I Thee Wed by Celeste Bradley

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    In the pristine environs of Sir Geoffrey’s laboratory, no such dirt was allowed. The burning bowls were of glazed ceramic, filled with pure, white tallow. A stack of ready-made ones sat on the shelf, all set for use.
    The only problem was, Orion couldn’t use them.
    He had tried to start the first few with a flint starter, but had given up and lighted a candle, using a splinter of wood to bring the candle flame to the virgin white wick of the burning bowl. Nothing had worked.
    Orion was a patient man. He could watch a boiling beaker for hours or stir a compound together, adding one crystalline grain at a time. Reminding himself of his previously famous patience did little good as he stood filled with frustration before an array of unsuccessful attempts.
    He was a learned man. He was a brilliant man. He could do elaborate sums in his head, without the need of chalk and slate. He could quote facts and figures, and yes, Shakespeare, without ever doubting his accuracy.
    However, without fire, he was as powerless to do research as was the earliest cave dweller! He took a deep breath, held yet another wood splinter in the candle flame, and when it was burning, brought it to the short wick emerging from the center of the glazed bowl of fine white tallow.
    The wick made a slight crackling sound, just as it had many times before, but it did not take the flame at all. Orion persisted, holding the flame on the wick, while the wooden splinter burned to black charcoal, dropping chunks and bits into the tallow-filled bowl.
    â€œLight, damn you!”
    â€œHaving trouble with your wick?”
    Orion turned to see Miss Francesca Penrose in the doorway, leaning one shoulder on the door frame with her arms folded. Her pose gave the impression she’d been lounging there for some time, watching him fail. Amusement danced in her dark eyes as she smirked at him.
    â€œDon’t worry,” she consoled him mockingly. “Many people do. Inability to reach full combustion could happen to anyone.”
    His jaw clenched in annoyance. It was bad enough that she’d caught him in such a disadvantageous moment, but whenshe said things like that, perfectly innocent things that made him think decidedly not innocent thoughts, he knew she was laughing at him.
    Her mockery just made his sexual frustration worse.
    No, wait. I meant my performance frustration.
    Oh God no. I meant my inability to combust—I mean, light my damned wick!
    Bloody hell!
He closed his eyes briefly. “I had no trouble with it yesterday. I will make it light.” His tone came out gruff from a throat that was nearly shut tight with the sudden onslaught of lust.
    She let out a small snort. “No, you truly won’t.” She dropped her insouciant pose and strolled toward him.
    Her approach brought the scent of summer in with her, the grassy smell of the freshly cut lawn she’d just crossed mingling with her own warm orange-blossom aroma. He breathed her in despite his unwillingness, for to refrain drinking her in at every opportunity would take more self-control than he possessed.
    â€œI can help you with your flame,” she said.
    Oh yes. Please, set me afire!
    She came quite close, as if to oblige his questing senses. For a long, sweet moment of dream-induced fantasy, he thought she meant to press against him.
    To the disappointment of a large part of him, she merely reached around him to his latest unlit burner bowl and picked it up with one hand. Holding it high where he could see it, she reached her fingers to grasp the scorched but unburned wick—and plucked it completely free of the tallow.
    His jaw dropped at such rudeness. “It will never light now!”
    She let the hand holding the bowl drop slightly and held the length of wick, pinched between her thumb and forefinger, insultingly close before his gaze. “It was never going to light,” she said slowly, as if to a simpleton. “It’s not a