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immigrants, and it’ll only be a matter of time before the rest of America catches on and demand outstrips supply. With a few adjustments, the Webber brewery can be positioned for mass production.”
    She covered her mouth to hide a yawn. “Well, that’s nice. Everyone should have something at which they excel.”
    Such a simple, practical statement. He found himself smiling. “And for you, it’s perfume?”
    â€œYes, I suppose so. Though I am quite proficient on a velocipede. What about you? What are you good at?”
    â€œMaking money.” He didn’t even need to think on his answer. That was all he’d ever been good at, money and figures. He’d taken over the books at his parents’ farm at the age of nine, including comparisons on the crops to see where the most profit could be turned. By the time he left home at fourteen, the Harper farm had grown to three times its original size.
    Clara frowned, sipped her champagne, but said nothing. Why the disapproval? he wondered. Amassing a fortune required talent, every bit as much as selling perfume. And even from what little he knew of her, the quiet disapproval seemed out of character. “I sense you want to say something.”
    â€œI’m certain you don’t want to hear my opinion. You’re obviously very important at the bank. Who cares what some silly perfume girl from Hoyt’s thinks?” She raised a shoulder, chuckling a little in self-deprecation.
    The dismissal bothered him more than he could have imagined, so Ted reached forward and clasped her free hand, the skin soft and cool under his fingers. The same zing he’d experienced at dinner now raced through his blood, causing gooseflesh to rise under his clothing. “I care. I don’t think you’re silly, and I want to hear what you think.”
    She blinked, her breath escaping in a rush before her fingers squeezed back. His heart began to hammer behind his ribs, the touch causing a prickly heat over every bit of his body. She did not withdraw, merely held his hand and his stare, waiting to see what came next. He hadn’t a clue, but a list of items under consideration ran through his head, none appropriate for an innocent woman.
    He tightened his hold briefly before pulling away. “Tell me.”
    She cleared her throat and smoothed her skirts. “It struck me as a sad answer, that’s all. To hear there’s nothing in your life you are passionate about, nothing you enjoy other than work. That seems a lonely way to live.”
    Nearly wincing, he sat back and finished his champagne in one swallow. Well, he’d asked for her to be honest. Was he lonely? The idea hadn’t crossed his mind before. People surrounded him, whether at the bank, at the clubs, or the servants at his house. But he preferred to be alone. More work could be done without others around. The bank needed him. Not only for the hundreds of workers who relied on him, but the projects he backed. The investments he oversaw. Hard to feel lonely with responsibility pressing so heavily on one’s shoulders.
    â€œFor example,” she continued, “if you had one day to yourself, what would you do?”
    â€œA day I decided not to work?”
    She nodded, and he rubbed his jaw and contemplated the question. What would he do? He never even stayed home due to an illness, let alone took a day to gad about the streets or laze in bed. “I’m not certain. I grew up on a farm, and no one gets a day off there. I guess I’m used to working every day. What would you do with a free day?”
    â€œA free day, wherever I wanted? That’s easy. I would spend the entire day in Central Park.”
    He would have laughed if her expression weren’t so beautifully earnest. “With all the money in the world and any ship, carriage, or train at your disposal, you would spend the day in Central Park? What, walking about?”
    â€œYes.