After taking the sausages off the fire Francie sat down heavily on one of the chairs. What had that been? She'd never thought that a kiss could be felt everywhere. When he'd thrust his tongue in her mouth and squeezed her bottom she'd felt a quiver deep in her belly. She still had a heat to her, as though he'd stoked a fire inside of her that would be slow to burn down. She wasn't sure how long she sat there staring at nothing, but she heard Mr. Burnham on the steps. Reggie. She heard Reggie on the steps. She pressed her hands to her still burning cheeks.

"Did you save the sausages?" he asked. He was dressed again, apparently having a third shirt in his satchel as he was holding his bloodied one and her gloves in his hand.

"Oh! I don't know, I didn't look." She jumped up to poke at the sausages in the pan with a fork. "Hmm. They're a bit burned on one side, but quite edible."

"A veritable feast, I'm sure. We should put these in hot water," he said, holding out the garments to her.

"Yes, of course." Apparently, one really could be kissed silly, or at least stupid. She wasn't sure she was capable of adding two plus two at the moment. He grinned at her in what she took for masculine pride. She should be outraged that he was pleased he'd addled her, but she just felt her cheeks heat again.

Although she felt awkward and shy after their kiss he managed to draw her into conversation again over their sausages. She should be concerned about lingering over their repast and not opening the shop, but she decided it didn't really matter as they hadn't had a customer in days. Once she completed her commitment to the girls for May Day dresses perhaps that would be the end of it. That was sad, but not as sad as she might have suspected it would be.

"So why a compass rose?" he asked, indicating her arm. He was the first person she had left it uncovered around. She'd managed to keep it a secret even from Phoebe.

Her voice was so quiet even she could hardly hear it. "A compass helps you find the people you love."

He'd leaned forward to listen and when she raised her eyes to his she could see his compassion. "You've lost too many people at a young age. I'm so sorry, Miss Walters."

"Francie," she corrected softly. "And so have you."

He quirked a sad smile. "Then I should have one, too. Perhaps you know an artist who specializes in them?"

She smiled back, but she also wanted to cry. In fact, it seemed far too appealing to crawl right into his lap and have a good sob. Wasn't that just what a man wanted? A sobbing mess of a female. "Perhaps once I finish this dress."

"Excellent point," he said, back to his usual energetic self. "You have a dress to finish and I need to figure out other ways to help you."

"You can read to me," she said.

"Scientific lectures? Really?"

She chuckled. "They weren't the most exciting thing, no. You could tell me stories from your time at sea."

He nodded and pointed at her for emphasis. "That I can do. I will gather some lanterns to brighten the work room while you unlock the front door."

She stood and stretched. "No, I've decided to put a sign in the door."

"What sign is that?"

"Closed to new business. Exclusive clients only."

He laughed. "If they choose to shun you then you'll tell them they aren't good enough for you."

"Something like that," she admitted with a sheepish smile.

"I'd thought that London would drive you batty, but I'm beginning to think you would just drive them to their knees."

He'd thought of her in London? His comment was the most outrageous yet amazing compliment. "If London is lucky they won't have to find out."

That made him laugh again as he trotted down the stairs.

What was she to do with him? He could kiss her silly one moment, and then cajole her to chat the next. And was capable of compliments that turned her insides to delighted mush. All while being so, well, so Reggie. Stubborn and pushy and too clever by half.

It had either been a terrible, terrible mistake to kiss him, or the smartest thing she'd ever done.

 

***

 

Reggie realized he wasn't so much setting up her workspace as planning a possible seduction. Hadn't he just counseled himself what a terrible idea that was? But that didn't stop him from angling the seating to ensure she would see him clearly each time she looked up from her sewing. And making sure there were plenty of handy cushions available in case things progressed to the floor. It wasn't so much that he was planning to bed her as he was making sure she would be comfortable if things turned out that way. He reminded himself that bedding led to marriage and his mind swerved away from that line of thinking.

He should really find out her thoughts on it, but he was unaccountably afraid to ask. What if she laughed in his face when he asked if she would consider marriage to him? He wasn't a particularly callow man, having proved himself in battle a number of times. But what idiot chose a battle, especially knowing that the opponent held all the weapons. If he asked her if she wanted to marry him then everything hinged on her response. Not that he wanted to ask her, not really. Well, if he were to ask any woman it would certainly be her, but he really hadn't planned to marry anytime soon. But now he was here, and she was here, and he thought he might go mad without her.

He forced himself to stop fussing and focus on reading more of the lectures on fluid dynamics that he'd been reading to her the night before. He actually became so absorbed in the topic he almost didn't hear her enter the room. He jumped to his feet.

"Miss Walters."

"Francie," she corrected breezily while taking her chair.

"Francie."

She actually closed her eyes when he said her name. "Say it again," she asked. "I like hearing it in your voice."

Damn the girl. She knew how to twist him around her finger. Well, two could play at that game. He walked over to her chair and leaned down close to her ear. "Francie," he whispered.

Her answering sigh was like a siren's call. "Reggie," she whispered back.

Bloody hell, you weren't supposed to be able to seduce a man in a dress shop. Especially after you shot him, berated him, and barely fed him for a week. Gods, she was worse than a gaoler and all he wanted was to taste her lips again. But did he really want to give up his bachelorhood because he'd stumbled upon the one woman in England who seemed destined to make him beg for her kisses? No, he jolly well did not. He'd meant to teach her not to play with fire, but found himself the one pulling back from being burned. After he retreated to his seat he found he couldn't look at her directly.

"You wanted to hear stories of the high seas?" His voice sounded a bit strained, and he fiddled with his journal as though deciding where to set it down was of utmost importance.

"Yes, please." Her voice sounded perfectly fine. Well, perhaps a bit breathless, but that was all the more appealing.

He finally decided to tuck the journal under the settee and then stretched out as though he were perfectly relaxed. It was as terrible lie, but one he'd learned to establish at his mother's receiving hours. Certainly this could be no more taxing. At least here he didn't have society matrons looking him over as marriage material, much like a gentleman might look over a horse for auction.

He scratched his chin and said, "One particularly amusing anecdote ends with Harry passed out and Wally with the Union Jack down his trousers. Would you care to hear that one?"

She laughed and glanced up from her sewing for a moment. "And what terrible thing happened to you?"

"Oh no," he said. "I'm the hero of the piece. You'll see."

He wove a tale that was two parts reality, and one part things to make her laugh. He left out the sordid bits, of course. The death, the unpleasantness. He found that he enjoyed being able to watch her as she sewed, her face animated in her reactions to his story. He wasn't quite sure yet what he felt for her, but was concerned that it was something more than simple attraction.

"Then what did you say?" she prompted when his narrative lagged. He'd been so absorbed in watching her that he'd actually lost the thread of what he'd been saying.

"What do you think I said?" he asked to cover for his addled state.

She laughed. "I know what I would have said. They could have the coconuts over my dead body!"

"Well, of course, that's precisely what I said." He'd said no such thing, of course. The situation had actually been more dire than he'd painted it for her. But just now, watching her laugh, the sting of the memory lessened. He felt an ease that had been long missing in his life and was unaccountably happy.