted. For thinking he cared for her.
Ignoring the tracks of the tears down her cheeks, she bent back over her father’s vice. The heel was clamped between the jaws, ready for her to embellish it so it’d match the one she still had upstairs.
Assuming she could focus her attention and energy enough to continue engraving. Right now, her body and mind felt on fire; full of fierce, impotent anger.
“Ember?”
Hearing his voice, in her workshop, caused her to gasp and whirl around. When she saw him standing in the doorway, his hat held protectively in front of him, her grip tightened on the graver in her hand.
“What do you want?” Her voice sounded raspy, gravelly, even to her own ears.
Slowly, he placed the hat on the workbench and shut the door. Good. No one needed to hear her rant at him, and as he took a step into the room—closer to her—she doubted she’d be able to keep her mouth shut and swallow down her hurt.
“I came to talk to you, Ember.”
How dare he be so calm!
“Did you come to explain to me why you lied?” she snapped.
“Whoa!” Holding up both hands, palm outward, he stepped closer again. “Hold your horses. I didn’t lie to you.”
“You are Mr. DeVille! The son of the laird!”
Cocking his head to one side, he studied her. “I’m just Max.”
“No!” She shook her head, the stupid cap flopping over one ear, as she tried to find the words to explain her anger. “You are not just Max, you are the manager of Oliphant Engraving! You are the one I needed to help me start producing the shoes I designed and help me get out of here!”
The memory of how she’d unburdened herself—after she’d all-but-mauled him—and explained her needs, had her grip tightening around the graver again, shame washing over her. “You are Mr. DeVille!”
Solemnly, he nodded. “I am. I’m sorry I didn’t make that clear. I thought you knew.”
“What? How would I have known that?” Unable to face him any longer, she turned back to the vice, planted her hands on either side of it and felt the sturdy wood beneath her palms. In her other hand, the weight of the graver pushed her knuckles into the oak, and she welcomed the pain.
She blinked, the tears forming again. “You are practically a lord, Mr. DeVille.” She didn’t pause, didn’t let him deny it.
“You are the viscount’s brother, you were the guest of honor at the ball! ”
“I’m just me,” he said quietly behind her. “I’ve been staying at the inn while I’m waiting for—”
“For your house to be finished, I know,” she snapped. “I thought you were staying here, while your boss stayed at Dumpkins Estate with the other lords, because you are a simple man!”
“Ember…” His voice changed as he moved up beside her. “I am a simple man.”
“No! There is nothing simple about you!” Frustrated at her own anger and tears, she hurled the graver across the workbench, where it skidded to a stop among the neatly arranged tools. “I cannot believe I thought I was falling in love with you!”
She heard him suck in a breath, but she was too knotted up inside to even look at him.
“Were you using me, Mr. DeVille? Was I just a serving lass to dally with?” Her voice caught on a sob. “Was I?”
“Ember!”
His hand closed around her forearm, but she yanked herself out of his hold and stumbled away.
She finally turned to face him again, her fists hovering at her side, because she was too angry to know what to do with them.
“I let you kiss me, Mr. DeVille! And I kissed you back, because I thought we had a connection! But you are too high and mighty to think that way about a mere serving lass—”
“Listen to yourself, Ember!” he growled, but made no move to reach for her. “However poorly you think of me, I’m not going to let you talk that way about yourself! You’re a remarkable woman, Ember.”
“I am a serving lass, Mr. DeVille.”
“Dammit, stop calling me that! I’m Max.” He was breathing heavily now, and she saw his own hands had curled into fists. He was still the most handsome man she’d ever met, but with the fire of anger flashing in his light brown eyes, he was downright mesmerizing. “I’m just a cowboy.”
Just a cowboy. Just a serving lass.
But that wasn’t true, was it?
“No, you are not just a cowboy. You are a fancy manager of a fancy business endeavor. The son of the laird, and practically a lord yourself. You were the guest of honor at the ball—” Ember gasped so loudly she almost choked as she stumbled back against the workbench. “You were the one I danced with!”
He didn’t deny it.
“You knew, did ye not?” She gasped again, her eyes widening in realization at what she’d just stated and what he hadn’t denied. “You knew it was me all along?”
“No.” He lowered his eyes, sounding almost…sad? “I realized only last night when I saw what you were working on.”
After the kiss?
Her palms scrabbled for the edge of the workbench behind her, desperate to feel anything solid, as her breaths left her in great heaving gasps and sobs. The tears were no longer flowing, but her chest felt tight, and her mind was in turmoil.
Was this anger, shame, or something entirely different?
“Wh-what do you mean?” she finally managed. He realized she’d been his partner for the waltz only since last night?
Is that why he had shut down and hurried away?
She didn’t want him to have a reasonable explanation. She wanted to stay angry at him.
But when he turned, giving her his shoulder, as he raked his hand through the dark curls, she felt confusion settle over her. Yes, she was still angry. But he seemed sad, and she ached to comfort him.
Which was stupid.
Love can be stupid.
No, she couldn’t love him, not after the way he’d lied to her.
But did he truly lie?
“I’m sorry, Ember,” he said quietly, tugging at the hair at the back of his head.
“It wasn’t until yesterday, when I saw your hair for the first time—you’re always wearing that cap—that I guessed.
Not at first, but when you handed me that shoe, I knew.
” He peeked sideways at her. “You see, I have the other one.”
Suddenly, all the anger seemed to drain from Ember’s chest, leaving her feeling…empty. “You have my other shoe? The one I lost?”
He nodded, dropping his hand to rest on the same workbench which was holding her upright. “I’ve been saving it. I’d hoped to find you again.”
“No,” she snapped, bitter. “You hoped to find that lady again.”
He only hesitated a moment, then dropped his chin in acknowledgement. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I thought she might need help. She ran away so fast.”
Hollowly, Ember tried to explain, though wondering why she bothered. “I ran away because I was not supposed to be there. My stepmother had forbidden me to go.” She took a deep breath and shrugged. “When I saw her readying Tiffany and Bonnie to leave, I realized I had to get home first.”
“Last night, when I realized who you were,” he began quietly, “I wasn’t sure how to treat you. You’d been acting like a servant, but I’d danced with you as a lady.”
As his words sunk in, Ember’s gaze snapped up to his. There was something in those lovely brown eyes, a sort of—
She gasped. Was he accusing her of lying to him?
Anger flashed. “I am no lady, Mr. DeVille. I am just Ember. A—a drudge,” she bit out.
He didn’t back down, but she saw the muscles in his jaw flex as he thought about his answer. “I found out today you’re the stepdaughter of Baroness Oliphant. If Tiffany and Bonnie are ladies, so are you.”
Her harsh bark of bitter laughter surprised even her.
“Impossible!” She held out her hands, palms up, as she said sarcastically, “Are these the hands of a lady?” Those hands plucked at the heavy leather apron she’d once again slipped over her serviceable gown.
“Is this the dress of a lady? I am the one who keeps this place running. I am the one who, when possible, steals a few moments to myself so I can bang on metal.”
There. That summarized her life, didn’t it?
And why in the world did it sound so…empty?
He was studying her. “If you had a choice between being a servant and being a lady, which would you choose?”
Although his question had been quiet, she snorted as she turned away from him, stalking toward the carefully arranged tools. “What does that have to do with anything?” Where the hell was it? “If I could choose, I would choose to be an engraver.” Ah, there it is.
She reached for the graver she’d tossed carelessly away, pulling it from the row.
“I am good at engraving.” The tool was perfectly weighted, fitting into her palm as if she’d been born with it there.
“This—all of this—was my father’s. He taught me everything I know about the art, because he wanted me to be the first female employed at Oliphant Engraving. I could have been too…”
Had she not accepted the chores Machara heaped upon her. Oh, her stepmother had been wily at it; she’d started small, using the chores as an excuse to help Ember forget her grief after her father had passed. Ember had been so young, and she’d believed everything her stepmother had told her.
By the time she’d realized what had happened, she was the one keeping the inn going, and she was too busy to follow her dreams the way she’d wanted.
Too busy, or too scared?
Behind her, Max cleared his throat. “When you first told me about this workshop, you said it belonged to the baroness’s second husband. You didn’t say it was your father’s.”
Forcing her fingers to unclench, Ember inhaled slowly.
She reached up to place the graver in its rightful place.
“Machara does not like me to mention my relationship to her with the guests. Just like she harangues me if I do not cover my hair.” Ember shrugged, still staring at the neat line of tools.
“It is easier to just do as she prefers.”
A pause. Then he asked quietly, “Wasn’t that a lie?”
She twisted to frown at him. “I did not—” Had she lied? “I just… I just did not say her husband was my father,” she began slowly.
“That’s true. And I didn’t lie—I just forgot to mention my last name.
I’m sorry; meeting you felt personal enough that it didn’t even occur to me to give you a full introduction.
” He straightened his shoulders, then dipped forward from the waist, as if in a formal setting. “Maxwell DeVille, at your service.”
She sniffed and tried to hold onto her resolve. “You already know me. I am just Ember.”
“Ember Oliphant, stepdaughter of a Baroness, attender of masked balls, engraver extraordinaire.”
When he said it like that, she sounded almost as fancy as him. “Ember Oliphant, serving lass.”
He grinned crookedly. “Max DeVille, cowboy.”
There was a feeling in her stomach, one she didn’t like. Hot and coiled, like anger, but…not.
Unable to look at him any longer, Ember turned away. The piece of turned metal was still clamped in the vice, but she couldn’t imagine working on it, not now, not with the way she was feeling at that moment.
Embarrassment. It is embarrassment, you ninny.
Heaven help her, it was.
He was right. She hadn’t mentioned her relationship with Baroness Oliphant, any more than he’d mentioned his last name. If he was at fault, so was she.
“Ember, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you my last name.
When you mentioned my boss, I thought you meant Andrew Prince, who hired me back in Wyoming.
Last night, I wasn’t quite sure why you thought he’d be interested in making shoes, but then I figured out who you were, and I was distracted by that and forgot to ask. ”
“I should have realized who you were,” she said dully.
“And how would you do that?” he scoffed. “You likely assumed I was there last night on business from my boss, who you thought was Mr. DeVille. Right?”
With a sigh, she nodded and finally risked a glance up at him. “Look, Mr. DeVille—”
“Max,” he corrected firmly. “After what we shared last night, no matter who we are or what jobs we do, I think you can call me Max, don’t you agree?”
Could she?
“Ember,” he prodded, “I’m Max.”
She sighed. Yes, he was Max, wasn’t he? The man she thought she’d been falling in love with. The man who made her happy and had her considering a future with.
The man whose tongue was on your nipple.
Aye, that too.
“Alright, Max,” she said quietly.
She didn’t have to see his face to know he was smiling at her concession. But that realization only made the ache in her stomach intensify. She was still angry at him, but now it was tempered with shame, which made her angry at herself.
“I—”
She wasn’t sure what he’d been about to say. All she knew was that she couldn’t stand the embarrassment any longer. Even if she was the one who was embarrassing herself.
“Max,” she interrupted, turning her back to him and bracing her palms on either side of the vice. “I think it would be best if you left.”
A pause, then his voice, sounding a bit strangled, asked, “Leave your workshop? Or leave the inn?”
She stared down at the wood between her hands and didn’t answer.
Behind her, he blew out a breath. “Well, alright then. Goodbye, Ember.”
And as his footsteps faded along the corridor, Ember allowed the tears—no longer angry tears, but ashamed ones—fall. She watched them soak into the wood of her father’s workbench and mourned what she’d been stupid enough to throw away.