The Lady and the Mill Worker

By Lisa Torquay

Includes bonus erotic novella!

The Lady and the Mill Worker

Some like it rough!

Lady Emma Stapleton was assigned by her brother, the Earl of Worley, to save the earldom. Though she hasn't volunteered, her task is to marry the richest mill owner in the land and siphon the resources to save the earl. And like sheep walking to the slaughter house, Emma travels to her intended's mansion to accomplish her mission with dutiful intent. Only she hadn't counted on colliding with one portentous mill worker capable of dismantling everything she thought right and heat her insides in the process. But her allegiance must be to her lineage and rank even if giving him up feels like tearing her own soul.

Edgard Lynch has been working in that bloody mill since he was eight. Embittered by a life-long exploitation, he has no illusions and even less hope. Yet, when Lady Emma bursts into his universe, she shatters it to its last grain of dust. She's not to be touched, but he'll throw ranks and decency to the blazes if it means he can lose himself in her kisses.

The Lady and the Solicitor

A lady on fire!

Eleanor, recently widowed Lady Bradford, married her much older late husband under her parents' pressure. But the deceased Lord Bradford didn’t deliver in the bedchamber. Free from her burdens, Eleanor set out in search of a paramour that would fulfil the desires she'd only glimpsed during her marriage. She looked around her circle with little success. Until her bland, watered-down solicitor gave signs that a fire burned beneath his impersonal stance. Curious, she decided to peel his insipid surface and his insipid clothes to discover what lay beneath them.
At twenty-eight, Walter Gresham inherited the solicitor's firm from its former owner. He's desired Lady Bradford from the first moment he lay eyes on her. But he has a physical condition that prevents him from consorting with decent ladies. As Eleanor literally corners him, he's about to succumb to his rapacious hunger even at the risk of having her flee from him in horrified scorn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Torquay
• Release date: Sep 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005818319

Lisa Torquay

Lisa Torquay comes from a multi-cultural family. She graduated in History and earned a Master’s Degree in British Empire. She has worked as an English and History teacher at high schools. She married a Norwegian and moved to Norway, where she has lived for three years. Writing has been her passion since she was thirteen. When she’s not writing, she’s messing up in the kitchen because she loves cooking as much as she’s clumsy. She hopes you enjoy her books and would love to know your opinion about them. Just go to www.lisatorquay.wixsite/main

Book preview

Table of Contents

The Lady and the Mill Worker

Table of Contents

The Lady and the Mill Worker

Copyright

Dedication

From the Back Cover

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Epilogue

Table of Contents

The Lady and the Solicitor - Erotic Novella

Copyright

Dedication

From the Back Cover

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Epilogue

Preview of The Lady and the Bricklayer

Ladies & Strays

About the Author

Connect with Lisa Torquay

Other Books by Lisa Torquay

Copyright

The Lady and the Mill Worker

Copyright 2021 Lisa Torquay

Published by Lisa Torquay

Edition License Notes

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favourite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Editor

Robin Pentecost

Cover Art

Jo Singleton

Dedication

To the Indians, who gave up their cotton.

To the Brazilians who gave up their gold.

So, England could have its Industrial Revolution.

From the Back Cover

Some like it rough!

Lady Emma Stapleton was assigned by her brother, the Earl of Worley, to save the earldom. Though she hasn’t volunteered, her task is to marry the richest mill owner in the land and siphon the resources to save the earl. And like sheep walking to the slaughterhouse, Emma travels to her intended’s mansion to accomplish her mission with dutiful intent. Only she hadn’t counted on colliding with one portentous mill worker capable of dismantling everything she thought right and heat her insides in the process. But her allegiance must be to her lineage and rank, even if giving him up feels like tearing her very soul.

Edgard Lynch has been working in that bloody mill since he was eight. Embittered by lifelong exploitation, he has no illusions and even less hope. Yet, when Lady Emma bursts into his universe, she shatters it to its last grain of dust. She’s not to be touched, but he’ll throw ranks and decency to the blazes if it means he can lose himself in her kisses.

Warning: Contains a bit of foul language as is typical of lower classes.

Chapter One

Manchester, 1821

I must stop at once, The middle-aged woman across from her said in a rather strained voice.

Eyes that had been on the window, blind to the scenery passing by it, turned to the other traveller.

But we’re just minutes from arriving, Mrs Dodson. Emma Stapleton answered her chaperone. They’d been on the road long enough; their destination couldn’t be far.

They perched in a carriage travelling from the vicinity of Lancaster to Manchester. Although the trip didn’t count so many miles, they’d stopped a few times to refresh themselves and the horses.

I don’t think I can wait. Mrs Dodson insisted. Wrapped primly in a grey wool dress and cloak, she’d been quiet for most of this last stretch.

At that moment, the older woman carried a distressed expression on her plain face. Of course. Emma yielded and knocked on the carriage’s roof.

Not that Emma was in a hurry to arrive. Not at all. She’d sat in this carriage hoping they’d never make it. But the distance and the weather wouldn’t cooperate. The previous week, Thomas had taken care of the last details concerning her future. This trip served for her to make good on that. To arrive in Manchester and become betrothed to a man she’d yet to meet, Percy Russell. As a guest in his sumptuous home— as far as the Earl of Worley and esteemed brother had described it to her—they were to become at least acquainted before the sentence became a true prison, namely, her wedding. The transaction was simple by all accounts. Impoverished old aristocracy marrying new money. Cotton mill money at that. Big money, big cotton mill. One of the biggest in the realm, Thomas, her beloved brother, emphasised with an undisguised tone of victory.

And so, Emma drove to the gallows. A slight delay wouldn’t make any difference in her gloomy destiny but would give her a few moments to breathe and prepare to meet her husband to be. She remembered her fellow debutantes imagining their matches and the dreamy way they talked about them, as though heroes and princes were a thing of reality. Emma scoffed to herself. She’d like to know why people said that fairy-tale nonsense to girls like her when the stories would prove to be blatant lies. Was she to write one of those, she’d make the princesses have an arranged marriage none to their liking and learn to deal with it as though they drank watery tea. In a prosaic, chore-wise, tasteless manner. Perhaps Emma wouldn’t detect this sour sensation in her throat right at that moment had she been properly warned of the facts of life. Sour, yes, as in once sweet, now stale, ruined.

The carriage lurched to a halt and, through the window, Emma descried a tavern outside right on the corner of two narrow streets. The sun, tilted near the horizon, cast warm shades on the shabby establishment. Since she’d never been to Manchester, she couldn’t tell what part of the city they were in.

Oh, thank goodness. Mrs Dodson pronounced already preparing to alight. Emma would also stretch her legs.

Out in the street, the driver accompanied the older woman while the footman stood by Emma’s side out at the crossing. Taverns weren’t meant for ladies, which made the servants vigilant. After all, Emma would soon become the key to a treasure chest. One that was famously larger and fuller than those of fairy-tales.

Emma peered around as men in simple attire entered the place. Apparently, the workday had ended, and they gathered here. Having made its rounds, her gaze parked nowhere in special. That was when she saw him. He leaned against the far side of the tavern, by its window, arms crossed as if he waited for someone. Under his cap, a few dark brown locks showed in the setting sun as the play of light and shadow made the angles on his face sharper. From here, about twenty yards away, she discerned his low-quality attire, of an undefined drab colour, that clad a tall, fierce frame of thick arms and long, solid legs, a man used to physical toil. His head turned this way and that until the sun caught his eyes. And Emma caught her breath. They brought to mind forests and waterfalls: the shade between moss and seaweed. The irises glittered in the fading light among long lashes.

Her jaw must have slackened because rarefied air passed through her lips. And stopped. Her breath stalled as she admired his magnificence.

Those wandering pieces of forest found her, found her dropped jaw, stare right on him. And made a detailed, lazy cataloguing of her. From ribbon-tied bonnet, down costly travel-dress to fine boots; to repeat the route all the way up, those eyes clasping on hers. A shiver ran over her, sowing goosebumps in its wake. Her nerves thrummed, her midriff flipped, and colour heated her skin.

At her reaction, the man produced a side-smile. It came peppered with mockery and a pinch of disdain as if her admiration only confirmed some conviction she couldn't fathom.  His tall body pushed from the wall, a firm hand held his cap as he took it off and bowed exaggeratedly, clearly scorning a gentleman. But the gesture revealed shiny brown hair combed back in short waves. He straightened, and the light fell on raw, almost brutish features of taut jaw and slashing cheekbones.

Emma had no chance of crafting a reaction, none at all. She merely stayed put, petrified by his striking handsomeness, by her reaction to him, by his attitude towards her. Heart racing, breath faltering, thoughts jumbled, only her eyes seemed to function properly as she absorbed every single detail of the man.

I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting, Lady Emma. Mrs Dodson’s apology wrenched Emma from her mesmerised state as her head twisted to the older woman. Thomas had preferred to call on a distant cousin for the task of chaperone rather than accompany her himself. She’d have felt more supported if he had. Perhaps he’d sought to avoid witnessing his part in sending her to the scaffold.

Don’t worry about that. She said, trying for a smile that came brittle. I hope you’re feeling better.

Mrs Dodson gave a relieved smile. Indeed. And ready to proceed.

Emma’s eyes wished so keenly to turn back to the man on the corner to drink in his coarse looks, but she made a conscious effort to avoid it. She had no business gawking at other men on the way to becoming betrothed to the salvation of her brother’s earldom.

In less than half an hour, the carriage crossed a bridge over a river that flowed abundantly under it. A few yards ahead, wrought-iron gates stood open as the vehicle crossed it, and an entirely new setting opened before her eyes.

In the distance, an enormous brick building rose tall, counting so many windows it resembled a board game of some sort. Around it, a bustle of activity with men, women and children carrying all manner of materials in and out of the brick walls, crates, coarse-cloth-wrapped bundles, and tools. The impression Emma had was of an anthill in full preparation for winter. She’d never seen so many people in drab clothing gathered in one place.

But they passed it by to climb up a hill that disclosed a sumptuous mansion. A three-story construction with wide windows on either side of a magnificent portico in classic style, complete with Dorian columns under a triangular roof that sheltered an eight-feet high white entrance. If she were to live here, she supposed it looked comfortable enough. The solace sounded poor to her ears.

As the carriage halted in front of it, the double doors flew open revealing a butler and two footmen, the latter scrabbling down the ten-step stairs to receive the passengers. Emma took the hand one of them offered and made an effort to plaster a smile on her lips and move with the grace her dance teacher browbeat in her from a tender age.

Miss Stapleton, the butler intoned with a bow. He couldn't have missed the Worley coat of arms on the carriage side. Mr Russell awaits you in the drawing-room.

Her hands lifted her skirts as she climbed the steps. Thank you, she murmured in a refined tone when she walked past him, followed by Mrs Dodson.

He motioned her in the right direction. In the periphery of her gaze, she registered marble floors, silk wallcoverings, bronze statuettes, upholstered furniture, and fine art hanging in the hallway. The house left nothing to be desired by the most exacting nobleman. It also told of aspirations to belong to the haute society, the very thing she’d bring to this marriage. By her side, her companion gawked openly at their surroundings.

The butler halted by a polished oak door to spread it open. Inside, more luxury greeted Emma.

A tall man stood by the fireplace dressed in the latest fashion. Dark blue tailcoat, paired with pantaloons, snowy shirt and cravat, and Hessian boots. Farther in the room, two people stood by settees.

Lady Emma, the tall man strode to her with a bland smile.

In his early thirties, he presented dark hair combed back that crowned slashing brows, dark eyes, cutting jaw and wide lips. Well, as Princes Charming went, Emma supposed this one fit the bill. But his looks called to nothing in her and left her cold. A flash of the man at the tavern popped in her mind. As Princes Charming went, that one was as far removed from it as the moon from the catacombs of Rome. Emma pushed her sarcastic thoughts to the back of her mind, even if a jolt crossed her nerves at the memory of him.

Mr Russell, she breathed out as she extended her hand to him. Her husband-to-be bowed over it elegantly.

My chaperone, Mrs Ruth Dodson. The older woman and the man traded nods.

Allow me to present my mother, Mrs Russell. He moved his arm towards the elderly woman and another young man by the settees. And my cousin, Jonas Russell, responsible for the mill’s bookkeeping. He made it a point to be here today.

Meaning that a real lady consisted of reason enough for them to come and stare at her like cattle for sale at a market. Welcome to the bourgeoise world! She scoffed inwardly. Not that she considered herself above them, but their attitude conveyed that they considered themselves deserving of deference. And how was that any different from the ton? It wasn’t, clearly. Hiding her none too ladylike impressions, Emma responded properly to the introductions.

My dear, Mrs Russell called. Come and have some tea. You must be weary from your trip.

She wasn’t. If anything, the trip had been too short. It would have been too short even if she travelled to the South Seas and back.

With a mild grin, Emma nodded and neared the settee Mrs Russell showed her.

Fuck! Edgard Lynch swore while the bell clanged as though it tolled in his very bed. The first light of dawn as yet impossible to see from his underground one-room cottage and its tiny window. He turned on his back under the worn-out bed linen, intent on surfacing from his ever-insufficient slumber.

The mill’s wake-up call resonated in his eardrums insistently. One of these days he’d smash that shit until it became a mass of unrecognisable gnarled metal!

Muscular hands tore off the covers as Edgard obligated his body to sit up, hands rubbing his sleep away. A wide yawn separated his sensuous lips when he stood to yank off the nightshirt and pad barefoot to the wooden basin on a stand by the window.

He hadn’t gone to bed late yesterday, far from it. Kathy, a girl of twenty-five who worked with him, and he had meant to meet at the tavern for a meal and a tumble the previous evening, but she’d not shown up. He and the girl preferred to meet outside the mill to avoid the inevitable talk that would ensue. Instead, he’d been treated to a vision of a lady by a carriage with some coat of arms on it.

Even now, still hazy from sleep, he could recall her gut-punching beauty. A glimpse of mahogany hair under her bonnet, amber eyes glinting in the setting sun, and a defiant pointy chin was all he could see from where he’d stood. But it’d been enough to cement him to the ground with some stupid sort of a mesmeric spell that got him annoyed with himself. Since when, did he find those silly toffs anything to look at. To gawp at! Soon enough he’d shaken the pointless reaction and made sure he bowed to her in a way that made evident what exactly he thought of those upper-class snorting bastards. He threw icy water on his face to dispel the memory.

His fingers reached for his clothes thrown on a chair and he started dressing for the day. Not that he had that many choices among the few sets of clothes available to him. Jerkily, he put on his non-descript, ill-fitting breeches, the second-hand shirt that had seen better days, the faded neckcloth tied with the ends hanging under the shirt, and the gross woollen coat that he’d shrug off as soon as he entered the mill, all finished with the wrinkled half-boots. The cap came last, and he adjusted it as he gave the three paces to the threshold.

Ready for the day, he shoved the scratched door open and clapped up the stairs to the village’s main alleyway to join the crowd heading for work. A sleepy, quiet, head-bent crowd that couldn’t be described as eager for another repetitive toil.

At the line to receive their tasteless breakfast, the infallible hard porridge slapped on their hands, Kathy approached him and fell into step with him looking ahead. Short and skinny, she dressed like all the other women worker here. A grey cotton cap around her tied brown hair, a woollen dress of undefined colour, a shawl over her shoulders crossed at the front, then knotted at her back so as not to stand in the way of her arms, plus cheap slippers.

Sorry for yesterday, she whispered to the wind. I had to do… overtime.

Rage bloomed in Edgard. When it came to the women in this mill, ‘overtime’ meant only one thing.

Who? he barked under his breath.

It doesn’t matter, she answered before biting into a portion of the porridge.

Edgard would bet a year’s wage that the floor overseer, Fleet, had everything to do with this. For months he’d been preying on the women—and even on the young apprentices, none of them over seventeen. No one dared to sound the alarm on him for fear of retaliation, or worse, unemployment.

Together with the porridge, Edgard tried to swallow his anger. Like the breakfast, it went down in a lump only harder to digest.

Inside, the workers positioned themselves at their posts. The river supplied the energy to roll the mill that moved the machines. As they started, the noise produced was unlike anything any human being had ever heard. Continual, mechanic, and unpleasant, Edgard never ceased to become weary of it. Regardless, it had been part of his life since he turned eight and came to Manchester to be an apprentice; and live in the apprentice house containing boys and girls of all ages sleeping in wide separate dormitories and receiving education after hours of labour. It felt very much like an orphanage.

At thirty, he stood as one of the oldest workers here. Twelve hours of forced physical effort, low wages and an unhealthy environment didn't favour longevity. He'd be happy if he lasted to his thirty-fifth birthday.

Edgard spent the next several hours operating the machine, pulling the creel of lined bobbins back to stretch the threads and pushing it forward to fill the bobbins further. When he pulled, the children, boys, and girls, crawled under it to clean the frame off the lint and the leftovers of the operation. If he took his eyes off it for a second, everything might go to hell, accidents a common occurrence around these machines.

The air on the floor was stuffy as ventilation came scarcely, dust and lint flying all over the place, making it none too healthy to breathe.

Why are these brats so slow? Fleet shouted over the noise as he oversaw Timmy and Sally crawl under the frame. Both lived in the Apprentice House. Timmy was six and Sally seven.

Both small ones startled and looked up at the overseer while Edgard still moved the heavy creel. Edgard halted and straightened; he’d do anything for these young not to suffer an accident. He’d seen so many dead and maimed by these meat mincing machines, the memories bitter and enraging.

You’re not to stop your job, Lynch! Fleet screamed again. A man in his forties, dark hair balding, scarce greying beard, and haggard features.

Edgard crossed his arms and bore his steely gaze at the other man. You distracted the children. I'm not continuing until they're safe. The menacing low timbre was unmistakable even with the noise.

What do you care? Fleet spat, chin lifting as though he was big shit. You lot breed like rabbits! Not that he stood above the lot he referred to. He'd also grown up in the apprentice house. He'd only lived long enough to escape the machines.

But Edgard didn’t take the bait and remained where he braced his legs. Both men battled with their stares for long seconds. At last, Fleet lowered his and returned to his task, possibly afraid to be caught wasting time.

Thank you, Edgard, Sally mouthed to him, both children out of the frames now.

You little devils, be careful, he warned as the boy and the girl nodded eagerly.

They all resumed the punishing cycle of pulling, cleaning, and pushing.

A stir at the entrance drew the attention of everyone. From this far, Edgard turned his head to see a group of people walking in, among them, the venerable owner of this slavish den, Mr Percy Russell. Of similar age, Edgard and Percy had grown up on opposite sides of the fence. The old Mr Russell had passed two years ago, leaving Percy to reproduce the old structure with new blood. The group moved and into the light of one window, a bonnet appeared. Not any bonnet. A damned expensive one.

Mr Russell’s wife-to-be, I hear, Susan Willow, one of his mates who worked side-by-side with her husband, murmured to a teen girl apprentice. Russell House’s cook told my mother she arrived yesterday.

Oh, so the rich boy came to show off to his seemingly equally pampered intended. Edgard would have nothing to do with it. He returned to his machine and concentrated on his work. These people lived in a world of their own, and he didn’t belong in it. Nor did he wish to.

Edgard didn't have to look to know that as Russell advanced, the apprentice girls and working women curtsied to him as though he were some bloody nob. This utter subservience got to him as nothing else did.

How many people do you employ here, Mr Russell, Melodious, cultured, the woman’s voice wafted to Edgard’s ear.

About five hundred at last count, Percy didn’t hide his pride.

That’s impressive, an older woman’s voice chimed in.

And here’s Lynch, one of our most proficient members. Russell’s hand rested on Edgard’s shoulder.

Edgard began to turn to look Percy in the eye and give a none too subservient retort when his gaze collided with her. The lady from the tavern. Words and thoughts evaporated into the dust he breathed all day long. But the sour taste in his mouth doubled. Tripled. So, she’d be part of this whole scheme then. Good for her. He stared at her hard and detached.

These toffs could go to the blazes for all he cared.

He was about to go back to work as Russell spoke again. Edgard, please meet Lady Emma, sister to the Earl of Worley. The usual noise had abated, with everyone interrupting their frenetic activity to observe the party intently.

Naturally, a woman couldn’t be a person in herself, she had to be the wife, sister, or daughter of someone.

Edgard summoned his scattered wits and behaved much like he did at the tavern. He tore his cap and bowed exaggeratedly at her, affecting a stretched leg as if miming an Elizabethan actor. Enchanted, my lady, his voice came too guttural for his taste, even if with a drop of disdain.

As he straightened, he met with flushed cheeks and pursed lips that told him she knew exactly what he was doing. Suddenly, everything fell away and there were only the two of them in that giant place. His attention delved into those amber eyes as the light from the windows shot them through to make them resemble almost feline. He didn't blink, neither did she.

Yet, she covered her reaction soon enough and produced an impersonal smile. Mr Lynch, It reached him breathy and warm as his attention dropped to those rosy pieces of sin. The fuller upper lip seemed to be the perfect match for the thinner lower one, while he imagined ways to make the lower one wet and swollen with the right ministrations.

Come, my dear, Russell interrupted the wordless communication. There’s so much I plan to show you. And offered her his arm.

Taking Percy’s arm meant she had to come closer to Edgard. Twisting a little sideways, she fussed with her skirts. See you at the theatre, Mr Lynch, she murmured, a pinch of sarcasm seasoning her words.

Damned if Edgard didn’t want to throw his head back and laugh his heart out. This wasn’t a woman to trifle with. A twinge of respect pulled at him at the perception. Whoever would have foreseen that a lady would make his grumpy, embittered person want to burst with mirth?

Emma tore her bonnet off in the act of entering her assigned bedchamber with a sigh of relief at the much-needed reprieve. The door firmly closed, she paced to the window where the view of the back garden beyond the terrace received her with open arms. Quiet and restorative.

Her day had been… strange. In the distance, a bell rang continuously right before dawn. Upon inquiring, a maid informed her it was the call for the workers to start their day. Should any of them fail to show they received severe punishment. From then, she’d lay awake until the time for breakfast.

In