Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind (37 page)

She moved away to look at his face. “You could have married.”

He shook his head. “Impossible. I wanted to punish myself. I mean, why should I be happy?”

“
Mr. Butterworth, I always thought you were such a sensible man,” she chided him.

“
Now you know I am not,” he replied with a serenity that reminded her of his sister Emma.

“
Well, why on earth did you keep that empty miniature frame on your desk all those years?” she persisted.

He looked at her, and what she saw in his eyes made her take his hand. “Because I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to get a likeness of you and put it there, Jane! I think I have been in love with you since that first gathering in Denby when I coaxed you into telling me about Andrew and his first steps!”

She gasped at such an outburst from a rational man and would have stepped back, except that the mill owner was pulling her in close to him—too close, really, but she couldn't think of an objection. She clung to him when he kissed her, and returned his affection with all the fervor she possessed. She didn't want to let him go, but after he kissed her once more with a loud smack of his own, she took a deep breath, and then another.

“
Were your ribs in any danger, my love?” he said softly.

She shook her head.

“
Mine were,” he replied frankly. “Jane, I always thought you had a fragile air about you! What a fool I am with women. You had better be my wife, and soon, or there is no telling what kind of trouble I will get into.” He sat her down with him and pulled her onto his lap. “Did I just propose? Well?”

“
Yes, yes of course,” she answered. “But you could have courted me—oh, let us see—ten years ago, and asked me then!”

“
And risked another rebuff from a lady? Oh, no! You may be a poor relation, my dearest Jane, but we still don't run in the same social circles.” He hugged her. “Think of the people we are going to absolutely scandalize. I am too old for you, and I am a mill owner, and I wear loud waistcoats. Good Lord, they will think you were desperate.”

She thought about what he meant, then put it from her mind forever and kissed him. When they paused, he held her close. “I thought I would be content to admire you from a distance.”

“
What changed your mind?” she asked, her voice soft as she kissed the angle of his jaw.

“
You needed me,” he said simply, and kissed her fingertips. “And maybe, just maybe, I needed you. Could it be?”

They sat together on the ground by the lake until the lights across the water in Stover Hall started to wink out. “I had better go,” she said, making no move to rise.

“
I suppose,” he agreed, but made no move, either, his hand warm on her knee.

With a laugh, she pulled herself away from him.

“
Stanton will be up all night if I do not appear.”

He shrugged and took hold of her ankle when she tried to stand up. “Tongues will wag, Lady Carruthers will spread all sorts of rumors—by the way, did she return to London? What could have happened?—the vicar will make you the subject of a sermon.” He lay on his back. “Amanda will be so pleased, Richard will pat me on the back, and Emma will cry.” He turned over on his side to look at her. “Em had a hard enough time at Christmas, seeing her nephew Andrew for the first time.”

“
I did wonder,” Jane said. “Unhand me now, sir. I will see if my legs …”

“…
nice legs, by the way,” he interrupted.

“
You
are
a scoundrel. I will see if my legs will get me back to Stover Hall. And you will return to your house before I accuse you of being a bad parent by leaving Andrew alone so long.”

“
Yes, indeed,” he said, pulling her down beside him again. “Alone with a butler, two footmen, a cook, a housekeeper, two upstairs maids, a parlor maid, and two or three gardeners.” He kissed her.

“
As for Cecil, I fear he is doomed to disappointment,” Mr. Butterworth said. “He will not inherit a title or land. He cannot! Blair always acknowledged Andrew as his son, and my own dear boy will have to wear that title someday.”

Jane nodded. “I did wonder about that, but I do not know a great deal about the law. Poor Andrew!”

“
He will manage and recover, I dare say,” Mr. Butterworth told her. “The law is the law.” He laughed and rubbed his hands together. “Just think of all the gossip and scandal this evening's work will bear!”

“
Do be serious, Mr. Butterworth,” Jane said, trying to sound stern and failing. No matter the gossip, we have such a bulwark now, she thought. Scipio Africanus Butterworth, you are a wonder. Andrew has nothing to fear in this district; neither do I. We have a champion. Perhaps we always did.

He merely shrugged. “People forget.”

Maybe it was that simple. Wordless, she kissed his hand, which made him draw in his breath.

“
I do have one more question of some importance, my love, so pay attention and leave off kissing me for a moment. Well, not entirely! Tomorrow I will go to York for a special license and then the morning after, we will stand up in all fear and trembling before the vicar.”

“
Your question?” she reminded him, sitting up again.

“
It is this: when we are belly to belly a couple of days or nights from now—probably even shy of our clothing—are you going to persist in calling me Mr. Butterworth?”

She blushed, and was grateful for the dark. “I promise you—only in the throes of deepest passion, sir! Otherwise you will be Sippy ….”

“
Merciful heaven!”

“…
or perhaps Africanus.”

“
Worse and worse!”

“
What do you suggest?
I
didn't name you!”

He pulled her to her feet, kissed her soundly, and gave her a push toward the Stover side of the lake.

“
Just call me husband. Good night, Jane.”

I can do that, she thought. I can.

W
ith the beginning of the Industrial Revolution, factory owner Robert Owen and philosopher Jeremy Bentham, who appear briefly in this narrative, reflected the changing values of English society. The period of George IV's regency saw England begin the transformation from a nation of cottage industries to a world manufacturing power. Factories in Britain's industrial north supplied the world with cotton cloth. Enlightened men like Owen and Bentham worked to relieve abuses of women and children in factories, and to institute some regulation in factory operation. The British Factory Act of 1847 restricted the working day for women and children ages thirteen to eighteen to ten hours a day. Other European nations followed the lead of Britain. In the 1840s—America's “Reforming Forties”—various U.S. state legislatures began to regulate the employment of minors in textile factories. Not until FDR's Fair Labor Standards Act of 1938 were children under sixteen prohibited by law from working in most U.S. industries.

* * *

A
well-known veteran of the romance writing field,
Carla Kelly
is the author of twenty-six novels and three non-fiction works, as well as numerous short stories and articles for various publications. She is the recipient of two RITA Awards from Romance Writers of America for Best Regency of the Year; two Spur Awards from Western Writers of America; a Whitney Award for Best Romance Fiction, 2011; and a Lifetime Achievement Award from Romantic Times. Carla's interest in historical fiction is a byproduct of her lifelong interest in history. She has a BA in Latin American History from Brigham Young University and an MA in Indian Wars History from University of Louisiana-Monroe. She's held a variety of jobs, including public relations work for major hospitals and hospices, feature writer and columnist for a North Dakota daily newspaper, and ranger in the National Park Service (her favorite job) at Fort Laramie National Historic Site and Fort Union Trading Post National Historic Site. She has worked for the North Dakota Historical Society as a contract researcher. Interest in the Napoleonic Wars at sea led to a recent series of novels about the British Channel Fleet during that conflict. Of late, Carla has written two novels set in southeast Wyoming in 1910 that focus on her Mormon background and her interest in ranching. You can find Carla on the Web at:

www.CarlaKellyAuthor.com.