Лиза Клейпас - Chasing Cassandra

“Are you thirsty?” she asked, handing him the glass of chilled water. He took it with a murmur of thanks. In just a few long gulps, he had drained it.

After blotting his perspiring face on a shirtsleeve, Mr. Severin said ruefully, “You’ve caught me at a disadvantage, my lady.”

Cassandra was inwardly amused by his discomfort at being less than perfectly attired and groomed in front of her. But she actually preferred him like this, all disheveled and unguarded. “You’re a hero, Mr. Severin. Without you, we would all be doomed to cold baths, and no tea for breakfast.”

He handed back the empty glass. “Well, we can’t have that.”

“I’ll leave you to your work, but first . . .” Cassandra gave the book to him. “I brought this for you. A gift.” His thick lashes lowered as he studied the cover. She couldn’t help noticing how beautiful his hair was, the black locks cut in well-shaped layers that almost begged to be played with. Her fingers actually twitched with the urge to touch him, and she curled them tightly against her palm. “It’s a novel by Jules Verne,” she continued. “He writes for young readers, but adults enjoy his work as well.”

“What’s it about?”

“An Englishman who accepts a wager to go around the world in eighty days. He travels by train, ships, horse, elephant, and even a wind-powered sledge.”

Mr. Severin’s perplexed gaze met hers. “Why read an entire novel about that when you could obtain the itinerary from a travel office?”

She smiled at that. “The novel isn’t about the itinerary. What’s important is what he learns along the way.”

“Which is?”

“Read it,” she challenged, “and find out.”

“I will.” Carefully he set the book beside a canvas plumber’s bag. “Thank you.”

Cassandra hesitated before leaving. “May I stay for a few minutes?” she asked impulsively. “Would that bother you?”

“No, but it’s as hot as blue blazes in here, and it’s a fine day outside. Shouldn’t you spend time with the other guests?”

“I don’t know most of them.”

“You don’t know me either.”

“Then let’s become acquainted,” Cassandra said lightly, lowering herself to a cross-legged position. “We can talk while you work. Or do you need silence to concentrate?”

A small but noticeable stir ran through the kitchen staff as they saw one of the ladies of the house sitting on the floor.

“I don’t need silence,” Mr. Severin said. “But if you end up in trouble for this, I want it known I had nothing to do with it.”

Cassandra grinned. “The only person who would scold is Lady Berwick, and she never sets foot in the kitchen.” With a self-satisfied air, she gathered the excess fabric of her skirts and tucked it beneath her. “How do you know so much about all of this?”

Mr. Severin picked up a shave hook with a wickedly sharp blade and began to carve burrs from the pipe’s copper edge. “As a boy, I apprenticed at a tramway construction company. I built steam engines during the day and took courses in mechanical engineering at night.”

“What is that, exactly?” she asked. “The only thing I know about engineers is there’s always one on the train.” Seeing the beginnings of a smile on his lips, she rushed on before he could reply. “How stupid I must sound. Never mind—”

“No,” he said swiftly. “There’s nothing wrong about not knowing something. The stupid people are the ones who think they know everything.”

Cassandra smiled and relaxed. “What does a mechanical engineer do?”

Mr. Severin continued to carve the inside of the copper pipe as he replied, “He designs, builds, and operates machines.”

“Any kind of machine?”

“Yes. The engineer on the train is responsible for the operation of the locomotive and all its moving parts.” He picked up a round brush and began to scrub the inside of the pipe.

“May I do that?” Cassandra asked.

Mr. Severin paused, giving her a skeptical glance.

“Let me,” she coaxed, leaning closer to take the brush and pipe from him. His breath caught audibly, and he suddenly had the kind of dazed, unfocused expression men sometimes wore when they found her especially pretty. Patiently she eased the objects from his lax hands.

After a moment, Mr. Severin seemed to collect his wits. “Helping with plumbing repairs doesn’t seem like something you should be doing,” he commented, his gaze flickering to the gauzy sleeves of her dress.

“It isn’t,” Cassandra admitted, scrubbing the pipe. “But I don’t always behave properly. It’s difficult for someone who was raised with hardly any rules to learn a great many at once.”

“I’m not fond of rules myself.” Mr. Severin bent to inspect a copper fitting protruding from the boiler, and polished it with emery cloth. “They’re usually for other people’s benefit, not mine.”

“You must have some personal rules, though.”

“Three.”

Cassandra lifted her brows. “Only three?”

Although his face was partially averted, she saw the flash of his grin. “Three good ones.”

“What are they?”

Mr. Severin rummaged through the plumber’s bag as he replied, “Never lie. Always do favors for people whenever possible. Remember everything they promise in the main part of the contract can be taken back in the fine print.”

“Those sound like good rules,” Cassandra said. “I wish I had only three, but I have to follow hundreds.”

He opened a tin of paste labeled flux and used a forefinger to apply it to the pipe and fitting. “Tell me some.”

Cassandra obliged readily. “When introduced to a gentleman, never look higher than his collar button. Don’t accept costly gifts; it will put you under obligation. It’s not nice to wear a tall hat while attending a play. And—this is an important one—never let the dogs stay in the room when you’re working with feathers and glue. Also—”

“Wait,” Mr. Severin said, sitting up and wiping his hands with a rag. “Why can’t you look higher than a man’s collar button when you meet him?”

“Because if I look at his face,” Cassandra said primly, “he’ll think I’m too bold.”

“He may think you need an eye examination.”

A chuckle escaped before she could restrain it. “Make fun if you like, but it’s a rule one can’t break.”

“You looked directly at me when we first met,” Mr. Severin pointed out.

Cassandra sent him a gently admonishing glance. “That wasn’t really an introduction. Leaping out like that during a private conversation . . .”

He didn’t even try to look contrite. “I couldn’t help it. I had to offer you an alternative to marrying West Ravenel.”

Hot color flooded over her face and body. The conversation had abruptly become far too personal. “That was a silly impulse on my part. I was anxious—because sometimes it seems as if I’ll never—but I wouldn’t. Marry West, I mean.”

His gaze searched her face intently. “You don’t have feelings for him, then?” His voice had lowered a note or two, in a way that made the question seem even more intimate than it was.

“No, he’s like an uncle.”

“An uncle you proposed to.”

“In a moment of desperation,” she protested. “You’ve had one of those, surely.”

He shook his head. “Desperation isn’t one of my emotions.”

“You’ve never felt desperate? About anything?”

“No, long ago I identified the feelings that were helpful to me. I decided to keep those and not bother with the rest.”

“Is it possible to dispense with feelings you don’t want?” she asked doubtfully.

“It is for me.”

The hushed conversation was interrupted as Cook called out from the other side of the room, “How goes it with the boiler, Mr. Severin?”