The Viscount's Veiled Lady (Whitby Weddings 3)

’

‘Hardly?’ She didn’t mean to sound so sceptical, but his expression was kindly.

‘I mean that I notice it in the same way I notice you have brown eyes and hair. It’s a part of you, that’s all.’

‘The part everyone stares at.’

‘Maybe at first, but you’re assuming that it’s all anyone would ever look at. There are plenty of other reasons to look at you, believe me, Frances. But...’ he reached a hand out as if he hadn’t just given her the most unexpectedly touching compliment ‘...if you’re not going to wear it yourself then I want it back.’

‘What? No!’ She closed her fingers around the stone possessively. ‘You just gave it to me.’

‘Exactly. To you. On condition that you make something for yourself.’

‘All right,’ she conceded defeat. ‘I’ll think of something.’

‘Good. You know, I wouldn’t normally tell a lady that I saw a lump of stone and thought of her, but...’ He swayed towards her again. ‘A simple “thank you” would suffice.’

‘Oh!’ She clapped a hand to her mouth in embarrassment. ‘Of course, thank you. It was very thoughtful of you.’

‘You’re welcome.’ He bowed his head and then gave her a quizzical look. ‘If you don’t want to wear it, why make jewellery at all?’

‘Because I like creating things. It makes me happy and it’s nice to earn some money of my own. It’s good to know that I can be independent if necessary.’

‘Is it necessary?’

‘No, but sometimes it’s hard, feeling like a burden to others. At least my jewellery has value.’

He lifted an eyebrow, regarding her in silence for a couple of moments before mercifully changing the subject. ‘How do you go about turning jet into jewellery anyhow? It just looks like a rock to me. It’s not even shiny.’

‘That’s what’s so wonderful about it. The potential is all there, only most people don’t notice. It just takes a while to bring out the true beauty beneath. First you have to cut the stone to the size and shape that you want, then you smooth the edges with sandpaper, then you carve the detail.’

‘Using?’

‘Anything I can find. Darning needles, hairpins, things like that. I have some miniature chisels and files, too.’

‘Then you polish?’

‘Yes, with jeweller’s rouge mixed with paraffin and linseed oil, only I have to be careful since it stains so easily. I’ve turned my hands red a few times.’

‘Red?’

‘Yes. That’s why the men in the workshops are called red devils.’

‘Huh, I’d never thought of that. But how do you cut such a hard stone in the first place?’

‘With a grinding wheel.’

‘Which you just happen to have in your bedroom, I suppose?’

She gave him an arch look. ‘No, I take my pieces to Thorpe’s workshop in the harbour. They do all the cutting and grinding for me.’

‘They don’t think it’s something of an odd request from a young lady?’

‘No. I asked Mr Thorpe and he agreed.’

‘Just like that?’

‘Not exactly.’ She took a bite of her lemon bun, stalling for time before she answered. She didn’t talk about her accident very often—never, in fact—but she could hardly explain her arrangement with Mr Thorpe without mentioning it. Strangely enough, however, she didn’t feel particular anxious about telling Arthur. To her surprise, a part of her actually wanted to tell him.