Page 39 of The Spinster & the Sock

“No,” Blaze laughs, pressing palms to his brow. “I mean, yes—I don’t think I can leave. Whatever brought me here is a bizarre hand of fate, but…“ He rolls to his knees, crouching in the bed before me. “Jo, I can’t leave you. Even if I found a ‘time travel for dummies’ book and managed to work out exactly how to go back to my time, I don’t think I want to live in any time, mine or yours, without you.”

A gasp fills my lungs, and my eyes blur at once with tears I didn’t know I was holding back. Before I can think of anything to say, he has pulled me to his chest and is kissing me. It is a few pecks at first, slow and intentional, as if every spark of life we breathe into one another might set us both on fire if we move too quickly. But the promise of forever is not enough. I want more right now, so when his arms coil around me and his fingers sink into my behind, dragging me onto his lap, I do not resist.

I comply, I melt, I savor. His lips speckle heat down my throat and across my collarbone. “I promised ’til death,” Blaze says.

I gasp as his fingers massage my skin.

“I am a man of my word,” he continues, coaxing the shift off my shoulders until I am naked from the waist up. He then supports my back as he urges me to lay down. “And in this case,” he utters in conclusion as he begins reverently pressing his lips lower and lower down my belly. “I am more than happy to keep my promises.” His hand snakes up my thigh.

“So, it’s real?” I gasp, tangling my fingers in his hair.

“Yes, wife,” he pants close to my skin. “This is real.”

“It is far from done,” I assure a frigid Georgia as she examines herself in her bedroom’s full-length mirror. I crouch, adjusting the length of her skirts, and I can’t help but admire the way the heavy satin whooshes around her ankles, complimenting the gradual slope of her hips. One of my great passions is learning my client’s unique body shapes and how materials and patterns best suit their figures.

“Mother ordered this for the winter festival?” I ask, trying to make conversation in the awkward silence.

Her hollow, blue eyes find mine, and she nods with less enthusiasm than a cow being led to slaughter. “I believe so.” Georgia clears her throat and squares her shoulders. “I am surprised to not see Mr. Hollows hauling your packages around for you.”

Snide remarks have always been Georgia’s forte, but today I find myself more irritated by them.

“He is quite busy lately,” I say cooly, standing to attend to the ribbon at her bust. My dual meaning, while known only to me, sends a tint of red to my cheeks. If he isn’t working at the woodshop, he is, in his own words, practicing his woodworking on me.

“Shall you attend the winter festival?“ she inquires, and I assume in the way her brows twitch that she hopes I will not. “A new dress for the occasion would be delightful, don’t you think?” Her tone is haughty and taunting as she nods towards my gown, one she has no doubt seen me in many times.

“Indeed,” I agree, thinking of a deep green satin and festive taffeta I have stored away. I rarely make myself new gowns, but with business bustling as it has been in recent years, I always try to save something for myself. “And yes,” I continue. “Mr. Hollows and I will be attending. Though I simply can not allow myself to become excited about it for several more weeks. There is much to be done and, I daresay, not enough time.”

I face her, my shoulders tensing with apprehension. I have seen none of my family since I snubbed my mother’s masquerade. In truth, I was surprised Georgia’s personal fitting appointment was kept at all.

After a moment of terrible silence, Georgia blurts, “Are you blue-deviled?” She eyes me from head to toe for some visual confirmation that I am sick in the head. “For I cannot imagine why else you might have transformed into such a chit since your less than admirable marriage.”

With a sweet smile, I fold my hands at my waist. “Georgia, your concern is touching, but I assure you, my less than admirable marriage has only lifted my spirits.”

Georgia huffs, and her already sharp features point like daggers in my direction. “The slope on which you stand shall only expedite your fall from society,” she warns. “Father’s title is the only reason your…” She motions vaguely at me. “...Delusions have been tolerated. You are ruining prospects for the rest of your sisters, myself included.”

My eyes narrow, and I cross my arms. “I suppose I shall simply unmarry my husband then, and see if some other fine gentleman wants me? Would that satisfy the rest of the Dashwoods?”

“Satisfaction shall be had when you stop giving your title, your good breeding, and your family the cut for frivolities such as a profession!”

I inhale a sharp breath and turn my back to Georgia, returning a spool of thread to my leather bag as I attempt to swallow hateful words. “I am busy,” I murmur after a moment. “Unless your dresses need any more alterations, I have business with Grandmother.”

“Grandmother is just as cross with you and your husband as the rest of us are,” Georgia goads. “Perhaps Lynyrd needs more lessons in etiquette, for what respectable man allows his wife to shirk her social duties? Where is he? I should like to give him a few instructions before we leave for the season.”

I spin on my heel, glaring coldly at my tall, young sister. “I am afraid he is far too busy fraternizing with orphans, Georgia!”

It is true. He took Gus to help him and Albion at the shop, but my delivery is far more satisfying than intended, for Georgia’s eyebrows rise more than the high tide during a devastating tempest.

I giggle as I exit her bedchamber, but stop short by the sight of Grandmother standing further down the hall at the head of the stairs, her hands clasped before her and her eyes drooping. I think for a moment that she has fallen asleep standing, so I carefully approach her, somewhat unnerved by her peculiar choice of location.

“Grandmother?” I whisper, nearly shrieking the very life out of myself when her eyes fly open and I am met with a senile grin.

“Josephine,” she greets warmly. “Have you ever just closed your eyes and listened for a good rumor? They populate in houses like these at an alarming rate.”

I hesitate before answering, gripping my bag’s leather handle. “Grandmother,” I say skeptically, “you do realize this is our house…what rumors would you be hoping to hear?”

She takes an inquisitive step closer before waving her cane at me. “I don’t know, Mrs. Hollows. You tell me. I overheard you tell Georgia we had business. Shall we take it somewhere private?”

“As a matter of fact,” I squeak awkwardly, hating that I truly have nowhere else I could possibly take this question. While Grandmother is a stickler for maintaining the public appearance of a well-bred family, behind closed doors, I also know she has a great fondness for breaking the rules. I suppose this understanding of my mother’s mother is the only reason I find myself sitting in her private chambers, face to face with the wrinkled old matron, shuddering as I hear the question leave my own mouth. “Suppose a lady would like to delay…motherhood.”