I Thee Wed by Celeste Bradley Page A

wick.”
    â€œWhat?” Orion took the two-inch white stick from herfingers and turned toward the window, holding the thing to the light. It was stiff and hard, not at all like a flexible cotton wick. It was also somewhat translucent.
    â€œThis is made of glass!” He looked down at her, affronted. “Is this some sort of trick?”
    She smiled brightly. “Wouldn’t that be clever of me? But alas, I did not do this to taunt you. This is merely how Sir Geoffrey prefers it to be done. In warm weather, the tallow softens, and the wicks can slip down beneath the surface. Sir Geoffrey came up with a way to prevent it. We make the flame bowls with these glass picks in them to keep the hole free.”
    She turned to the shelf where the burn bowls were stored and pulled down a small tin box that Orion had overlooked. Her small hands flipped it open with the ease of long practice and held it out for his view.
    He peered in to see neat lengths of wick, precut and looking waxy with tallow, ready to use.
    â€œGo on,” she urged, her laughing eyes on him. “They won’t fight back.”
    Orion regarded her sourly but reached into the box and took a wick. The stiffened length of it slid neatly down into the hole left in the tallow, leaving just the right amount free to light and then trim as needed.
    â€œThe ones you used yesterday were set out for you in advance, with the wicks inserted.” Francesca closed the tin and returned it to the shelf. “It’s very clever, really. This way the bowls are always perfectly ready to use, and the wicks never take on the damp.” She stepped back and gazed about the laboratory with a slight, thoughtful frown. “My uncle can be so ingenious . . . sometimes . . .”
    Orion turned back to his table full of failed “combustion.” With an unaccustomed embarrassment, he recalled the last three-quarters of an hour he’d spent trying to light glass sticks on fire. Now that he’d closely examined one, it was perfectly obvious that they were not cotton wicking, but cool, gleaming silicate sticks.
    He’d been neatly tricked, after all, but only his own lack of observation was to blame. “‘The devil has the power to assume a pleasing disguise,’” he quoted ruefully.
    â€œ
Hamlet
, Mr. Worthington?”
    â€œAct two, scene two,” Orion added without thinking.
    â€œOh, you are dour! Do you honestly think Shakespeare is appropriate at a time like this?”
    She was laughing at him again. He knew that if he turned, he would see her bright eyes and that smile that seemed to dance ever ready at the corners of her luscious, summer-rose lips.
    Then she finally seemed to notice the destruction his quest for fire had caused. The table was spattered with spilled tallow and scorch marks, while nearly a dozen bowls he had tampered with sat muddled and contaminated with ash.
    With a gasp, she stepped next to him at the table. “You cad! You brute!” She had her fists plunked onto her sweetly curved hips. “Very well. When it is time to render more tallow,
you
can help Judith cook and strain the nasty stuff three times to purify it!”
    â€œJudith makes the flame bowls?” Orion frowned. “Herself?” Judith seemed far too refined to take on such a menial task.
    Francesca blinked. “Ah. Well, yes . . . but perhaps you might refrain from mentioning that to Sir Geoffrey. He is under the impression that she orders them special from the chandler. Unfortunately, Sir Geoffrey kept finding fault with the man, and then the bills—well, Judith found it simpler to refill the bowls at home and reuse the glass stems. She says that way she can be sure Sir Geoffrey will be satisfied.”
    Rendering tallow was a foul task. Orion felt a stab of guilt at his wastefulness. “Miss Blayne is a very caring and dutiful daughter.”
    â€œMiss Blayne is a slave,”