She sat up. “What time is it?”
Harris pursed her lips. “A quarter of eight, my lady.”
“Good Lord. Whatever is he about?” Emeline threw back the covers and searched for her slippers. “He must be mad. No one comes calling at eight o’clock.”
“Yes, my lady.” Harris bent to help her with her slippers.
“Not even nine o’clock,” Emeline muttered, thrusting her arms into the wrapper Harris held for her. “Really, anything before eleven is suspect, and I myself would never bother before two o’clock. Quite, quite mad.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Emeline became conscious now of tuneless whistling. “What is that noise?”
“Mr. Hartley is whistling in the downstairs hall, my lady,” Harris said.
For a moment, Emeline stared at her maid, speechless. The whistling crested on a particularly horrific note. Emeline rushed from her room and out into the upper hall. She marched down the hall and to the banister that overlooked the downstairs entry. Mr. Hartley was standing with his hands behind his back, holding his tricorne. As she watched, he idly rocked back on his heels and whistled through his teeth.
“Hist!” Emeline leaned over the banister.
Mr. Hartley whirled and looked up at her. “Good morning, my lady!” He gave a little bow. The man looked fresh and alarmingly alert for so early in the morning.
“Have you gone stark, raving mad?” Emeline demanded. “What are you doing in my hall this early?”
“I’ve come to take you to Wedgwood’s business offices to help me order pottery.”
She scowled. “I never—”
“You’ll need to dress.” His gaze wandered to her chest. “Not that I mind your present attire.”
Emeline slapped a hand to her bosom. “How dare—”
“Wait here, shall I?” And he began that awful whistling again, this time even louder.
Emeline opened her mouth, realized that he wouldn’t be able to hear anything over the noise coming out between his lips, and shut it again. She gathered her skirts and stomped back to her room. Harris had already laid out a flame-colored watered silk, and Emeline was clothed and coiffed in scandalously little time. Even so, Mr. Hartley was peering at the hall clock when she descended the stairs.
He glanced at her rather perfunctorily. “Took you long enough. Come on, I don’t want to be late to see Mr. Bentley—Mr. Wedgwood’s partner.”
Emeline frowned as he hustled her out the door. “When is your appointment?”
“Nine o’clock.” Mr. Hartley handed her into the waiting carriage.
She narrowed her eyes at him when he sat across from her. “But you came for me before eight o’clock.”
“I thought it might take you a while to get ready.” He smiled at her, his coffee-brown eyes crinkling at the corners. “And I was right, wasn’t I?” He rapped on the roof.
“You take too much for granted,” Emeline said frostily.
“Only with you, ma’am. Only with you.” His voice was low and soft and disconcertingly intimate.
Emeline glanced out the window so she wouldn’t have to meet his eyes. “Why is that?”
There was a silence and for a moment she thought he might avoid the question.
“I don’t know why you affect me like this,” he said finally. “I think you’d as well ask a catamount why it runs after a fleeing deer as ask me why I quicken when you’re near.”
Her gaze jerked around to his. He watched her with a purely male gaze, frank and assessing. It should’ve made her afraid, being the subject of such a perusal. Instead it thrilled her. “Then you admit it.”
He shrugged. “Why not? It’s purely instinctive, I assure you.”
She twitched at a ribbon on the front of her gown. “You must be quite at a loss if your instincts cause you this problem whenever you’re near a lady.”
“I already told you, remember?” He leaned forward and wrapped his hand around her fingers, stilling her agitated teasing of the ribbon. “This happens only with you.”
Emeline looked down at their fingers. She should snap at him. Set him down properly and let him know that he’d gone too far with his familiarity. But the sight of his brown fingers wrapped around and cradling her own smaller, white ones was mesmerizing somehow. The carriage bumped around a curve, and he withdrew his hand.
She smoothed out the ribbon. “Haven’t you a man of business?”
“Yes, Mr. Kitcher. But he’s a rather dry old man. I thought you’d be better company.”
She snorted softly at that. “Where are these offices?”
“Not far,” he said. “They’ve rented part of a warehouse.”
Her hands were trembling, and she clasped them together in her lap. “Mr. Wedgwood and Mr. Bentley haven’t showrooms?”
“No. They’re relatively new to the trade. Part of the reason I hope to get a bargain from them.”
“Mmm.” Emeline looked at him curiously. Mr. Hartley’s eyes were narrowed and alert as if he were readying for battle. “You like this.”
His eyebrows shot up. “What?”
She waved a hand vaguely. “Trade. Doing business. The hunt of finding a good bargain.”
His sensuous lips curved. “Of course. But I trust you won’t give me away to Bentley.”
Then the carriage was drawing up next to a warehouse. Mr. Hartley jumped down as soon as the steps were set and turned to help Emeline.
She looked at the plain brick and wood building doubtfully. “What do you want me to do?”
“Simply give me your opinion.” He tucked her hand into his elbow as a gentleman in curled wig and rust-colored coat came out of one of the warehouse’s doors.
“Mr. Hartley?” the man exclaimed in a Northern accent. “An honor, sir, an honor to meet your acquaintance. I am Thomas Bentley.”
Mr. Hartley took Mr. Bentley’s hand and shook it. This close, Emeline could see that Mr. Bentley was younger than she had thought—probably not much above thirty years. His face was florid and his middle just a little stout. Mr. Hartley introduced her, and the pottery merchant’s eyes widened when he heard her title.
“Lady Emeline. Why, this is an honor, ma’am; it is indeed. Won’t you take a dish of tea? I’ve just purchased some from India that’s quite nice.”
Emeline smiled at the man, murmuring her assent, and Mr. Bentley showed them into the warehouse. The building soared overhead, dark and cool. She could smell sawdust and damp bricks. Half the space was packed with barrels and crates, but Mr. Bentley led them into a smaller office off the main room. The office was just large enough for a wide desk, some chairs, and a stack of boxes against the wall. In one corner was a small hearth with a kettle already steaming.