Quickly taking command of her fellow students, Rose worked hard at setting it to rights.
The job of clearing the destruction of the arena was overwhelming. Rose rolled up her sleeves and hiked the skirts of her oldest dress to tuck into her waist, then she and the other students dug in. There was simply so much!
After two exhausting hours, there was still a pile of wreckage in the middle of the floor and the water-soaked straw and canvas mess that used to be the mat was only partially lifted.
Rose was doggedly mopping a corner of the arena where the lowest level of the uneven floor had collected the most water. This corner had held the rack of dummies that she had just carried out to be carted outside of
London
and burned. Around her the other students attempted to tug the mat aside, calling conflicting commands to one another and getting nowhere. Then a familiar deep voice among the others made Rose turn her head.
Collis strode into the mucky arena in his pristine suit of clothing and with his kingly air and took over. Perhaps Rose ought to have been irritated by his easy assumption of authority, but she was just so bloody glad to have his help that she didn't care a whit.
Within moments, he had the male students organized into a line that went up the winding cellar steps and the shattered wreckage of the chandelier was hoisted bit by bit, hand to hand, clear to the alley behind the school in a matter of minutes.
She watched him with reluctant admiration as he directed the younger men. He didn't simply hand out commands, but he tossed his jacket and waistcoat aside and dirtied his elegant shirt carrying the sooty, charred, soaked debris tucked into the crook of his bad arm. It didn't take long before he was as dirty as the rest of them.
It only made him more handsome, damn it. His thick dark hair fell over his brow in a mess that made Rose think of running her fingers through it. His fine shirt was soon streaked and wet and it clung to his broad shoulders and muscled chest like a lover's hands.
Distracted from her mopping, Rose watched him as he passed his burden up the line, making those muscles ripple and flex before her eyes. Her mouth went dry. He didn't look like a lord now… and yet he did, more so than ever.
She could imagine him at the Etheridge estate, right out in the fields with the cottagers, or perhaps doing something highborn and manly with elegant long-legged horses… or something tiring and heated that would require him to doff his shirt on a summer's day.
The sun would shine on him—the sun always shone in the country, at least in her imagination—and his skin would glisten golden in the light and he would call to her—
"Rose?"
She jerked back to the moment, blinking rapidly and, yes, fry it, swallowing the saliva that had collected in her mouth at her stimulating thoughts. Collis stood before her, the real Collis, who would tease her mercilessly should he ever discern her thoughts—or, worse yet, would pity her impossible, inappropriate yearnings. She cleared her throat. "Um, yes, what?"
He grinned. "Woolgathering? You? Can't be."
"No! I was… I was thinking of a way to get the mat out to the alley as well." She had been earlier, anyway. "I think we ought to cut it up and stuff the lot into sacks, so we don't drop straw throughout the school."
He nodded. "Good idea. I'll send someone for sacks. In the meantime…" He reached one hand toward her. Bemused, she watched it come. What—?
Collis took her mop from her grip, tucked it under his bad arm, and reached for her hand with his other one. He turned it over and frowned. "I thought so."
She ought to snatch her hand back. She ought not to let him touch her, it interfered so with her thinking. Instead, she left her hand where it was, cradled in his as he peered down at her palm.
"You've given yourself blisters," he said accusingly.
"I have not!" Now she snatched it back. "I don't get blisters. My hands work hard."
"Not anymore," he
The job of clearing the destruction of the arena was overwhelming. Rose rolled up her sleeves and hiked the skirts of her oldest dress to tuck into her waist, then she and the other students dug in. There was simply so much!
After two exhausting hours, there was still a pile of wreckage in the middle of the floor and the water-soaked straw and canvas mess that used to be the mat was only partially lifted.
Rose was doggedly mopping a corner of the arena where the lowest level of the uneven floor had collected the most water. This corner had held the rack of dummies that she had just carried out to be carted outside of
London
and burned. Around her the other students attempted to tug the mat aside, calling conflicting commands to one another and getting nowhere. Then a familiar deep voice among the others made Rose turn her head.
Collis strode into the mucky arena in his pristine suit of clothing and with his kingly air and took over. Perhaps Rose ought to have been irritated by his easy assumption of authority, but she was just so bloody glad to have his help that she didn't care a whit.
Within moments, he had the male students organized into a line that went up the winding cellar steps and the shattered wreckage of the chandelier was hoisted bit by bit, hand to hand, clear to the alley behind the school in a matter of minutes.
She watched him with reluctant admiration as he directed the younger men. He didn't simply hand out commands, but he tossed his jacket and waistcoat aside and dirtied his elegant shirt carrying the sooty, charred, soaked debris tucked into the crook of his bad arm. It didn't take long before he was as dirty as the rest of them.
It only made him more handsome, damn it. His thick dark hair fell over his brow in a mess that made Rose think of running her fingers through it. His fine shirt was soon streaked and wet and it clung to his broad shoulders and muscled chest like a lover's hands.
Distracted from her mopping, Rose watched him as he passed his burden up the line, making those muscles ripple and flex before her eyes. Her mouth went dry. He didn't look like a lord now… and yet he did, more so than ever.
She could imagine him at the Etheridge estate, right out in the fields with the cottagers, or perhaps doing something highborn and manly with elegant long-legged horses… or something tiring and heated that would require him to doff his shirt on a summer's day.
The sun would shine on him—the sun always shone in the country, at least in her imagination—and his skin would glisten golden in the light and he would call to her—
"Rose?"
She jerked back to the moment, blinking rapidly and, yes, fry it, swallowing the saliva that had collected in her mouth at her stimulating thoughts. Collis stood before her, the real Collis, who would tease her mercilessly should he ever discern her thoughts—or, worse yet, would pity her impossible, inappropriate yearnings. She cleared her throat. "Um, yes, what?"
He grinned. "Woolgathering? You? Can't be."
"No! I was… I was thinking of a way to get the mat out to the alley as well." She had been earlier, anyway. "I think we ought to cut it up and stuff the lot into sacks, so we don't drop straw throughout the school."
He nodded. "Good idea. I'll send someone for sacks. In the meantime…" He reached one hand toward her. Bemused, she watched it come. What—?
Collis took her mop from her grip, tucked it under his bad arm, and reached for her hand with his other one. He turned it over and frowned. "I thought so."
She ought to snatch her hand back. She ought not to let him touch her, it interfered so with her thinking. Instead, she left her hand where it was, cradled in his as he peered down at her palm.
"You've given yourself blisters," he said accusingly.
"I have not!" Now she snatched it back. "I don't get blisters. My hands work hard."
"Not anymore," he
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