Free Sinful in Satin by Madeline Hunter Page A

never hired himself out as a carpenter, but had tried only to do a good deed.
    Instead he swallowed whatever he had been tempted to say. “You are correct, Madam. Your concern about my excessive use of nails is well-taken.”
    “You can perhaps excuse her, since she is a dear friend, Mr. Albrighton. Your critic is Lady Hawkeswell, and countesses tend to become particular about the particulars, so to speak.”
    “My apologies, Madam.” He bowed his greeting. “Of course, as a countess you are accustomed to more expert work than I can muster.”
    “As a countess I would not know the difference between expert and inexpert. If I am particular, it is the result of my youth in a very different world from where I now dwell.”
    He picked up one of the nails. “Another thirty minutes and all should be in order here. Miss Pennifold, if you want to entertain Lady Hawkeswell elsewhere, I will not mind at all.”
    Celia thought that an excellent way to end this prickly conversation. She put on her bonnet and tied it against the wind. “Let us take a turn in the garden, Verity, and escape the hammering.”
     
     
    C elia steered Verity deeply into the garden as the tapping began again. Verity kept looking over her shoulder at the house. Her brow puckered each time she did.
    “Come and give me advice on this bed near the shrubbery,” Celia encouraged, dragging her to the garden’s rear.
    “Your carpenter is not very good,” Verity said. “You should have written so I could recommend one. Did you employ him because he is so handsome?”
    “I clear forget what or who recommended him to me. Truly. Now, look here. I think bulbs must already be planted here, don’t you?”
    Verity glanced back at the house again. Another frown marred her snowy brow. She looked at Celia. She looked back at the house. She looked at Celia. Curiously.
    “He was wearing very nice boots. For a carpenter, that is. His shirt and waistcoat too—”
    “I trust you are not going to hold it against a man that he takes pride in his appearance.”
    “I am more concerned with how a carpenter with such poor skills can afford such things. I think we should not leave him in the house alone. He may be one of those fellows who presents himself as a tradesman only to gain entrance to houses to steal.”
    “You are being too suspicious. Now, the reason I think this must hold spring bulbs is because the trees above would shade other flowers once they leaf out. I should like to add some new ones come autumn, and need your help to decide just which ones.”
    Verity looked up at the tree line. Then she leveled her gaze on Celia most directly. “I do not think I have been too suspicious. However, it occurs to me that I may have assumed the wrong thing in thinking he was your carpenter.”
    Celia gazed down at the loamy soil. Stories and explanations lined up in her mind, each one more far-fetched than the idea that Mr. Albrighton was a carpenter.
    “Who is that man to you, Celia?”
    Celia heard the smallest note of merriment in Verity’s voice. She looked up to see Verity’s lovely face smooth of all frowns now. Impish lights dancing in her blue eyes.
    “It is not what you think.”
    “More’s the pity.”
    “Verity!”
    Verity laughed, surprised at herself. “What can I say? He is very easy on the eyes, and a handsome man using his hands—even if not well at all in this circumstance—still compels my attention, my love for Hawkeswell notwithstanding.” She glanced back yet again. “Tell. You must, or I will assume what I will on my own.”
    “He is a tenant. That is all. An awkward intrusion and an embarrassing nuisance. I inherited him, much like the furniture, and he will not leave no matter how uncomfortable I take pains to make him.”
    “Perhaps discomfort keeps him here, although perhaps not the kind you intended. It seems to me, now that I think about it, that he became even more compelling as soon as you entered the chamber.”
    So Verity had