The Marriage Lesson by Victoria Alexander

traveled upward to a determined profile and eyes that gazed at the contrivance in front of him with something akin to love.
    “She?” Marianne said curiously.
    He grinned a lopsided grin and looked down at her. “Ships are always shes. Why not a printing press?”
“She’s as cantankerous as a woman, I give you that,” the elf muttered, stepping around them.
    “Don’t mind him.” He turned back to study the press. “So what do you think of her?”
    “Me?” She looked at the contraption. “It’s—”
    “She.”
    “She’s quite . . . ” she groped for the right word, “impressive.”
    “That she is. She’s steam-powered, you know. The newest thing and my own design.” He ran a hand along the metal frame. No, he caressed the frame with the affection of a lover. “She can print a thousand pages an hour.”
    “Really?” Surprise sounded in her voice. “I had no idea. That is impressive.”
    He nodded with satisfaction and turned toward her. “Now, then, how may I help you?”
    “Help me?” For a moment she’d forgotten why she’d come. She stared at a muscled chest barely concealed by a thin, well-worn shirt scandalously open at the throat. She’d never seen a man this revealingly attired before. Most improper but interesting nonetheless.
    “Miss?”
    Her gaze jerked to his and heat washed up her face.
    He smiled down at her. “Not that I’m at all averse to visits by attractive ladies, but do you have business with me? I’m Ephraim Cadwallender and for all intents and purposes this is my place.”
    “You are Mr. Cadwallender?” As much as she hadn’t expected him to look like an elf, she didn’t expect someone quite so imposing. “Of Cadwallender’s Weekly World Messenger ?”
“At your service.” He bowed slightly. “And you?”
    “Miss Smythe. I wrote to you?”
    “Of course.” His gaze flicked over her and at once she realized he knew it was not her real name. “Of the not-so-adventurous Adventures of a Country Miss ?”
    She bristled and handed him her writing. “It’s rather more adventurous now, I should think.”
    “We shall see.” He started toward the back of the shop. “Come into my office while I look at this.”
    The office was a small room dominated by a large desk butted against one wall, and not much else in the way of furnishings save a couple of wooden chairs and a tall precarious bookshelf. It was as cluttered as the main room and just as stifling.
    He sat down at the desk and gestured to the other chair. It, too, was buried under mounds of papers. Apparently if she wanted to sit, she’d have to clear it off herself: Cadwallender was already perusing her work. She sighed and delicately picked up the stacks of papers—billings, they looked like—and plopped them on the floor in one of the few bare spots she could find. Then she dusted herself off, perched on the edge of the chair and waited.
    Cadwallender skimmed the pages she’d given him, his dark hair, a bit longer than was fashionable, falling over his forehead. He let out a long low whistle. “Is this all true?”
    “Does it matter?” she said without thinking. “Not that it isn’t true, but, as I discussed in my letter, I wish to remain anonymous, and—”
    “It’s of no consequence, really. Truth or fiction, what you have here is quite intriguing.” He studied her for a moment. “This country girl of yours, then, is it you?”
She hesitated for a moment. “Yes, of course it’s me. These are my adventures. My experiences.” More or less.
    He raised a brow. “I don’t particularly care one way or the other as long as the stories are good. And I like what you have here. It’s exactly the type of thing my readers want. I don’t suppose there’s the possibility of a murder in your adventures?”
    She started. “I scarcely think so.”
    “Pity.” He shrugged. “Readers like a good murder as much as they like a good scandal. Probably more.”
    “I shall keep that in mind,”