“Thank you, Miss Dashing.” Pocket inclined his head, gracious as ever. “And, as a matter of fact, I could use a few ounces of yellow wax.”
Francesca nodded.
“And turpentine,” Pocket added.
“Very good.” Francesca turned to the door again.
“Oh, and Burgundy pitch, if she has it, and some lye—”
“Pocket,” Ethan growled.
Pocket spread his hands. “If it is no trouble, miss.”
Francesca smiled. “It’s no trouble, but perhaps you should write me a list?”
“With all due haste, Miss Dashing.”
Francesca pulled the door open, her gray dress and tousled hair swirling around her as a chill November draft blew in. “No hurry, Mr. Pocklington,” she said above the wind’s sighing.
She gave Ethan a parting glance, not sympathetic in the least, and stepped outside, shutting the door behind her.
“Charming girl,” Pocket said in the room’s sudden silence.
“Charming? She’s a witch.” Ethan glanced out the window and spotted his sibyl heading toward the stables, where Nat was resting. The loyal Peter trailed behind her.
“A witch? Oh, dear me, no,” Pocket countered. “A sweet girl, if I ever saw one. And far too good for the likes of you,” he muttered the last and shook the tailcoat in tacit reproach.
Ethan watched Francesca greet Shepherd. The head coachman exited the stables, leading Thunder. Francesca approached the colt carefully, patting the horse’s nose then nuzzling her face into his neck when he didn’t quite shy away from her. How had she won the horse over so quickly? he wondered. Was it some kind of magic? It wouldn’t surprise him if tomorrow he learned wood sprites and elves from the hills and vales had taught her the art of enchantment.
Whatever powers she possessed, they obviously worked on humans as well. He was certainly bewitched by her, and he had yet to find a way to break her spell. Even now, he couldn’t take his eyes from his petite enchantress, and he could still taste her—magic, dark and sweet—on his lips.
One of the grooms darted from the stables carrying a brown cape, and Shepherd took it to wrap around her shoulders. Ethan frowned. Over the past few days, Ethan had noticed that the exasperating woman never remembered to bundle up. She was definitely a free spirit—as unbound and wildly ravishing as the idyllic Hampshire countryside she so adored.
Even her hair refused to stay confined to its topknot. She threw back her head, bursting into laughter at something Shepherd said, and it blew about her like swirls of chocolate dancing across the caramel of her cape. Ethan wanted to wrap his hands in that hair, inhale its scent, her scent. He could still smell her on his fingers...
Magic.
Pockettsked. “Far too good for you, my lord.” The valet stood next to him now, observing Francesca from the window.
Ethan scowled. “Thank you, Pocket.”
Pocket nodded and waved the tailcoat under Ethan’s nose. “I shall come back to the tailcoat issue later, my lord.” He fingered Ethan’s limp cravat with a grimace. “Now, about the cravat situation.”
“Cravatsituation?” Ethan spared a last glance out the window before turning his attention back to Pocket. “I’d hardly call it a situation.”
“I agree, my lord. Crisis is a better term.”
Ethan gritted his teeth and eased into the wobbly chair behind the desk. With half a dozen servants yet to interview and an apparent cravat crisis on his hands, it would be a long, long—he eyed Pocket wearily—long afternoon.
