Page 34 of The Spinster & the Sock

“Oh, that. It’s slang for ‘spinster’. Particularly one who is likely to lead other young ladies straight to hell,” I reply absent-mindedly, dangling a threaded needle between my fingers and contemplating the pile of orders I have to finish. I lean over the arm of the chair to a basket where a half-sewn bodice is folded neatly, awaiting my attention, when a bang on the door to the modiste sounds muffled up the loft stairs.

“Who could that be?” Before I can rise to go see, Blaze trots down the steps and reappears a moment later with a sealed letter, which he hands to me.

“It’s from Mama,” I groan, breaking the seal and unfolding the message.

Josephine,

Any excuse you might have for missing your own family’s masquerade is no doubt trivial compared to the shame we shall endure should we be forced to explain your absence with apologies for your ‘mountains of work’.’It is a tribulation indeed for one’s daughter to have been a spinster, but must we bring attention to your deficiencies—so graciously excused thanks to your father’s title and money—by reminding the ton that you and your husband have chosen the life of the working class?

You are expected within the hour, or your father has bidden that your allowance shall be reduced to reflect the needs of the lifestyle you are so eager to make your reality.

Hopefully,

Mama

I crumple the letter between my fists and toss it towards the hearth, missing the flames entirely. The pitiful note bounces and lands by Blaze’s foot. He leans forward, retrieves it, and looks at me. “May I?”

I flicker a sidelong glance and nod my approval before pacing the floor, vigorously smoothing the front of my skirt. Blaze steps across the room to grasp my shoulders, and I center my gaze upon him.

“We don’t need their money—Jo, look at me.” He tips my chin upwards and I see a genuine smile on his face. “She can huff and puff; she can withdraw your allowance; but she can’t take away your accomplishments. And frankly, if your mom wants to have a tantrum over a party, let her. She is only embarrassing herself.”

I release a shaky sigh, and the tension dissolves from my body. He is right. These little threats have always come. They have been my mother’s way of controlling me, and I usually ignore them. This time should be no different. If anything, I wish to attend her party even less, and desire to protect myself and Blaze from their judgments. “Very well,” I agree. “Her feathers are ruffled now, but I am sure she will come-to before they depart for the country.”

My haze of anger has not yet settled as Blaze moves back across the living area, fills two glasses with port, and motions for me to sit. “Josephine.” His use of my full name, paired with the haughty tone in his voice makes me pause, and I hesitantly lower to my chair. “What you need is a good dose of rebellion.”

“Don’t you think I have had my fill?” I gesture vaguely to the room, to the modiste below, and consequently, my entire existence.

“Not by a long shot.” He smirks wickedly and begins dividing the wooden chips, as he calls them, into two piles. “Bottoms up, darlin’. We’re playing strip poker.”

Blaze is shirtless before I realize he was serious about the ‘remove an article of clothing’ part of the game. I wonder if this is a strategy in his time, people in a state of undress distracting their opponents from the cards, for as hard as I try to focus on playing the right hand, I can’t seem to avert my gaze from his hairy chest long enough to make an educated decision on a game I am truly not skilled in enough to be risking nakedness.

“Hah!” Blaze presents what he calls a full house compared to my three of a kind consisting of sixes. My mind, clouded with port, buzzes as he gestures eagerly. “Take it off.”

With a nervous shake of my head, I say with a breathless laugh, “I don’t think I care to play any more. I thought you were being facetious about the taking-off-clothes part.”

Blaze’s grin softens, and he leans back in his chaise. “Okay, if you don’t wanna strip, that’s fine. How about this? If you beat me, I’ll still remove something, and if I win, you tell me a story. I’m eager to win so that you’ll spill the beans about the incident at the Winthrop ball, and you’re eager to win so you can see what big boys are made of—strictly from a professional standpoint, of course.” He winks, then rambles on about the benefits of nakedness and the disadvantages of booze, and I watch as he deftly deals another round.

“Winthrop ball?” I clarify, and he grins up at me.

“Yeah, you said you didn’t want to make a fool of yourself at a Winthrop ball again. I would bet my lucky socks that it’s a good story.”

“Oh.” I lean away from my chair. “That was months ago, Blaze.” I chuckle and take the cards he hands me. “It really isn’t worth betting over,” I assure him. “It was right around the time I opened the modiste. People weren’t sure if they were to give me the cut or not. So you can imagine my shock when he asked to dance. I laughed at the poor gentleman and explained to him he might wish to be careful, for dancing with me would surely ruin his reputation.” I blush to remember my words. “I assured him waltzing with a lightskirt may–”

“Lightskirt?”

“A prostitute. I told him engaging with a prostitute would be worse, but at least it would be a wiser investment of his time, for I had no intention of abandoning my pursuit of the dreaded spinsterhood.”

Blaze erupts in laughter and arranges his cards in his hand. “In other words, dancing with you wouldn’t result in a boink, but a hooker would do the horizontal tango.”

“I have no idea what that means,” I laugh. “But probably.”

It turns out, a few more hands in and I am not half bad as poker, for twenty minutes and two more glasses of port later, Blaze sits before me, arms stretched along the back of the chaise, wearing nothing but his undergarments, a striped pair of form fitting briefs as he calls them, and one single sock. He has an ankle propped on a knee, and he’s lazily staring at the cards in his grasp. I can not, for the life of me, read his expression. Nevertheless, my senses are vibrating with the effects of the port, and his almost nakedness. It’s a recipe for disaster.

His hand on my thigh.

The kisses.

His body behind mine in our bed.