Page 95 of A Bloom for a Blacksmith

“How much for these?” Mr. Miller asked.

“One pence,” she replied, pulling out her receipt book and a pencil.

He gave her the additional coin. “A bargain,” he said happily. “I look forward to seeing you again, Miss O’Connor, probably next week.”

“You as well,” she said, dipping another curtsy as Mr. Miller tipped his hat.

She watched him head across the corridor before she turned her attention to Angus. As expected, Miss Crabbe was ignoring any potential customers as she watched them with interest.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Thompson. I am sorry to say I am completely sold out of flowers.”

He chuckled softly, as if he thought she was teasing him. “I feared I was too late,” he replied. “You look especially fetching today.”

Iris pasted a grin on her face, but she didn’t acknowledge the comment.

“Might I offer you a ride to the Antiquarian Quill? I have a delivery to make there.”

Realizing she couldn’t very well turn down the offer with Miss Crabbe watching, she dipped her head. “That’s very kind of you, sir. If you’re sure it won’t be an imposition.”

Angus furrowed his dark brows. “Not at all. I made sure to leave room for you.”

Iris turned to Miss Crabbe. “I will see you on the morrow,” she said, stuffing the receipt book and pencil into her pocket. On a whim, she then dumped the last bucket of water in the far corner of the stall, knowing it would seep onto the adjoining stall’s floor. Take that, you harridan, she thought as she made sure her bottle was in her snap tin before joining Angus.

They walked in silence until they were outside of the market.

“Is anything wrong?” Angus asked. He had offered his arm, but she had her arms crossed and her gaze aimed in the direction of where she thought he would have parked the phaeton.

The only phaeton she could see had a cart attached to the back. A loaded cart.

“Where’s your gig?” she asked.

“Mr. Agremon allowed me to borrow his dray cart,” he explained. “So I could move my bed and some furniture.”

Iris inhaled softly. “Oh,” she said. She didn’t try to hide the disappointment in her voice.

Angus faced her before she had a chance to take the step up onto the bench. “I ask again, Iris, what is wrong?” He suddenly scoffed and lowered his head. “You’ve… you’ve had second thoughts? About last night?” he asked in a whisper.

She rolled her eyes in an attempt to fight back the tears she had struggled so hard to keep at bay all day. “Will you answer a question? With honesty?”

Giving a start, he said, “Aye.”

“Is what Mr. Jones said this morning true? That you told him you would never marry?”

Angus grimaced, his brows furrowing as if he was vexed. “I do recall saying something to that effect,” he admitted. “For it was true… at the time,” he quickly added. “But not now. Not now that I’ve finally met a woman I wish to spend the rest of my life with.”

Suspicious, she said, “Me?”

He nodded. “I’ve always been very shy, Iris. I couldn’t imagine courting a woman because I couldn’t imagine meeting a woman. Then Mr. Agremon introduced us, and I couldn’t not think about courting you.” He turned to toss a pence to the boy who held the reins of his horse and offered his hand to Iris. “Allow me to drive you to the bookshop. We can talk on the way.”

Iris finally acquiesced and climbed onto the bench. She watched as Angus did the same from the other side, inhaling softly at seeing how his arm muscles bulged beneath the fabric of his topcoat. A memory from the night before came unbidden, of him suspended over her body, holding up his torso with those arms. Holding her with those arms as they slept.

“What assurances do I have that you won’t simply call off the wedding once my mourning period is over?” she asked.

To her surprise, Angus displayed a huge smile. “Interesting you should ask that,” he said, setting the horse into motion. Given the loaded dray cart, the equipage lurched several times before the motion evened out over the cobbles.

“Why are you smiling?” she asked, allowing suspicion to sound in her voice.

“You could do the same,” he said. “Send me packing.” He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a small box. “But I’m hoping you won’t.” He handed her the hinged pasteboard box covered in black velvet.