Had she asked him to take down the moon and stars for her, he would have put in his best effort just to have more of her sweet kisses.
After he came down from the scalp-tingling bliss of spending in his wife’s mouth (and returned the favor), he’d cuddled her close and asked her what she wanted. She’d requested that he give her and Jonas a tour of his offices. His first inclination had been to deny her, for the sake of her safety and his own sanity. The last thing he needed was Jonas running amok in his manufactory.
“You said I could have anything I wanted,” she’d said reasonably. “I’ll be safe with you and the half-dozen guards you’ve assigned to me. I think Jonas would benefit from seeing you at work. He might become less of a rabble-rouser if you gave him something productive to do.”
Knight had sincerely doubted that Jonas was capable of producing anything but trouble. Yet seeing Fancy’s determination—and the droplet glinting at the corner of her mouth—had softened his perspective. It had hardened another part of him, however. Not wanting to waste time arguing over his brother, he’d given in and gotten down to the important business of making love to his wife until dawn.
Which explained why he was now leading Fancy and Jonas into his offices. Not taking any chances with Fancy’s safety, he had ten guards on watch; no one was getting within an inch of his wife. He gave a brief history of the company as they headed up the stairs to the top floors where the weaving took place. Fancy was full of questions and, surprisingly, so was Jonas.
“Why are the looms on the upper floors?” Jonas mopped his brow as they mounted the steps. “Wouldn’t it be easier not to have to lug supplies up and down all these flights?”
“A good point,” Severin acknowledged. “Weaving, however, depends on light, which is better the higher up one goes.”
He led them to the uppermost floor, his lips quirking at Fancy’s gasp of awe.
“It’s beautiful up here,” she exclaimed. “Look at that view…and all those looms.”
His sense of pride grew as he introduced some of his senior weavers to her and watched her win them over one by one. Fancy looked every inch the duchess in a navy and white striped walking dress, matching feathers in her bonnet. A navy belt with a square gold buckle circled her narrow waist. Her hands were encased in white gloves, a striped reticule that matched her dress dangling from her wrist.
As beautiful as she was, he knew his men weren’t just responding to her physical charms. Fancy exuded natural warmth as she asked questions about their craft. The weavers eagerly showed her the basic operations: the laying down of the warp threads, the task of the weaver’s assistant who arranged those threads for a specific design, and the use of the shuttle to interlace the weft and warp threads. To the delight of the weavers, Fancy even tried her hand at passing the shuttle. The friendliness in her brown eyes was capable of disarming even the most hardened of men. This came into play in an unexpected way soon after Severin showed his wife and Jonas into his office.
He was pointing out buildings through his window when he heard his secretary’s voice outside the door. “You cannot barge in there, Mr. Bodin. His Grace is in a meeting—”
“I don’t give a rat’s arse who Knighton’s meeting with,” came the surly reply. “Get out o’ my way.”
The door swung open with Potts, his secretary, clinging valiantly to it.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace,” Potts sputtered. “I tried to stop him but—”
“I’ll handle this,” Severin said. “You may go.”
Bodin stormed in. He was a stocky, dark-haired fellow who reminded Severin of a bulldog. Bodin had his barrel-chest thrust out, his square-jawed face the essence of belligerence. His gaze veered to Fancy and Jonas, who stood frozen by the window. Severin immediately stepped in front of his wife and brother, his gaze narrowing on his erstwhile employee.
“State your business, Bodin,” he said in glacial tones.
“I’m ’ere to discuss the machines you purchased to replace your workers,” Bodin barked.
“You had better know your place,” Severin said. “Or you will be seeking employ elsewhere.”
“I ain’t afraid o’ you,” the weaver taunted. “I’ve ’ad masters before you, and I’ll ’ave masters after. What I won’t ’ave is you destroying the livelihoods o’ decent working men with damned machines.”