He rose and came up behind her, tilting her head back with a hand beneath her chin. "Two more weeks, and a proper wife you'll be." With little finesse, his mouth came down on hers.
The faint scent of his breakfast had her squeezing her eyes shut and praying for the end to this torment.
"Part your lips, Amy," he demanded against her mouth.
She didn't. She wished he'd use one of those newfangled little silver toothbrushes Aunt Elizabeth had sent from Paris.
Finally he raised his head. "Two weeks," he repeated.
Her eyes snapped open and burned into his. "Papa would never allow you to keep me from making jewelry." Looking down, she brushed at the casting harder.
"Hugh Goldsmith won't be here forever." His hand moved to snake down her bodice.
Amy's gaze flickered toward the showroom in warning.
Wrenching away, he strode back to his workbench, back to his ale. "At least soon he won't be able to threaten me with bodily harm for sullying his virginal daughter," he spat, raising the tankard in a salute. "Two weeks," he added with a grin.
A grin that Amy had once thought boyish, engaging…but of late had made her uneasy.
They both turned as the bell on the outside door tinkled. Amy stood and whipped off her apron. "I'll get it."
"Your father is out there," Robert reminded her. "He can handle it."
She paid him no mind, but smoothed back a few damp strands that had escaped her plait. Pausing to straighten her gown, she put a shopgirl smile on her face before heading through the swinging doors into the cool, bright showroom.
"A locket," a young woman at the far end of the L-shaped case was saying, smiling up at a gentleman with his back to Amy.
Deep red curls draped to the lady's scandalously bare shoulders; her lavish golden brocade gown had a neckline much lower than Amy's father would ever allow. The man's mistress? In the years since the Restoration, the nobility had taken King Charles's lead as far as morals were concerned, which was to say they had very few.
The tall man addressed Hugh. "My sister would like a locket." He urged the lady—his sister, not his mistress—forward. "Go on, Kendra, see what you fancy."
Though the gentleman seemed determined to work with her father, Amy stepped closer, poised to turn the corner and help close the sale. Hugh glanced at her, then smiled. "Have you a style in mind, or a price, Lord…?"
"Greystone." His back still to Amy, he waved an impatient hand. "Whatever she likes."
Hugh cleared his throat. "Perhaps my daughter can help you decide. Amethyst, please show Lord Greystone the lockets."
She took a tray from the case and moved to set it before the man's sister instead.
"They're all so pretty!" Lady Kendra exclaimed in delight. When she bent her head to look closer, her beautiful red curls shimmered to rival the glitter of jewels in the case.
Amy's hand went reflexively to her own head, as though she could rearrange her hated black hair into something more fashionable than her serviceable plait. Resisting the urge to sigh, she lifted an oval locket with tiny engraved flowers.
"See the gold ribbons forming the bale?" As her father had taught her, her voice was sweet and confident, reflecting her certainty of both the quality of the piece and her ability to sell it. She snapped open the locket and extended it, looking from Lady Kendra to Lord Greystone. "It's—"
Her voice failed her.
Hugh nudged her, frowning. "Amy?"
"It-it's quite feminine," she stammered out, telling herself Lord Greystone couldn't be the man she remembered.
But then his emerald green eyes locked on hers—as they'd done five years earlier. He was the man she remembered, the man she'd been unable to forget…
The nobleman from the coronation procession.
Her heart seemed to pause in her chest, and for a second she thought she would drown in those eyes; then she looked away, with an effort, and down to the locket she was holding.
Lady Kendra reached to take the locket from Amy. "Oh, look how pretty it is, Colin." She held it up to her bodice, turning to model it for her brother.
With seeming reluctance, Lord Greystone swung his gaze toward his sister's chest. "I'm not sure I care for it."
"Notice the fine engraving, my lord," Hugh rushed to put in. "Truly first quality."
Lord Greystone ignored him and looked back to Amy. When his eyes narrowed, Amy found herself studying him in return. Classic symmetrical features: a long, straight nose, sculpted planes, a slight dimple in his chin. His clean-shaven complexion appeared more golden than was the fashion.
God in heaven, she'd never seen such a handsome man.
When he finally spoke, his voice, smooth and deep, sent a shiver down her spine. "Have you a locket with…amethysts?"
Amethysts…
She opened her mouth to answer, but the words refused to come out.
"No, my lord, we don't," Hugh said. "But emeralds would suit the lady—"
"Yes," Amy interrupted, finally finding her voice. "Yes, we do have amethysts! If you'll but wait one moment." She reached to grab the key ring off her father's belt, then turned and bolted for the workshop.
"What are you in such a rush for?" Robert asked as she jammed the key into the first padlock on their iron safe chest.
"Customers are waiting." Having removed the second padlock, she knelt on the floor and began working the twelve bolts in their complicated sequence.
Robert wandered over, wiping blunt hands on his apron, leaving streaks of abrasive gray slurry. "What customers?"
"A gentleman and his sister," she said as the last bolt slid into place, allowing her to access the final lock. She opened it with the largest key, then lifted the lid and rummaged inside.
Luckily, the locket she was after was there in the top tray. "Ah, here it is." Just seeing the piece, the shimmering gold, the sparkling gems, made her smile.
She rose and headed back to the showroom, Robert at her heels. He lounged against the archway and fixed Lord Greystone with a distrustful blue stare.
Well, she would just
