Page 47 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

He shrugged, realizing only then she still held onto his arm. “Oh, I don’t mind, Miss O’Connor. It’s a beautiful day for a ride.” He glanced over and wondered at the odd expression that suddenly crossed her face. Her other hand was pressed to her middle, and she inhaled softly. “Are you well?” he asked in concern.

“Oh, I am,” she replied, although now a blush colored her cheeks. “Still, it’s very kind of you.” When she didn’t say anything else, he glanced at her, noting her attention was directed straight ahead. Perhaps it was the wind that had brought so much color to her cheeks.

“How was your dinner last night?” she asked, at the same moment they made the turn onto Ave Maria Lane.

Surprised she remembered his intention to go to the Oxford Arms, he chuckled. “The steak pie was very good, the ale not so much.” Without even realizing he was about to say it, he added, “I would have enjoyed it far more if you had joined me.”

Despite the noise from their travel, he heard her inhalation of breath. “I was so tired last night, I’m afraid I would fallen asleep before they delivered the food,” she replied. “But I thank you again for the offer.”

Heartened at hearing her comment—her excuse sounded real—Angus felt emboldened enough to try again. “Do you think you might… be willing… well, to go with me another time?” he stammered, directing the horse to pull over to the curb in front of the Antiquarian Quill. “After you’ve finished your work for the day, of course.”

She nodded. “I would,” she replied. “I don’t work Sundays, so…” She shrugged. “Mayhap a Saturday evening?”

He grinned before he stepped down from the bench and hurried around to her side of the equipage. “That would be capital. Do you trust me?” he asked, remembering how Darius had lifted Stella down from their town coach the day before. He lifted his arms up so his hands were near her waist.

“What?”

“Place your hands on my shoulders, and I’ll lift you down. It’s easier… given your skirts,” he offered.

Although she hesitated, as if she was calculating the distance to the ground from where she sat, Iris seemed to hold her breath as she did his bidding.

Angus gripped her waist and pulled, happy to feel her hands pressed against his shoulders. Even when she was free of the equipage and her feet were on the ground, he continued to hold onto her waist. “You’re light as a feather,” he commented.

She stared at him before her head dipped, as if she noticed he still held onto her. “Thank you, Mr. Thompson. For the ride.”

“Call me Angus,” he said, remembering he needed to release his hold on her. He did so, chuckling with embarrassment. He lifted her hand and brushed his lips over the back of her black cotton–covered knuckles.

“Angus,” she repeated. “I am Iris,” she said, curtsying. “I bid you good day.”

“Good evening, Iris,” he said, removing his cap before giving her a bow. Then he turned and bounded back up onto the phaeton’s bench, well aware she watched him as he set the horse into motion. Before turning his attention to the road ahead, he caught sight of her as she turned around and entered the bookshop.

Although he felt disappointment at having to leave her company, he remembered she had agreed to one day have dinner with him.

On a Saturday evening.

The elation stayed with him for the entire trip to Lambeth Pier.

Chapter Twenty-Three

A Client Returns

At the Antiquarian Quill

Her mind still on Angus Thompson and their ride to the bookshop, Iris nearly collided with Stella when she stepped into the Antiquarian Quill.

“Oh! Pardon me,” she said in surprise.

Stella tittered. “Apologies, it is I who should beg pardon,” she replied, her attention going to the street. “Was that Mr. Thompson?”

“Indeed. He’s on an errand for Mr. Agremon. Thought to give me a ride from the market on his way to the pier,” she replied. “It was much appreciated. I’ve never been on a phaeton before.”

“The pier?” Stella repeated, pushing the door shut behind them.

“Lambeth Pier. Apparently there is a block of granite Mr. Agremon intends to carve for my brother?” She inhaled deeply, the scent of newly cut wood assaulting her nostrils.

“Oh, of course,” Stella remarked. “Normally he would just do it in marble, but he’s of a mind to try this new product out of Scotland.”

“Polished granite,” Iris stated. “Mr. Thompson says it’s the same granite that was used for the columns at the market, but I cannot imagine how it might look for a gravestone.”