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Excerpt
Copyright 2024, Tracy Sumner
Where a lady recalls what desire feels like.
He was a mess. A grand, gorgeous mess.
One she’d been hired to clean up.
Penelope stood in the entryway of the warehouse’s sprawling main room, the box she’d brought for their lessons filling her arms. She’d agreed to this location without initial consideration of the fact that none of the items she needed for instruction would be housed in a working space. Place settings, cutlery, and the like. Hence, her arrival a day early to ensure they were prepared to start tomorrow.
Plus, she’d been too bloody curious to stay away another minute.
Her breath slowed as she sighted her erstwhile pupil leaning over a partially disassembled engine, a wrench in his hand as he adjusted a part. He was dressed more carelessly than any man she’d seen since her downfall, thin cotton stained with sweat clinging wonderfully to the straining muscles of his arms and shoulders. His midnight hair disheveled, his trousers rumpled and being held on his lean form by braces that cut a sharp, incongruent crease down the center of his back. Light blazed from an assortment of lamps and fixtures, a brilliant burst raining over him.
It was quite the presentation.
Pulling her attention away before she was too taken by the scene, Penelope lifted her gaze to the detailed sketches and calculations tacked to the wall, and the books tumbled around his feet, pencils jammed in the open folds as if the reader had taken flight during the browsing. The collection spoke of intellect and industry, passion and progress, a life being led without compromise.
For the first time in years, Penelope Anstruther-Colbrook seized temptation simply because…
…she wanted to.
Leaning against the scarred doorjamb, the sounds and scents of Weston Whitaker’s world flowed through her. In Limehouse, of all places, a realm she’d never seen and certainly never been invited to, this time purely due to commerce. The acrid odor of heated oil mixing with a salty brine straight off the Thames danced across her nose, the thrum of spinning cylinders and the soft burst of steam presenting a strangely calming murmur. In the distance, shouts from the dock and the bang of goods being unloaded whistled through gaps in the warehouse’s planks.
Nothing was as it should be here, and she’d be lying if she said she wanted it to be.
She shifted the box in her arms with a shiver of expectation, the penny in her skirt pocket warm against her thigh. Her life had become incredibly staid by design while the man across from her was more vibrant than a post-squall sunset—bursts of color like those she spilled across repurposed canvases in an effort to save her purse and calm her mind.
The moment spoke of revelation, one she couldn’t define.
Stretching to reach a section of the engine, Mr. Whitaker’s untucked shirttail rode high, revealing a sliver of skin above his waistband—a moment’s view, quickly lost. The leanness of his body wasn’t a surprise, nor was the sight of firm muscle at his hip. It was the contrast with Neville’s flaccid outline that had her sighing in regret.
And appreciation.
For a brief summer, she’d investigated the male form in all its glory. Shocking to some, perhaps, but she’d liked her research. Memories, new and old, swept past. She feared her spectacle lenses fogging from her rapid breaths if she didn’t calm herself.
Startled by a sound, Mr. Whitaker looked up as the wrench twisted in his hand. Muttering a curse, he let the tool slide free and brought his curled fist to his chest.
Then, she noticed the blood trailing down his wrist.
Penelope was across the room before either of them had time to utter a syllable. Placing her box atop a crate, she dug around until she came up with a napkin. Starched linen with her family’s initials embroidered in the corner, but it would do.
“It’s just a scratch,” he said, though he winced when he flexed his hand.
Rolling her eyes, she pointed to the barrel at his side. “Sit.”
Her firm tone prompted a flashing grin that only made him more attractive, she was vexed to note. Nonetheless, he complied, perching his bottom on the rusted iron rim, his hand cradled between his spread legs. “Do your worst, then, Penny, me gal.”
Sighing, she stepped gingerly over strips of leather, an errant nail, and various tools she had no name for. “Lady Penelope if you please.”
His penetrating gaze cut her way, taking her apart and putting her together again like one of his mechanisms as the seconds ticked away. “What if I don’t please? Has any Englishman in history ever been courageous enough to ask?”
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