His Jilted Bride (Historical Regency Romance) (19 page)

“
Where to first, my dear?” he asked, startling her from her
senseless thoughts.

“
Er... I don't know.” She looked around at the two rows of
buildings that lined the street. To the left was a bookshop and a
confectionary. Neither interested her. To her right was a museum
and a modiste. Neither of those held any appeal, either. Further
down was a bathhouse. She flushed. There was absolutely no way
she'd enter one of those with Elijah. There was also a small
theatre and an assembly hall, either would be a safe choice—were it
evening and either of them actually open. “Hmmm. I don't
know.”

“
Then shall I pick a place?”

She cast a nervous glance at the
bathhouse, praying he wouldn't pick there. “I suppose.” She wagged
a finger at him. “But if it's somewhere inappropriate, then take
this as your warning.”

A sly grin took his lips as if he were
challenging her. “Your warning has been heeded, Mrs. Banks.” He
offered her his arm and led her down the street.

With each step she took, her feet grew
heavier. She shouldn't have chanced a glance down at the bathhouse,
now he was going to take her there for sure.

“
Come,” he encouraged when her steps began to slow just enough
to make him nearly trip over his own feet.

“
I—I don't think so.”

“
You'll like this,” he promised.

She gave him a sharp look. “I have no
reason to believe that's true, and neither should you.”

His grin didn't falter. “You won't
know unless you stop digging your heels into the ground like a
stubborn mule and come along.”

They seemed to have caught the
attention of two young ladies strolling down the street, one of
whom had lifted her fan and was whispering to the other behind it.
They both giggled. Amelia gritted her teeth and picked up her pace.
There was no need to cause a spectacle.

“
Very good,” he murmured. “We'll be there in just a
moment.”

“
Ooof,” she gasped, running into his side when he abruptly
turned to the left, just feet before they reached the bathhouse.
“Where are we going?”

“
Down the street.”

“
Oh.”

He slowed his steps. “Was there
somewhere else you had in mind? The bathhouse, perhaps?”

She lightly tapped him in the ribs
with her elbow. “I have no desire to go there and you know
it.”

“
No, I didn't. I assumed as much, though.” He resumed his
stride, then slowed down half a block later. “Ah, here we
are.”

Amelia lifted her hand to block the
sun, but still had to squint to read the sign: IAN'S TOP CLASS
GLASS. “What is this place?”

“
What does it look like?”

“
A shop that sells odd-shaped things made out of
glass.”

“
Close enough.” He dropped his arm and reached for her hand,
the action oddly intimate. “Come, I'll show you.”

Amelia went with him inside. As she'd
guessed by the large irregularly-shaped bowls in the windows, and
the sign of course, this was a glass shop. But not just any glass
shop. It would seem that Mr. Ian specialized in unusual and rare
pieces. “Why are they all so different?” she asked, running her
index finger along the edge of a translucent pitcher.

“
Do you not like that each is unique?”

“
Actually, I do.” She picked up a watery-blue vase with a top
that flared out and curled. “I like it very much
indeed.”

He picked up a large bowl that had a
small base with tall sides that came out at a considerable angle,
leaving the opening of the bowl considerably larger than the base.
“You don't see these too often around here,” he
murmured.

“
What, a bowl?”

“
A fruit bowl,” he corrected, setting it back down. “When I
traveled to America, most of the homes I went into had these in the
middle of their dining tables.”

“
Why?”

He shrugged. “Their custom, I
suppose.” He picked up another and handed it to her.

Reluctantly, she let go of his hand so
she could hold and inspect the fruit bowl he'd handed her. It had
swirls of green and blue at the bottom and was a dark red fading
into orange at the top. She ran her gloved fingers over the smooth
surface of the bowl.

“
The swirling color is made by heating pieces of other glass
and melting them into it.”

She stared at the beautiful bowl in
her hand because she didn't dare look at Elijah lest he realize she
hadn't a clue what he was talking about. “I see.”

“
Not yet, but you will.”

Her eyes shot to his. “I'm sorry, but
what did you just say?”

“
Not yet, but you will.”

She rolled her eyes. “Always the
jester, aren't you?”

“
I try. I'd hate to have disappointed anyone by not carrying
on the Banks tradition.”

“
Oh dear,” she said, feigning shock and bringing her right
hand up to her mouth. “If the Banks family legacy of humor rests on
your shoulders, I fear the trait shall die.”

He smoothed her brows and
took her hand in his, giving her a small, affectionate squeeze.
“Don't worry, my dear, sweet Amelia, with you as the mother of my
children, the trait shall live on. There might be a small hiccup
now, but it
will
continue on.”

Amelia couldn't stop herself from
grinning at his horrible theatrics. “You really might have to be a
lady's maid,” she whispered, not taking her hand from his, though
she should. It wasn't proper for a couple to be showing such
affections in public, even if they were married. “Your acting
rivals your spying ability.”

“
Some might say those two occupations are one in the same,” he
said softly. Abruptly, he let her hand go and raked his hand
through his blond hair. “But enough about my natural abilities,
let's see what yours are.”

“
What natural ability would that be?” She lifted her chin a
notch. “We both already know I can run faster, climb higher, and
hold my breath underwater longer than you.”

“
Is that so?” he drawled, looking decidedly unconvinced. “And
how are you at blowing glass.”

“
Better than you, I expect.”

Elijah opened a steel door and
gestured for her to go inside, making her quickly regret the words
she'd just said. He fully intended to have her blow glass—whatever
that was—and she didn't have a clue. She opened her mouth to
protest, but he shot her a quelling look.

“
Come over here and I'll show you what to do.”

She folded her hands in front of her
and watched as Elijah stripped off his gloves and coat and loosened
his cravat, letting it hang loosely around his neck. He grabbed a
pole and opened a little door to a chamber that held the hottest
fire Amelia had ever been near.

“
You're all right,” he murmured, his face so close to hers she
thought he might kiss her. Instead, he placed his hand on her
shoulder and guided her in front of him.

Amelia didn't know which was making
her skin burn with heat: the two thousand degree fire behind the
iron doors in front of her or the nearness of Elijah.

“
That's it,” he murmured in her ear, his lips so close to her
skin she could actually feel them brushing the shell of her ear.
The muscles in his bare forearm flexed as he helped her lift the
long metal pole with a ball of burning glass on the end and carry
it from the fire to a skinny metal table. “Now roll it.”

Amelia wanted so badly to reach up and
dab the moisture from her forehead. Because he was a gentleman, and
it could be overlooked when gentlemen stepped outside the bounds of
propriety, Elijah had discarded his coat and gloves and rolled his
shirtsleeves up to his elbows before casually draping himself over
her for the sake of offering her help; and because she was a lady,
she was still swathed in every stitch of fabric she'd left Watson
Estate wearing.

Pushing aside the heat that was
flooding her skin and the violent urge she had to press her
shoulders against Elijah's chest, she slowly rolled the long pole
across the table with the fireball hanging off the end.

“
We have to go slow or the bubble inside might
break.”

Amelia nodded numbly and continued to
help him roll the pole across the table. “It doesn't look so
hot.”

“
No. We need to put it back in the fire again.” He helped her
lift the pole and bring it back to the fire, and it was a good
thing he did or she'd have surely dropped it, for the pole itself
must have weighed a good twenty pounds. Or so she guessed by the
way his forearm nearly doubled in size from flexing his muscles
when he lifted the pole. He carefully guided the ball of glass into
the circular opening in front of the fire and held it in there but
a minute. “Let's roll it again.”

Together they rolled the pole along
the top of the table for a few more minutes.

“
All right. I think that's good enough for now.” He lifted the
pole into the air. “Now blow.”

“
Blow? Blow where? On the glass?”

A chuckle rumbled in his chest. “No.
Blow in the end of the pole.”

“
But it's dirty.”

“
And so was my face when I was a boy, but you had no problem
putting your lips to that.”

Were anyone around to hear him say
that, she'd have denied it. But since she'd just been close to a
roaring fire and had a little taste of what Hell might be like, she
didn't want to risk going there to save her pride in front of him
alone. “Very well. Could you lower the pole?”

Wordlessly, he lowered the pole to her
lips and held it for her as she did her best to blow.

“
Softer,” he said quietly. “Just a little.”

She tried again, but nothing
happened.

“
Let me show you.” He took the pole from her and lifted it to
his mouth, and blew a slow, steady breath into the end that made
the glass ball double in size.

“
Amazing,” she said in awe.

“
Isn't it?” He motioned with his head for her to take hold of
the pole again. “I want you to hold this down and roll it like
we've been doing, all right?”

“
A-all right.” She licked her lips. “Where are you
going?”

“
Over here.” He walked to the end of the pole and picked up a
rounded piece of iron with a crude wooden handle and brought it
underneath the ball. “Start rolling.” When she did, he moved the
iron curve as she moved the pole. “This is to help it maintain
shape,” he said as if he'd read the question on her
mind.

She rolled it a few times and stopped
when he pulled the piece of iron away and came to stand behind her.
“The fire?”

“
See, I knew you'd be a natural.”

“
Knowing that we have to stick it in the fire again doesn't
seem like it makes me a natural.”

“
Believe what you want—” he guided the pole into the fire—
“but
my
wife is a
natural, so be careful what you say about her and in what tone you
say it in.”

For a reason she couldn't explain, she
was rather pleased with his possessive words about her. She waited
patiently while the glass heated again. Then instead of leading her
back to the table, he nudged her to the right. “Now where are we
going with it?”

“
Somewhere else. I have to add in an extra step now and then
so you don't best me with your astonishingly good glass blowing
abilities.” He led her to a table where there was a row of metal
bowls lined up and then lowered the hot bulb of glass into the
first one. “Slate grey, the same as your eyes.”

Amelia's heart slammed in her chest
and emotion clogged her throat. Who knew his picking such an
ordinary color could affect her so? “How does this add
color?”

He lifted his left elbow as high as he
could without letting go of the pole. “Go down there and
see.”

She released the pole and ducked under
his arm, then walked down to the end of the eight-foot pole where
he was “dipping” the glass bulb into a bowl of tiny pieces of grey
glass, making some of the little pieces stick to the bulb in a way
that reminded her of sprinkling salt or pepper over a meal. There
were little flecks of glass all over the hot piece of glass on the
pole, but it didn't cover it. Strange. “To the fire
again?”

“
Not yet. More shaping.” He waited for her to come back over
to him then helped her walk the pole back to the steel table. “This
time I'm going to roll it for you, but I want you to blow in the
end.”