“There is one more shelf, madam. See, up there, recessed just so. I believe some of our older ladies’ guides are up there. I’ll just be a moment.” She fetched the wooden ladder from the back of the store and climbed up, forcibly reminded that she’d never been quite tall enough to reach that shelf, even with the ladder. It had been where her father shelved texts not suitable for her as a young woman. Still, she stretched her body as far as she could reach, from the tips of her toes to the tips of her fingers and found she could just barely hook the top binding of some items, some laced with fine spider webbing. In this position, though, she could not see what she was feeling, couldn’t read the titles and reach them at the same time.
The door chime announced a new customer. She parroted the usual greeting without looking. “Good afternoon. If you seek something in particular, I will be with you shortly, as soon as I have finished helping these gentlewomen. In the meantime, please feel free to explore.” Her eyes were intent on counting the number of books on the shelf up to her prey. She then followed the count with her fingers.
There it is!
“I’ll have your book for you in just a moment, madam.”
Stretch just a bit more.
Every inch of her strained to reach, inching closer to the spot where she could hook the top of the book and yank it out.
“Would service in this establishment be quicker if I assisted?” A male voice, deep and smooth, disrupted her focus. She heard the ladies gasp behind her.
Without ceasing her efforts, she replied, “No, no, sir. Please don’t trouble yourself. I will be right with you. This will take but a moment more.”
One tiny hop ought to do it.
Stretch and hop.
Yes!
She felt the book slip easily away from its neighbors.
That final exertion, however, put her off balance. As the book gave way, the momentum of her pull made her lose her footing. She grabbed for the ladder but found only air. Her hands slipped down shelves without purchase. As she fell headlong toward the ground, she heard a tiny scream and was so startled, all she could do was flail her arms and legs, her eyes shut tight. She’d be lucky if she didn’t crack her skull open on the floor. Wouldn’t that be good for business?
Her breath slammed out of her upon impact. Except she felt not the hard, unyielding wood. Unyielding, yes, but . . . warm . . . and enveloping. She opened her eyes to find herself looking at disheveled but otherwise finely clipped black hair atop a man’s head. She’d landed, it seemed, in a pair of strong hands, and her . . .
bloody hell
. . . her bosom had landed square on the man’s face.
If he wears spectacles, I’ve surely blinded him!
She could feel the warmth of his breath, even through several layers of cotton and wool.
“Margaret, avert your eyes!” Poor Margaret’s mother lunged to block her daughter’s view.
Honoria pushed against the man’s shoulders, very firm and broad shoulders, to disentangle herself but couldn’t find purchase on the ground until he lifted her away and set her down firmly. For a moment, flushed with mortification, she couldn’t speak, although a string of unutterable curses ran through her head.
“My stars!” she said, grasping at the first acceptable epithet that came to mind and trying to recover gracefully. “I . . . thank you, sir. I’m deeply sorry. How clumsy of me.” She focused on brushing dust off of her skirt and found she couldn’t bring herself to look at the man’s face. Her chest tingled from the impact. She caught the mother’s horrified expression and felt an inexplicable bubble of laughter she had to tamp down. Really, the fall was ridiculous but hardly cause for the woman’s scandalized alarm.
“I am always pleased to be of service to a lady in need.” The man’s deep voice dripped with sarcasm. He bent to pick up the
Letters to Young Ladies
, which had fallen out of Honoria’s grasp, and held it out to Margaret’s mother. “I believe this is for you?”
“Thank you, sir. Hmm, it’s rather slight.” The woman was curt but then looked at the man more carefully, her eyes seeking something. “My lord, I believe we have some friends in common.”
“Is that so?” The coldness in his voice could not be mistaken. Apparently, he was not here for random conversation and barely tolerated the distraction. But he was clearly too well-bred to give a cut direct.
“Yes, indeed, sir. Are you Lord Devin? Who was at the Wenthrope dinner last Thursday?”
“I am indeed Lord Alexander Devin, at your service, madam.” He made a polite bow to the mother and then to the daughter. Reputed to be a recluse, the Viscount Alexander Devin’s presence at a society dinner and now at her shop was unusual, to say the least. While Honoria didn’t give much credence or attention to scandal sheets, she tried to keep abreast of a wide range of timely subjects and potential clients of the ton. “I apologize,” he continued, “but my memory fails me. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
“Oh, I don’t think we were formally introduced, your lordship. I am the wife of Mr. Arthur Hayman, and this is my daughter, Margaret.” The Hayman family obviously needed all the etiquette advice they could find; Honoria was embarrassed for them, especially since they didn’t seem to perceive their egregious faux pas. Instead, there was a smooth curtsy from Margaret. The girl’s demeanor had transformed. Like a once-listless puppet set dancing by its master, she came to life, with a delicacy to every motion and a faint gleam in her downturned eye. “She’s ever so talented. She can sing nicely and her needlework is quite fine.” Surely, next, the mother would be showing off her daughter’s teeth. Margaret’s face remained politely impassive, but Honoria noticed the undisguised interest in her coy glances at his lordship, in the tilt of her head and the flutter of her lashes.
And why wouldn’t the girl be interested? Such matches between an older gentleman and a young girl were ordinary, if not expected. Of course, most girls like Margaret wouldn’t want a septuagenarian, but even if Lord Devin were, as she estimated, ten years the girl’s senior, he was a fine specimen of manhood in its prime. He was the definition of a strapping young man—notably tall, broad-shouldered, lean, his face appropriately pleasant and inoffensive. And, of course, he was a viscount, highly prized on the marriage mart. Upon quick assessment, she guessed Margaret’s obvious response to him was not unusual. Here was yet another girl building a Cinderella fantasy in her head. It would be sweet if the story weren’t so unlikely. Many a girl wove such fairy tales for themselves only to find the pumpkin carriage was moldy and the prince was a toad. Or worse, they learned the only reality was the ash heap—no prince, no godmother, just a castle fashioned from dust.
To his credit, Lord Devin didn’t seem to respond in any way to the girl’s feminine wiles. He maintained a consistently superior, mildly sardonic tone and demeanor. Normally, she denigrated such lordly behavior, yet she could swear she glimpsed humor in his eyes when he glanced her way. Yet the mother and daughter either didn’t notice or steadfastly remained undaunted. Then he looked at her directly with a glint of combined mischief and entreaty. She repressed a shiver as she recalled the warmth of his body against hers and responded to his tacit request, though not as he might expect.
“Pardon my interruption.” She had to get back to the business at hand. “But, madam, would you like me to bring your books up to the register for you? So you can continue your conversation unencumbered.” Receiving an affirmative response, she turned to Margaret. “These are all lovely, but perhaps you might also be interested in more entertaining reading. I have here a few titles that are currently popular, including the newer edition of
Wuthering Heights
, the one revealing the identity of the Bell authors.” The girl’s eyes finally tore away from the strapping gentleman and glinted with genuine interest at the reference to
Wuthering Heights
but her mother intervened.
“No, my Margaret doesn’t have time for frivolous reading, I assure you. Ours is a Bible-reading home,” the mother said. “As it is, these prices are steep for honest, upstanding families who have serious financial responsibilities.” More snideness. Honoria prided herself on being a reasonable businesswoman, striving to meet every customer’s needs, whether enlightening or entertaining, and at a reasonable cost; she would endure personal affront but would not let insults to her business go unchallenged.
“I agree, madam. I do strive to keep prices as low as possible and yet still make some kind of living. It is my policy to charge no more than one percent above the publisher prices. It’s a terribly difficult business.” Honoria hoped she kept the venom out of her tone as Margaret’s mother turned her attention back to Lord Devin. She raised a brow fleetingly at him and received an amused tilt of his head as he squared his shoulders to defend himself against the maternal onslaught. As she wrote out the sale back at the register, the little group’s voices ranged and flowed, the mother’s voice always the loudest.
“Well,” said the mother, finally sputtering to an end of her verbal dysentery, “Margaret, come bid Lord Devin a good day. Sir, I do hope you find the ideal gift for your mother. That shee-hair-a-zod, is that German? It sounds quite interesting.” As soon as they’d taken their leave of him, the mother ushered her daughter to the register to collect their purchase. The mother gave what seemed like an inappropriately casual wave of her fingers at the gentleman as they pushed out the door.
The click of the door latching suddenly, inexplicably, made Honoria uncomfortable. She was preternaturally aware of the Viscount Devin, the only remaining customer, striding to the register. He was surprisingly young, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six, but then she caught herself—why should that be a surprise? What, from their limited interaction thus far, would give the impression he was older? His barely restrained disdain for everyone around him, perhaps? Not that such behavior suggested true maturity, just a level of assumption she associated with older men. His black hair still slightly disarrayed from their collision, she felt the impulse to smooth it down. But as she glanced down at her hands, wondering where the devil that thought came from, she noticed the not-so-fine lines on her knuckles, the bagginess of her skin, and she balled up her fists and slid them beneath the counter. Immediately, she berated herself for such vanity and forced her hands to grasp a ledger and place it softly on top of the counter.
Really, Nora! What can you be thinking?
She looked up at his face as he arrived, standing before her with an air of ownership and expectation, as if all the world bowed to his will. As if anything he wanted were his for the taking. Her breasts tingled anew, her skin remembering the contours of his face. She was shocked at her response, unfamiliar and unwelcome. A chit like Margaret could behave fancifully, but that a woman of forty should react in such a way! The human body could be so wayward and pathetic.
Get a grip, Nora!
It was nearly dinnertime. She hoped the young gentleman wouldn’t take long. She still had plenty to do in the back. Obligatory curtsy, professional smile, placid tone. Onward.
“My lord, if you don’t mind my overhearing, if you are interested in the Scheherazade stories, I do happen to have a copy of Edward Lane’s
One Thousand and One Nights
. As you might imagine, I couldn’t stock the twelve-volume French version.”
“The Lane version will be fine. Thank you, Mrs.—?”
By this time, he’d reached the counter, and she had to tilt her head back to look up at his face. Yet her eyes didn’t focus on him, not when her instincts warned her to quell the silly emotions fluttering through her.
“Mrs. Malcolm Duchamp, my lord,” she said, addressing the light fixture beyond his head. “I am the proprietress here. It is my pleasure to serve you. I’ll be right back with your book.”
Before she could step from behind the counter, he said, “If it truly were your pleasure to serve me, you would have come to my aid back there.”
He glanced behind him to follow her gaze, making her self-conscious about her avoidance of him. How rude of her. When she finally looked directly at him, her cheeks warmed at his eyes and his words, yet another unfamiliar sensation. All the air seemed to be sucked from the room. It would be a relief to leave his presence for a brief reprieve.
“Such services are not in my purview. I would happily recommend books to enlighten and entertain; I could perhaps see if there are any specifically regarding how to avoid matchmaking mothers.”
“I could think of other, more entertaining fare.”
Despite his lack of inflection, she read innuendo in his statement but quickly dismissed it as her own oversensitivity based on unfortunate experience. His behavior was really beyond reproach.
“I’ll get that Scheherazade.” She made a hasty retreat to the back room.
When she returned with the sumptuously bound volume, he asked, “Duchamp? How did you come to be attached to Evans Books?”
His query surprised her, adverse as he supposedly was to idle chatter. She couldn’t imagine he would be interested in the lineage of a common bookshop.
“Duchamp is my married name. My father, Sir Samuel Evans, was the owner and operator of Evans Books until he died twenty-two years ago. I served as his assistant for many, many years before taking over the business myself.”
“I see. How unusual for a baronet to go into commerce.” The distaste in his voice was clear. No titled gentleman in his right mind would stoop to the level of a common merchant. “And you run the shop yourself? Independently?”
Hairs at the back of her neck bristled. She nodded, concentrating on writing up his purchase, trying to mask her reluctance to delve into her family history. If he openly denigrated her father, their business acquaintance would be short indeed.
“You don’t employ any help? What of your husband? Does he take an active role? Does he approve of your activities?”
She shook her head at the rush of questions, at the audacity of his inquiry, having difficulty focusing on the numbers in front of her and adding them for the third time in a row. When she managed to separate his questions into individual pieces, she said, “I fail to see how my shop could be of such interest to you, my lord. I can assure you that I run it impeccably. I have a delivery boy in the afternoons. That is my only help, but it is quite manageable for me. As for my husband and his approval . . .” Here she worked very hard to temper her annoyance at his impertinence and presumption. After all, it wasn’t unusual, given her circumstances. “My husband passed many years ago.”