Лиза Клейпас - Chasing Cassandra

“The end is in sight,” he assured her.

“Lady Cassandra,” the cook persisted, “mind you don’t distract the gentleman while he’s working.”

“I won’t,” Cassandra replied dutifully. At Mr. Severin’s quick look askance, she explained sotto voce, “Cook has known me since I was a little girl. She used to let me sit on a stool at the worktable and play with scraps of dough.”

“What were you like as a little girl?” he asked. “Prim and proper, with your hair in curls?”

“No, I was a ragamuffin, with scraped knees and twigs in my hair. What were you like? Wild and playful, I suppose, as most boys are.”

“Not especially,” Mr. Severin said, his expression becoming shuttered. “My childhood was . . . short.”

She tilted her head and regarded him curiously. “Why?”

As the silence spun out, she realized Mr. Severin was debating whether to explain. A slight frown appeared between his dark brows. “One day when I was ten,” he eventually said, “my father took me with him to Kings Cross station. He was looking for work, and they were advertising for baggage men. But when we reached the station, he told me to go to the general office and ask for a job. He had to go away for a while, he said. I would have to take care of my mother and sisters until he came back. Then he went to buy a ticket for himself.”

“Did he ever return?” she asked gently.

His reply was brusque. “It was a one-way ticket.”

Poor boy , Cassandra thought, but she didn’t say it, sensing he would resent anything that sounded like pity. She understood, though, about what it was like to be abandoned by a father. Even though hers had never left for good, he’d often spent weeks or even months away from Eversby Priory.

“Did they give you a job at the station?” she asked.

A brief nod. “I was hired as a train boy, to sell newspapers and food. One of the station agents advanced me enough money to make a decent start. I’ve supported my mother and sisters ever since.”

Cassandra was quiet as she absorbed this new information about the man she’d heard described in such contradictory terms. Callous, generous, honest, crafty, dangerous . . . sometimes a friend, sometimes an adversary, always an opportunist.

But regardless of Severin’s complexities, there was much to admire about him. He’d become acquainted with life’s rougher edges at a tender age, and had assumed a man’s responsibilities. And not only had he survived, he’d flourished.

Cassandra watched as he applied more of the flux paste along the pipe and joint seam. His hands were elegantly long-fingered, but also strong and capable. A few small scars were scattered over his well-muscled forearms, just barely visible beneath a dusting of dark hair.

“What are those?” she asked.

Severin followed her gaze down to his arms. “The scars? Spark burns. It happens during forging and welding. Little bits of flaming steel sear through gloves and clothing.”

Cassandra winced at the thought. “I can’t imagine how painful that must be.”

“They’re not so bad on the arms: They tend to bounce off sweaty skin.” A reminiscent grin crossed his lips. “It’s the occasional spark that burns through your trouser leg or boot—and sticks—that hurts like the devil.” He struck a Lucifer match against the nearby range and bent to light an alcohol blow-lamp fitted with a perforated nozzle. Gently he adjusted a knob until the nozzle emitted a hissing spear of continuous flame. Gripping the lamp in one hand, he directed the flame against the flux-coated seam until the paste had melted and bubbled. “Now for the fun part,” he said, giving her a bright sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth curling upward. “Would you like to help?”

“Yes,” Cassandra said without hesitation.

“There’s a thin stick of metal solder on the floor near the—yes, that’s it. Hold it by one end. You’re going to run a bead around the seam to seal it.”

“Run a bead?”

“That means make a line with the tip. Start on the opposite side from where I’m holding the flame.”

While Severin held the flame against the pipe, Cassandra guided the tip of the solder around the joining. The metal liquefied and flowed instantly. Oh, this was fun—there was something viscerally satisfying about watching the solder run around the seam to form a neat seal.

“That was perfect,” Mr. Severin said.

“Is there something else that needs soldering?” she asked, and he laughed at her eagerness.

“The other end of the pipe.”

Together they soldered the copper pipe to the joint coming from the wall, both of them intent on the task. They were kneeling a little too close for propriety, but Mr. Severin was being a gentleman. Far more respectful and polite, as a matter of fact, than most of the privileged lords she’d met during the London Season.

“How curious,” Cassandra said, watching the melted solder run up the seam when it should have dripped downward. “It’s defying gravity. It reminds me of how water runs up the hairs of a paintbrush when I dip it in.”

“How sharp you are.” There was a smile in his voice. “The cause is the same in both cases. Capillary action, it’s called. In a very narrow space, like the seam of this pipe and fitting, the molecules of the solder are so strongly attracted to the copper, they climb up the surface.”

Cassandra glowed at the praise. “No one ever calls me sharp. People always say Pandora’s the sharp one.”

“What do they say about you?”

She gave a self-deprecating little laugh. “Usually it’s something about my looks.”

Mr. Severin was silent for a moment. “There’s much more to you than that,” he said gruffly.

Shy pleasure suffused her until she turned pink from head to toe. She forced herself to concentrate on the soldering, grateful that her hands kept steady even though her heart was charging and halting like an unbroken horse.

After the pipe had been soldered, Mr. Severin extinguished the flame and took the metal stick from her. It seemed to cost him something to meet her gaze. “The way I proposed to you earlier . . . I’m sorry. It was . . . disrespectful. Stupid. Since then I’ve discovered at least a dozen reasons for proposing to you, and beauty is the least of them.”

Cassandra stared at him in wonder. “Thank you,” she whispered.

The humid air was scented of him . . . the pine-tar tang of rosin soap . . . the acrid bite of shirt starch softening from body heat . . . and the fresh sweat on his skin, salty and intimate, and oddly compelling. She wanted to lean even closer and take a deep breath of him. His face was over hers, a slant of light from a casement window catching the extra green in one eye. She was utterly fascinated by the cool, disciplined façade overlying something withheld . . . deeply remote . . . tantalizing.

What a pity his heart was frozen. What a pity she could never be happy living in his fast-paced, hard-edged world. Because Tom Severin was turning out to be the most attractive and compelling man she’d ever met.

The clatter of a bowl on the kitchen worktable recalled her to herself. She blinked and looked away, searching for a way to ease the tension between them. “We’re returning to London soon,” she said. “If you call on the family, I’ll see that you’re invited to dinner, and we can discuss the book.”

“What if we argue?”

Cassandra laughed. “Never argue with a Ravenel,” she advised. “We never know when to stop.”

“I was already aware of that.” A hint of friendly mockery entered his tone. “Would you like me better if I agreed with everything you said?”

“No,” she said easily, “I like you just as you are.”