Chapter Five
Henry blew out a long, exhausted breath, and tried not to let his shoulders slump.
Dear God, he had never worked so hard. Well, that was not precisely true. His father had forced him to be involved in the running of the estates from a young age. He’d looked over more ledgers by the time he reached one and twenty than most people saw in a lifetime.
But that was different. Not like—
“Ah, you are finished,” said Miss Banfield brightly, her sleeves rolled up and her leather apron most irritatingly hiding her curves. “Excellent, I have another job for you.”
Henry could not help it. He groaned.
“Please, I beg you,” he said, losing all sense of dignity in his attempt to gain rest. “Just five minutes. I just need to sit for—”
“I thought you wanted to truly understand what it was like to be a blacksmith?” asked Miss Banfield, eyebrow raised and a teasing smile on her beautiful face. “Have you seen me sit yet today?”
Henry leaned against the wall in the forge, sweltering from the exertions he had been put to combined with the intense heat coming from the furnace, and tried not to think of Miss Banfield sitting. Sitting in his lap. Sitting on his—
“No, you have not,” she said tartly, laying down a hammer on the anvil and putting her hands on her hips. “You wanted to learn. Some of the best lessons are hard won.”
If Henry had any energy left in his body, he would have replied. But he was exhausted.
Three days. How had it only been three days?
It was bad enough being forced to eat food at the King’s Head—nothing to what his cook at Dulverton Manor could produce—and sleep in a bed not fit for a dog.
But his hands!
Henry curled his hands behind his back as he accepted the steady gaze of the woman before him. His hands ached. No, it was worse than that. They were blistered, calloused, crying out for relief, but he had given them no quarter.
After the humiliating display Miss Banfield had given him—he was certain chopping wood was far more difficult than that—he had never sought sympathy nor permitted a complaint to pass his lips.
Well. Except for just now.
Miss Banfield shook her head. “There are many who think being a blacksmith is all hitting things in the warmth, but there’s a great deal of work behind it.”
Henry could do nothing but nod, head weary, shoulders aching.
This was no life for a duke!
But he wasn’t a duke here, was he? It was starting to become second nature. Changing his speech, ensuring the flowery language expected of a gentleman addressed as “Your Grace” was gone. Changing the way he stood, all elegance removed.
That wasn’t hard. His back would never be the same again after carrying all that water.
And worst of all…he’d spent all that time outside, while Miss Banfield was inside. Away from his gaze.
“Well, if you are truly tired,” said Miss Banfield genially, as though she was giving him a favor. “You may rest for a few minutes and…and watch me work. If you would like.”
Her eyes met his. Henry was delighted to see a flush tinge her cheeks. Now, that was interesting.
Being around Miss Banfield had arguably been more difficult than the tasks she had set him. She was intoxicating, a heady medley of independence and boldness, brashness yet shyness.
There was something about her that drew him—that would surely draw any thinking man. Or unthinking man, if it came to it.
But she had never given any sign of wishing to draw his attention, much less his attraction. Until now.
Hunger for her rose in his chest. Henry examined her, the delicate figure that surely hid muscles earned through hard work. The faint smile that sometimes trespassed her lips, the way her eyes—
“So you can learn,” Miss Banfield said, most unfairly interrupting his thoughts. “Mr. Everleigh, are you listening to me?”
Henry swallowed. It was most unfortunate that he could not lose himself in a few more minutes of just looking, appreciating the form that was Miss Banfield.
A man could only struggle against such appreciation for so long.
But she was alone here, and unprotected, he reminded himself. He was a gentleman.
And, far more importantly, she was part of the gossip network, Henry tried to remember. She was the reason Peg was no longer welcome in so many drawing rooms. This Miss Banfield, though she may look innocent, was a traitor to her kind, and surely benefitting from it financially to boot.
“Mr. Everleigh?”
Henry cleared his throat. “My name, as I have said before, is Henry.”
As their eyes met, a rush of warmth soared through him—but apparently, not her. Miss Banfield turned nonchalantly to pick up a fine tool from the bench behind her.
“I am well aware of that.”
Henry waited. By God, if she knew who he was…there was not a young lady in the whole of the ton who would not bite his hand off to speak on a first name basis.
But of course, Miss Banfield had no idea who he was. It was rather…well, freeing. Henry had never disliked being a duke. It was like disliking one’s lungs or the sunshine around you. It was just there.
It was only now that he was starting to realize just what he lost by having such a title. The gentle familiarity of those around you. The freedom to speak. To think without censure.
“And I can call you…?” he persisted.
He knew her name was Minny, of course. Had already used it, though she had not appreciated that.
But calling her by her name…for some reason, Henry longed to. It was an intimacy that would put them on an even footing.
When Miss Banfield turned to him, placing the tool on the anvil, her face was still flushed—though of course that could be because of the heat of the place. His face was certainly as flushed.
But he could hope, could he not, it was his presence giving such roses to her cheeks?
“My name,” she said slowly, not quite meeting his eyes. “You can call me Minny.”
Henry stared. God, he would be danger here if she were anything like his rank. How did she manage to exude such delicious attraction yet appear so innocent, so unknowing? Why did she permit him here if his presence rattled her so?
The memory of the guinea he had handed over three days ago nudged him, but Henry pushed it aside.
Even for money, a woman would not allow a man to so intrude in her life if she had no wish for it.
So…so she wanted him here?
“Minny,” he repeated.
By Jove, he would have to be careful. That was a powerful incentive to call out her name day and night—
“Mary, really,” Minny said with a laugh, all tension gone. “But my mother was Mary, and so they called me Minny. M-I-N-N-Y.”
“Minny,” Henry said again.
It suited her. It was a delight to say. He could not put his finger on why, though the thought of putting his finger anywhere close to Minny made his stomach lurch.
“Yes, I suppose it is an odd name,” she said. “My brother always said—”
And then the moment was over. Henry straightened up, moving away from the wall as he saw the cloud descend.
“My brother always said—”
Now there was a slip of the tongue and no mistake. Henry watched carefully for any clue on Minny’s face, but all the walls which had been there when they had first met had returned.
Minny Banfield had no wish to speak of her brother.
A strange excitement sparked in Henry’s chest. So, that was surely the man the owner of the King’s Head had mentioned, the man seen infrequently but consistently returning to the forge. Never to stay long.
Just the sort of man who might be taking letters to London.
It was odd. Just for a moment, a few seconds as they had smiled at each other, Henry had forgotten why he was here in the first place. He had just been a man looking at a woman who attracted him, hoping she was as attracted as he felt.
But that was gone, over. He may not have seen any evidence of notes, of messages being passed, of strangers meeting here to take gossip to London…but he had only been here a few days.
Henry tried to force the emotions he was not going to name aside. He was here for Peg, for all the other ladies of Society who had suffered.
Not to seduce delightfully bold blacksmiths…
“You wanted to watch me,” said Minny quietly, picking up her tool as though she had said nothing of a sibling.
Henry swallowed, knowing what he wanted to say and just how inappropriate it would be—but the words slipped past his lips before he could stop them. “I could watch you all day.”
Yes, that was definitely a flush. Higher up, right in the apples of her cheeks.
A lurch in his stomach—or in truth, a little lower—confirmed she was not alone in feeling a little warm.
“R-Right,” Minny said, evidently uncertain. “There’s a stool there you can sit on.”
Her gaze dropped immediately to the anvil, as though she could no longer bring herself to look at him.
Henry’s chest tightened as he lowered himself gently onto the three legged stool.
If they had met in London, or Bath—or even Brighton, which was becoming more popular with each passing Season. Why, if they had met anywhere but over an anvil, he would have been delighted to discover just what an effect he could have on a pretty woman like her.
“Right,” Minny muttered under her breath, ignoring Henry completely.
He would have been piqued, if it were not so interesting.
There was a real art to blacksmithing, one could see in an instant.
The expert eye the young woman cast over the object on the anvil—some sort of iron hook, as far as Henry could see.
The confident way she thrust it into the furnace.
The way she knew precisely how long to leave it there before returning it to the anvil.
The rhythmic taps she gave it echoed Henry’s own rapidly increasing heartbeat.
Every inch of him was…well, more alive when in the smithy. Henry could not explain it. There was something so primal, so instinctive about the way Minny worked the metal.
Something so attractive about the way she seemed to know precisely when to put the iron hook back into the fire, when to bring it out, when to push the metal a little harder, when to soften the blows.
It was intoxicating.