The Lass Who Lost a Shoe by Lee, Caroline (mobi reader android TXT) 📕

it down beside Mr. DeVille so Vanessa can reach it.”

If he hadn’t been looking right at Ember, he might’ve missed the way she jerked in response to the command. Her face paled, and her gaze swung around to meet his. “Mr. DeVille?” she squeaked.

“Aye, ye stupid girl. Put it down beside him. Surely ye ken the man; he’s been our guest for ages!”

Ember’s dark eyes were wide as she stepped toward him, her hands shaking enough to cause the silver service to rattle. He stood and reached for the tray.

Their fingers brushed, shooting that strange electric spark up his arm again, even as she flushed and dropped her gaze to her feet.

“Allow me,” he murmured, taking it from her. She didn’t look up again, but dropped a hasty curtsey, her cheeks flushing red, and hurried from the room.

“How strange,” said Vanessa. “Ember’s usually so calm.”

Yeah, she usually was. So what had caused her to react that way?

“Mr. DeVille, do set the tea down.”

Mr. DeVille.

As he complied with the command, Max thought back over the last few minutes. Mr. DeVille. It had been his name which had made her shut down like that. But why?

“Vanessa, dearest, do pour tea for our guests. Milord, would ye care for a cake?”

As Roland managed to agree that, aye, perhaps a cake would be enjoyable, Max stood there in the center of the room, feeling like a fool. He needed to set things right with Ember, but how?

He didn’t know, but at least he knew where she’d be.

“Um, if you’ll excuse me…” As he began speaking, all eyes in the room turned to him. The expressions ranged from concerned—Bonnie—to excited—Vanessa, likely at the thought of having Roland’s undivided attention, even though Roland just looked irritated. Max sent him an apologetic glance. “I’ve just recalled something I need from my room.”

“Of course,” murmured Baroness Oliphant with a smile.

Max sent a shrug to Roland, promising himself to make it up to his friend, then hurried out the door.

He needed to get to her father’s workshop.

Chapter 8

“Well, shite. That didnae go as planned, did it?”

“Trust in the outcome, sisters. Narrative causality, don’t you know.”

“I dinnae think that’s going to help us this time, Evangeline.”

* * *

Ember’s hand shook as she tried to place the tip of the graver into the divot she’d created just before her stepmother’s screeching demands had pulled her away. Tea! She’d had to serve tea to the front parlor, and Ember had decided it was easier to give in—as usual—than listen to Machara squawk.

Little had she known who was waiting in that parlor.

Viscount Whatever-his-title-is had come to call on Vanessa, aye, but he’d brought his good friend, Mr. DeVille, along with him.

Max.

Forcing herself to take a deep breath, Ember shook out her hands and rolled her shoulders. Max was actually Mr. DeVille, the man she’d been set on impressing with this design. Last night, she’d blithely handed him her shoe, blathering on about how she hoped he’d put in a good word with his boss, Mr. DeVille.

And he never once thought to mention who he was!

Hot, angry tears threatened to leak from the corner of her eyes, so she squeezed them shut. Damn him! Had he been laughing at her, at her stupidity, the entire time? Chuckling how this stupid little serving lass hadn’t realized who he was?

Nay! She wasn’t at fault, he was! He was the one who’d lied to her!

Did he though? Ye only spoke about his boss last night, so maybe he assumed ye meant someone else.

Surely she’d referred to Mr. DeVille? Surely he’d heard her refer to them as separate people, and simply hadn’t bothered to correct her?

She was an idiot for thinking he could be trusted. For thinking he cared for her.

Ignoring the tracks of the tears down her cheeks, she bent back over her father’s vice. The heel was clamped between the jaws, ready for her to embellish it so it’d match the one she still had upstairs.

Assuming she could focus her attention and energy enough to continue engraving. Right now, her body and mind felt on fire; full of fierce, impotent anger.

“Ember?”

Hearing his voice, in her workshop, caused her to gasp and whirl around. When she saw him standing in the doorway, his hat held protectively in front of him, her grip tightened on the graver in her hand.

“What do ye want?” Her voice sounded raspy, gravelly, even to her own ears.

Slowly, he placed the hat on the workbench and shut the door. Good. No one needed to hear her rant at him, and as he took a step into the room—closer to her—she doubted she’d be able to keep her mouth shut and swallow down her hurt.

“I came to talk to you, Ember.

How dare he be so calm!

“Did ye come to explain to me why ye lied?” she snapped.

“Whoa!” Holding up both hands, palm outward, he stepped closer again. “Hold your horses. I didn’t lie to you.”

“Ye’re Mr. DeVille!”

Cocking his head to one side, he studied her. “I’m Max.”

“Nay!” She shook her head, the stupid cap flopping over one ear, as she tried to find the words to explain her anger. “Ye’re not just Max, ye’re the manager of Oliphant Engraving! Ye’re the one I needed to help me start producing the shoes I designed and help me get out of here!”

The memory of how she’d unburdened herself—after she’d all-but-mauled him—and explained her needs, had her grip tightening around the graver again, shame washing over her. “Ye’re Mr. DeVille!”

Solemnly, he nodded. “I am. I’m sorry I didn’t make that clear. I thought you knew.”

“What? How would I have kenned that?” Unable to face him any longer, she turned back to the vice, planted her hands on either side of it and felt the sturdy wood beneath her palms. In her other hand, the weight of the graver pushed her knuckles into the oak, and she welcomed the pain. She blinked, the tears forming again. “Ye’re practically a lord, Mr. DeVille. Ye’re fancy.” She