He stroked his chin. “Good point.”
She grinned as if he’d just handed her the sun, moon, and stars.
He booped her on the nose. “If you look at me like that much longer, I’ll kiss you again.”
“Really?” She smiled even more brightly.
Tobias snuck a peek at the bear head. “Seb does not approve of public displays of affection.”
“Then Seb can leave the room.”
“’Fraid he can’t. No legs.”
She laughed and threw herself at him, tugging his lapels until he lowered enough for her to kiss him. She pulled away too soon.
“Where are you going?” he grumbled, reaching for her.
Her eyes cut to the right then to the left then centered in on him. “To pour feathers luncheon milk.”
He laughed. “Not without me.”
“I’m afraid you weren’t invited.”
“I’ll not go inside. I’ll wait in the coach for you. The mill is not in the safest of locations and is not itself safe. I’d prefer to be as nearby as possible. My father need never know I’m there.”
“You’re very chivalric, Tobias Blake.”
He waved his hand, dismissing the description. “Call it what you will as long as you are safe.”
Her eyes shone bright. Was that belief, trust in him, he saw shining there? Had anyone looked at him like that before? He kissed her again, a long, burning, passionate kiss he felt in every cell of his body. It was the type of kiss Shakespeare wrote sonnets about. He wanted to sink into it, then sink her into their bed. Instead, he set her from him.
She made a huffy sound of disappointment and pulled him back to her.
He leaned in and whispered warmly near her ear. “We can continue this in the coach.”
“The coach? But—”
“Trust me.”
She nodded.
He turned her about and pushed her gently toward the door. “I’ll be along shortly. I have a bit of correspondence that will take naught but a moment to complete.” He watched her until she disappeared beyond the door frame.
Walking back behind his desk, he spied the fabric squares on the floor—brightest pink and green and orange. Funny how just moments ago he’d wanted to let them go forever. Now, they felt like the only thing between him and darkness. He picked them up and organized them in neat piles on his desk, retrieved another leaf of paper from the drawer, and set pen to paper once more.
Mr. Crabbe,
I’ve decided on the orange.
* * *
Maggie held a handkerchief over her mouth more to keep the debris flying through the air from coursing down her throat and into her lungs that to hide her jaw-dropped amazement. But it did that, too. She almost could not catch her breath from the enormity of the machines in the vast belly of the factory floor. The rows upon rows of machinery was just the first thing she noticed. The next was the mass of bodies leaning into the machines, moving with them, as if part of the machinery themselves. She’d never seen the like, and she had no idea how to even begin describing it. “Do they have names?”
Mr. Blake’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead. “The laborers or the machines?”
Of course the people had names! She swallowed her disapproval of his question. “The machines.”
“They have names, but I am not sure how they would signify to a lady such as yourself.”
