Anabelle Bryant - Undone By His Kiss

Tears filled her eyes with sentimental relief. She’d done it…accomplished independence and a true purpose to her days. And no one, no man, would ever take it away from her.

Chapter 2

Jasper surveyed the pedestrian traffic through the large window at the front of the newly opened office space. “Why doesn’t someone come in?” The question was laced with barely contained impatience, his eyes flicking left and right as people bustled by without a glance in his direction.

Randolph Beaufort, friend and business associate, sat at his desk across the room, his hands folded behind his head and feet propped atop the marble as if he hadn’t a care. “I suppose it will take a little time for our business to become popular. Not to worry. We only opened this morning.”

Jasper turned, intent on finding something to do rather than watch people not entering. “It may be a good time for us to review the information I’ve gathered for referral.” He settled behind his desk, adjusted his inkwell and blotter, and opened the top drawer to remove a long file full of papers and notations. “Mr. Nasmyth has contacted me concerning his ideas for a steam hammer. If he manages to perfect the design, his invention could revolutionize factory work.” He withdrew a folder paper from the portfolio and opened its contents flat on the desktop. “He’d like us to secure investors so he might continue his progress with the project.”

“Sounds like a smart chap, despite he’s from Scotland.” Randolph let loose a chuckle before straightening in his seat and adjusting his silk waistcoat. A very fine dresser, he smoothed his palm down each side of the tri-color embroidery embellishment and then matched eyes with Jasper across the room.

“Were we to have a client…” Jasper cleared his voice and restarted. “When we have clients, I believe Nasmyth’s design should be our strongest suggestion. He will need further collateral to fund his project and the outcome for all involved would equal wealth once he succeeds. I haven’t believed as vehemently in any invention since the mousetrap.”

“Clever, the way we snapped that idea up and walked away with the cheese.” Randolph laughed at his joke and then both men slue their eyes to the front where a gentleman paused to read the lettering on the window glass.

Jasper held his breath, willing the man to enter, yet after a tormenting moment, the passerby continued down Bond Street in no particular hurry.

“It will take time.” Randolph’s attempt to soothe his disappointment did little aside from reassure he was a loyal comrade.

“It’s the waiting, I suppose, that has me at sixes and sevens.”

“Well, it’s barely two o’clock. Are you up for a little nuncheon before we continue our business pursuits?” Randolph stood and snatched his hat from the corner of the desk.

“We may as well.” Jasper agreed, although his tone sounded cross as crabs. “I’m hungry and a full bread-basket always improves the day.” He patted his stomach to underscore the sentiment and made for the door.

Emily tapped her wooden gavel gently against the escritoire situated at the center of the sitting room in the town house she shared with her mother. She’d moved the furniture and arranged an assortment of chairs, then requested refreshments from the housekeeper. A female needed to be independent in many ways, not just the obvious. It hadn’t been too difficult to drag the writing desk forward and she’d only needed to stop twice to tug at her sleeves and adjust her bodice, the encumbrance of her gown an additional challenge to the feat.

“I call the League of Virtuous Equality to order.” She tapped her gavel a second time and donned a wide smile. “I’ve exciting news, ladies.” Her eyes scanned the eight members seated in a horseshoe around the desk. “I’ve secured a verified meeting place for our organization. An office where we can enroll new participants, pursue our goals, and further exercise independence without interference from males. As our core belief states, equality in all things.” Saying the words aloud ignited a delicious flutter of excitement to the announcement and she straightened her posture with pride.

The room erupted in reaction. Gasps intermingled with jovial comments, while questions and demands for details were voiced.

“Our new address…” Emily paused to regain control of the room, although another fulsome smile threatened to surface. “Our new address is located on upper Bond Street at the heart of the business sector. Not only will the league be easily accessible, but we’ll be highly visible. A shining example to all women and proof life extends far beyond the social expectation to marry and produce children.”

“My heavens, Emily, an office in such prime position must demand an exorbitant rent. Our dues are less than a trifling and meant to compensate for tea leaves. However will the league survive?” Margery Danford, the oldest of the ladies at twenty-eight, worried about finances more than any other member. The history she’d shared when joining their league related a modest upbringing with few advantages or choices for that matter. Her heart’s desire was to own a hat shop where she could sell her creative designs and why shouldn’t her dream be realized?

“Money, no matter it poses a distasteful subject, should not be of concern. I’ve been honest with each of you.” She slid her gaze from one woman to the next. “Finances need never be a debate.” Emily would by no means confess her mother and she possessed coin to spare. She flicked a glance downward, her butter-yellow gown unpretentious and serviceable more than the cut of fashion. Money served as a tool for all the right reasons and not something to be wasted on indulgences.

“Perhaps we should take a collection or solicit donations,” Thomasina Gordon piped up, forever the problem solver and thinker of their group.

“Asking for donations undermines our main purpose of establishing independence and would only prove to men —” Emily intoned the word to emphasize her odious opinion “—that women are forever dependent upon their services.”

“Some services are necessary, I would think.” Cynthia Maddox suppressed a giggle given the forbidden topic.

“Ladies.” Emily’s fingers itched to tap her gavel. “Let’s not detract from our purpose today. Having a legitimate meeting place establishes our league as a force within the social order. It ensures our cause, to motivate women in pursuit of virtuous equality free of societal pressure and instead, promotes the belief that females have as much decision in their future as any male in London.”

“Or beyond.” Forever dreaming, Portia Edmonstone voiced the words and shared a brilliant smile.

Portia yearned to travel the world, unencumbered by a chaperone or escort. Her parents treated her as if she was daft and her sisters were all settled with two or three babes, making her view of the future appear all the more outlandish. Portia’s life’s hurtle was daunting, yet proved more so than anyone else’s in the room, that a league devoted to encouraging independence was a timely and valuable necessity.

“I realize we normally meet twice a week,” Emily continued, imbued by the reality members needed to make excuses for their absence or risk the censure of parents and siblings. “But I propose we come together tomorrow in celebration and exploration. We can gather at the Bond Street office and reaffirm our cause with a toast.”

“You aren’t suggesting liquor?” A few ladies murmured the same concern, although Margery’s question sounded most aghast.

“Of course not, ladies, I shall provide tea, although someday we will need to learn spirits and their distorting effects. Every iota of information is valuable and may provide solutions for someone’s journey toward independence.”