Free My Mr. Rochester by L. K. Rigel Page B

me. I was so different from these women, yet in that moment I saw my future: bit by bit and with each passing year, I would chip away at my sharp edges. I would modify myself to fit in. I would become less like myself and more like them.
    Despite my purple dress with its low neckline and a mind that once read scandalous books.
    I turned down Miss Miller’s invitation to go with her and Miss Roy to the bookshop. It felt good to get out of the inn and go my own way. Anyway, today I had a plan. I meant to splurge, not on candies or paints. My salary had been raised, and I’d kept out half my quarterly $500 to spend on a pair of custom-made boots at the cordwainer.
    Blackstone’s felt more like someone’s parlor than a place of business, but for the display samples on the wall. While I waited for Mr. Blackstone, my gaze went straight to a pair of black leather knee-high lace-up boots.
    I couldn’t help myself. I lifted a boot from its stand, caressed the leather and inhaled its rich smell. The interior was lined with soft, soft microfiber. How warm the boots must be!
    “Will I measure you for a pair then?” said a deep voice behind me just as I became aware of a masculine presence at my back. I turned around, but the gray hair and twinkling blue eyes I expected weren’t there.
    I caught my breath. My eyes were level with a young man’s broad chest. He wore a dark forest green cotton shirt with the long sleeves partly pushed up exposing muscular forearms. The shirt buttons were open to his breastbone. He had the scent of a man who’d been working physically. My heart raced, and my breathing was shallow.
    I looked up to the amused expression of a man not much older than myself. He had large dark eyes and thick eyebrows, wonderful cheekbones, a square jaw, and full lips. He brushed his loose brown hair off his face and smiled.
    “You did come in for shoes, miss?” His voice was like a dream, deep and rumbling. I wanted to answer, but I’d forgotten how to speak.
    “Where is Mr. Blackstone?” I finally managed to get out.
    “My dad’s not feeling well today, I’m afraid. But I can help you. I’m Gideon.”
    “You were away.” I grabbed on to a piece of intelligence I’d heard in the kitchen about Mr. Blackstone’s son. “On border duty.” Having a topic of conversation brought me back to my senses. Gideon Blackstone was the current fascinating thing in the gossip factory known as the Lowood kitchen. The descriptions of his beauty hadn’t come close.
    “You’ll love this boot,” he said. He took me by the elbow and led me to an overstuffed chair by the fire. I’d never been touched like that before, not with kindness. Not by a man near my age. Not by a prince in a fairy tale. Pulling a stool close to my chair, he sat down in front of me and lifted the skirt of my dress over my knees.
    “What are—”
    “To fit you, miss.” He spoke matter-of-factly and went about his business. An ember on the fire snapped as he slipped off my shoes. His hands were nearly as large as my feet. He left my stockings alone—I didn't know if I was grateful or disappointed.
    “Was the border awful?” I could hardly believe this was happening. “Did you have to…” Good lord, Jane! I very nearly broke the unspoken commandment: Never ask about the border .
    Of course he might have had to kill someone. At the very least, he’d caught runners who’d be sent off to hard labor in the hellish factory farms of Carolina or worse, to clean contaminants along the dead zone of the Keystone spill.
    “I’ll be right back.” He let my foot down gently and fetched his tools. He sat down again as I stuffed my dress between my legs, and his mouth twitched with a smile. “A deep purple boot would look well with that dress, miss.”
    But not much else. “I’d like black, please.” I didn’t say I could afford only one pair which had to go with everything. “I think it’s wonderful that you went for citizenship,” I said.