Annabelle inhaled deeply, trying to restore the natural rhythm of her lungs. Desperately, she hoped that he wouldn’t touch her, that he would keep his promise not to seduce her. Because if he did…God help her…she wasn’t certain that she would be able to resist him.

“Consolidated is the name of your company?” she asked shakily, trying to retrieve the thread of conversation.

Hunt nodded. “It’s the British partner of Shaw Foundries.”

“Which belongs to Lady Olivia’s fiance, Mr. Shaw?”

“Exactly. Shaw is helping us to adapt to the American system of engine building, which is far more efficient and productive than the British method.”

“I’ve always heard that British-made machinery is the best in the world,” Annabelle commented.

“Arguable. But even so, it’s seldom standardized. No two locomotives built in Britain are exactly alike, which slows production considerably and makes repairs difficult. However, if we could follow the American example and produce uniform cast-molded parts, using standard gauges and templates, we can build an engine in a matter of weeks rather than months, and perform repairs with lightning speed.”

As they conversed, Annabelle watched Hunt with fascination, having never seen a man talk this way about his profession. In her experience, work was not something that men usually liked to discuss, as the very concept of laboring for one’s living was a distinct hallmark of the lower classes. If an upper-class gentleman was obliged to have a profession, he tried to be very discreet about it and pretend that most of his time was spent in leisure activities. But Simon Hunt made no effort to conceal his enjoyment of his work—and for some reason Annabelle found that strangely attractive.

At her urging, Hunt described the business further, telling her all about his negotiations for the purchase of a railway-owned foundry, which was being converted to the new American-inspired system. Two of the nine buildings on the five-acre site had already been transformed into a foundry that produced standardized bolts, pistons, rods, and valves. These, along with some parts that had been imported from Shaw Foundries in New York, were being assembled into a series of four-coupled and six-coupled engines that would be sold throughout Europe.

“How often do you visit the site?” Annabelle asked, taking a bite of pheasant cutlet dressed with a creamy watercress sauce.

“Daily, when I’m in town.” Hunt contemplated the contents of his wineglass with a slight frown. “I’ve stayed away for too long, actually—I’ll have to go to London soon, to check on progress.”

The idea that he would soon leave Hampshire should have made Annabelle glad. Simon Hunt was a distraction that she could ill afford, and it would be far easier to focus her attentions on Lord Kendall when Hunt had quit the estate altogether. However, she felt strangely hollow, realizing how much she enjoyed his company and how lifeless Stony Cross Park would seem once he had gone.

“Will you come back before the party ends?” she asked, devoting great concentration to mincing a morsel of pheasant with her knife.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

His voice was very soft. “On whether I have sufficient reason to return.”

Annabelle did not look at him. Rather, she lapsed into a restless silence and turned her unseeing gaze to the window aperture, through which the luxuriant melody of Schubert’s Rosamunde poured.

Eventually there came a discreet rap at the door, and a footman came in to remove the plates. Keeping her face averted, Annabelle wondered if the news that she had dined in private with Simon Hunt would soon be spread through the servants’ hall. However, after the footman left, Hunt spoke reassuringly, seeming to have read her thoughts. “He won’t say a word to anyone. Westcliff recommended him for his ability to keep his mouth shut about confidential matters.”

Annabelle gave him a worried glance. “Then…the earl knows that you and I are…but I am certain that he must not approve!”

“I’ve done many things Westcliff doesn’t approve of,” Simon returned evenly. “And I don’t always approve of his decisions. However, in the interest of maintaining a profitable friendship, we don’t generally cross each other.” Standing, he rested his palms on the table and leaned forward, his shadow covering her. “What about a game of chess? I had a board brought up…just in case.”

Annabelle nodded. As she stared into his warm black eyes, she reflected that this was perhaps the first evening of her adult life in which she was wholly happy to be exactly where she was. With this man. She felt the most intense curiosity about him, a real need to discover the thoughts and feelings buried beneath his exterior.

“Where did you learn to play chess?” she asked, watching the movements of his hands as he set the pieces in their previous formations.

“From my father.”

“Your father?”

One corner of his mouth lifted in mocking half smile. “Can’t a butcher play chess?”

“Of course, I…” Annabelle felt a hot blush sweep over her face. She was mortified by her tactlessness. “I’m sorry.”

Hunt’s slight smile lingered as he studied her. “You seem to have a mistaken impression of my family. The Hunts are solidly middle-class. My brothers and sisters and I all attended school. Now my father employs my brothers, who also live over the shop. And in the evenings they often play chess.”

Relaxing at the absence of censure in his voice, Annabelle picked up a pawn and rolled it between her fingers. “Why didn’t you choose to work for your father, as your brothers did?”