by Shana Galen
“Excuse me,” she whispered, looking down so he had a view of the top of her head of golden hair. She’d pulled it tightly back and secured it at her nape with a black comb.
“If you would release me, sir?”
Lucien released her as though she were poison and stepped away. “I apologize. I didn’t realize—”
“No apology necessary. Excuse me.” She moved toward a small round table of books in the center of the shop, her black skirts swishing as she moved.
Lucien returned to his shelf of poetry only to find someone else had taken his place—a woman with a bonnet trimmed in yellow flowers and a black net veil over her hair. He could not see her face. He turned to occupy himself with the novels until such time as the lady moved on, but the shelf of novels was also occupied by a tall well-dressed gentleman and a woman in a dark green redingote. He thought he recognized the woman as the shopgirl from Markham’s Print Gallery, which was situated just next door. She often watched the bookshop when Miss Merriweather was away on an errand, and she’d always been kind to him.
The shop was damnably crowded now that the holidays approached. Lucien took a book from a shelf he’d already searched and looked through it in order to appear to be shopping. He wondered about the woman he’d bumped into earlier. She must have been a widow to be dressed in such severe black without any adornment. Was she one of the many women who frequented the shop, or was this her first visit? He did not recall having seen her before, not that he paid much attention to the shop’s patrons. He was engrossed in searching the books. He continued his search, ignoring the slight headache from lack of food and drink. Lucien withdrew another book, examined every page, then replaced the volume. Before he withdrew the next, he glanced behind him, hoping he’d see the Englishwoman in black again.
***
Cassandra hurried home through the cold, wet streets of London. The day had barely begun, but the sky was as gray as twilight. Worse yet, fog stole in and began to blanket the streets, making everything even grayer and darker.
“Watch your step, my lady,” Riggersby, her footman, called over his shoulder. He walked slightly in front of her to lead her through the dense fog. Usually, he walked behind her, but today she needed his help navigating the way back to the town house. “Almost there, my lady.” His tone was full of censure, and he had every right to be cross with her.
Riggersby and Vidal, the butler, had both suggested she take the coach to the shops, but she hadn’t wanted to go to the trouble. At least that’s what she had told them. The truth was, that even after nearly three years as Viscountess Ashbrooke, Cass did not feel comfortable ordering grooms from their warm quarters solely for her pleasure. And she certainly did not want the poor horses out in this foul weather. Riggersby would have taken issue with that opinion—not ostensibly, of course. But she would have read the thoughts on his face: Not want the poor horses in the foul weather? What of the poor footman?
She longed to return home and sip a cup of hot tea by the fire. She was almost completely frozen, inside and out. The only part of her that retained any degree of warmth was her shoulders, where he had touched her.
A prince had touched her!
Ridiculous notion, she knew. The man was no more a prince than she was a fairy. She’d overheard the shopgirl and her friend speaking of him. Clearly, they did not believe him a prince. Equally clearly, he did believe himself one.
Which made him quite mad. Weren’t all the handsome ones mad, though? She’d seen portraits of Byron, and he was quite handsome and, many argued, quite mad.
A man moved aside to allow her to pass and lifted his hat to her. Cass wondered if she knew him, but she could not pause to study him, else she would lose Riggersby. She hurried on, happy to huddle in her pelisse and muff, her head down to keep her face out of the worst of the wind.
Of course the man in the bookshop had not been a prince, though she could certainly picture him in that role. He had all that dark hair and olive skin paired with a face that would have made a sculptor weep. No sculptor would have been able to capture the eyes, though. That color was so terribly unusual and so absolutely breathtaking. She’d seen him in the aisle and moved into it because she wanted a closer look at the “prince,” but when he’d caught her and she’d looked into those eyes, she hadn’t been able to speak or even breathe.
He must think her an absolute ninny, if he thought of her at all, which she doubted very much. In the meantime, she could still hear his voice, slightly accented when he spoke, and feel his strong hands burn through her dress.
Her ugly dress. Widow’s black because her husband had died fourteen months before. She should be ashamed of herself for thinking of another man—lusting after another man—as Euphemia, her late husband’s sister, would have said. And Cass was ashamed.
Mostly.
“Here we are, my lady,” Riggersby said, indicating the steps leading to the front door. He allowed her to climb them first, then rapped for her. The door opened, and Vidal blinked at her with his large owlish eyes.
“You have returned, my lady. Miss Ashbrooke has been worried.”
“Oh?” Cass handed Vidal her muff. “Riggersby was with me.”
“Is that Cass?” a feminine voice called.
“It is I, Effie. I’m returned and quite well.”
Effie moved as quickly as a woman with two canes might, then stopped short when she spotted Cassandra. “Why, you are frozen through! Do come sit by the fire.” It was not so much a request as an order, and Cassandra complied because she was quite cold and desperately wanted the fire.
And because she always did whatever Euphemia told her. Cass did what everyone told her. She was meek and malleable and all but mute in company. As a child, it rarely, if ever, occurred to her to object to her parents’ dictates, even when they dictated whom she might marry.
That was how she, a merchant’s daughter with no title or connections, ended up a viscountess. That was also how she’d found herself married to a man forty years her senior, who had been more like a grandfather than a husband to her.
Euphemia was almost sixty herself now, and when Norman had passed away, she had slid into his place, eager to order Cass about as she saw fit. Although only two years shy of thirty, Cass was not allowed to express a single original idea. No idea was worthwhile unless it was Effie’s idea first. Cass had wanted to dress in half-mourning a year after Norman’s death. Effie insisted on full mourning indefinitely. Cass had wanted to acquire a cat or a dog, some sort of pet to keep her company. Effie claimed animals were far too dirty to keep inside. Cass had asked the cook to make more-flavorful meals. Effie had objected, saying anything stronger than bland potatoes and boiled beef bothered her stomach.
The few friends Cass had made among the wives of other peers when Norman had taken her out had long since abandoned her. When they came to call, Effie was so unpleasant, they did not return. Cass never went out in Society anymore, and so she saw no one and did nothing of interest.
Some days she wished she had died when Norman had.
But not today. Today she had been touched by a madman who thought he was a prince—that was certainly more exciting than anything else that had happened in the past two years.
Cass followed Effie into the small parlor where they often took tea in the morning. It was not a particularly cheerful room. It had been designed to allow the sunlight to warm and brighten the space, but Effie had decorated it with heavy brocade drapes that were closed unless Cass was in the parlor alone. The furniture was old and worn, upholstered in a faded olive green fabric. Cass would have preferred something lighter and airier, but though she was the lady of the house and should have been allowed to decorate the parlor as she desired, Effie had shown so much resistance to any change in the parlor or the entire house, Cass had not dared.
Now Effie rang for tea and ordered a maid to stoke the fire and bring her a blanket for her lap and a shawl for her shoulders. Very soon, Cass was no longer frozen. Indeed, she
was far too warm.
“Girl!” Effie said to the maid. “I am still cold. I told you to stoke the fire.”
“Yes, miss.”
Effie scoffed. “It is so hard to find good help these days,” she said to Cass, who wiped her forehead with her handkerchief. She could not be cross at Effie for being cold. She was so thin and bony, much like her brother had been, whereas Cass was much shorter and rounder. Her hips, touted as perfect for childbearing, had been one of the qualities that recommended her to the viscount, who’d needed an heir. Her hips and her father’s money.
Alas, she had not borne him an heir, but her hips were still ample.
“Did you find the thread I wanted?” Effie asked.
“Yes, I did. I found the thread and the fabric. I think you will be able to remake the hat nicely.”
“Good.” The tea arrived, and Effie prepared it for both of them. Although Cass had said time and again that she preferred it black or with only a dash of milk, Effie made both teas with copious amounts of milk and sugar. Cass found it nearly undrinkable.
“And where else did you go?” Effie asked, eyes narrowed over her teacup.
Cass thought about lying, but Effie would only ask Riggersby, and then she would be found out. “I went to the bookshop.”
“Which one?”
“On the Shelf,” Cass said quietly.
“Eh? Speak up! None of your mumbling.”
“On the Shelf.”
“Why ever would you go there? It’s the haunt of spinsters.”
Cass wanted to point out that she was, for all intents and purposes, a spinster and so was Effie, but she knew better.
“I wanted a book,” she said simply.
“A book?” Effie leaned back and blew out an exasperated breath. “We have books here.”
She’d read all the interesting books, and those that remained were dry texts on botany or mapmaking. But what did Effie care, as she never read? That had been the one interest Cass and Norman had shared.
“Well?” Effie demanded.
Cass blinked at her.
Effie sat up in exasperation. “What book did you buy?”
“I...” Cass closed her mouth. “I didn’t buy one. I...forgot.”
It was the truth. Seeing the prince had made her forget everything, and then she’d been so embarrassed by her clumsiness, she’d just wanted to escape. She couldn’t reveal any of that to Effie.
Effie stared at her with a look of disgust. “Well, I suppose my brother didn’t marry you for your mind.”
Chapter Two
She was in the bookshop again. She’d come twice in the past ten days, and although they hadn’t spoken, he’d seen her come in and known when she departed. Now he looked for her daily. He had a simple life, and it was a small matter to add one more task to his routine—wake, buy a bun or an apple for breakfast if he had the coin, if he had no students he’d go to the bookshop, search the stacks, look for the woman, buy soup or broth if he had coin, find a place to sleep.
These days he did not have enough coin for food and lodging. Most of his students were in the country for the winter. Now that it was cold, he usually chose lodging. He’d always preferred clean, well-tailored clothing, and even as a boy he hadn’t liked to be dirty. Of course, he enjoyed playing as any boy might, but he never argued about the bath he had to take as an inevitable result of tromping through mud. Now baths were a luxury he couldn’t dream of, but he found he could manage well enough with water, soap, and a clean cloth.
As for food, he was always hungry. Often, he met his students in coffeehouses. Those sessions were torturous because he could smell the delicious stews bubbling in the kitchen but could not partake. Some of his students preferred to meet at their lodgings, and they usually offered refreshment. Lucien was grateful for their generosity. He had not lowered himself to stealing. He was still too proud to join the ranks of common thieves.
The bookshop was crowded this morning. The sleet and freezing temperatures had given the city a brief reprieve, and all of London seemed to want to brave the chilly weather for the chance at feeling the sun on their skin. Lucien had also realized Christmas was near. A smattering of laurel, rosemary, hawthorn, and bay had sprung up outside homes and shops, and he’d overheard people speaking of their plans for the holiday. Of course, families wanted to be together for Christmas. Lucien tried not to think too often about family, and the subject of family Christmases was one forever banned from his mind. If he thought of all he’d lost, he might decide not to go on, and he had no choice but to go on.
Something in the air around him changed, and he looked up from the book whose pages he’d been turning. She had stepped near the shelf where he stood and appeared to be studying the volumes at the other end quite intently. She probably had not seen him at this end, and even if she had, she would not remember their first meeting.
He looked back at his book, but as he did so, he thought he saw the flick of her gaze in his direction before she resumed staring at the volumes on the shelf in front of her.
Lucien’s heart hammered rapidly. He could not have said why. He was no whelp, inexperienced with women and shy. When he’d been a prince, he’d had to fight the women off. That was not a problem in London, where most probably saw him as little better than a beggar. If women looked at him at all, it was with pity in their eyes.
But Lucien did not think it was pity he’d seen in that brief glance.
He finished the book he was searching, replaced it, and withdrew another. As he did so, he cut his eyes to the petite blond woman again. He did not know her name, but he had heard the shopgirl call her my lady. She was obviously a woman of some consequence and, judging from the black crêpe and broad hem of the gowns she wore every time he saw her, a recent widow. He pretended to peruse the first page of the volume he held, but his attention remained on the lady.
She was no great beauty. He had seen great beauties in his life, more than he could count. She was not tall and regal with a slender, willowy form. She was no taller than his youngest sisters, but she was no girl. Her widow’s weeds could not hide the lush curves of her body, accented as they were by her small waist.
Her hair was a lovely golden color, though he had never favored blondes. They always looked too pale and lifeless for his taste. Of course, they were not usually blessed with such lovely blue eyes. Those were the widow’s best feature, even hidden behind the spectacles. He’d caught a glimpse or two of them, and they reminded him of happier days under warm, sultry skies.
Best not to turn his attention to memories. He could not dwell on the past or all that he’d lost. Instead, he would concentrate on securing his future. He spent the next quarter hour engrossed in his work, though he was constantly aware of her presence just a few feet away. Gradually, she moved along the shelves until she was only two or so arms’ lengths away. Lucien knew it was folly to hope that she might wish to become acquainted, but his heart raced nonetheless. How he craved conversation with another, real conversation, not pleasant greetings or discussions on verb conjugation.
She didn’t look at him again. Her gaze remained steadfastly fixed on the books on the shelf before her. Lucien might have spoken to her, but he did not want the shopgirl ejecting him for disturbing the lady patrons. So he did not speak, though he was excruciatingly aware how long they had been in the same aisle and every single movement she made.
Her hands were small and her gestures graceful. When she read, she tended to cock her head to the left as though pondering the words. And now that they were closer, he thought he’d caught her scent. He knew the smells of the bookstore, of the wood polish and smoke from Mr. Merriweather’s pipe, which meant the light, floral scent must be hers.
Unless he imagined the scent, which he did not think an impossibility. It had been so long since he’d been in close quarters with any woman who might have the means to purchase fragrances or bathe frequently, he might have misjudged.
The scent grew stronger, and Lucien h
ad to restrain the urge to inhale deeper. He also forced his head to remain bent, his attention on the history text he held open. He wanted, desperately, to look at her, and because he wanted it so deeply, he would not give in. Everything he’d had, everything he’d wanted, had been taken from him. Desire was dangerous, and he would not give in.
Thud.
Lucien’s head snapped up when the book hit the floor. For a moment, he thought he’d knocked a book from the shelf.
“Oh dear. Pray, excuse me,” the lady said. Her hands were empty. Before she could bend to retrieve it, Lucien had scooped it up. He held it out to her, his eyes touching on the title: Agriculture in the Roman Empire.
“It is no trouble.”
She took the book, and Lucien wondered if he only imagined that she had dropped the book on purpose.
“You have a lovely accent,” she said.
He tightened his mouth to keep it from curving into a smile. He had not been mistaken. She had wanted to speak to him. Probably too shy to approach him directly, she’d engineered this meeting. The flush in her cheeks testified to her shyness, but she was not so meek as to allow this opportunity to pass by.
“I might say the same to you,” Lucien said.
Her brow furrowed, which had the effect of wrinkling her small nose. “I don’t understand.”
“Your British accent is lovely.” He smiled. “You see, to me, it is you who has the accent.”
She stared at him for a little longer than was proper before finally lowering her eyes. “English is not your native language.”
“It is not, no.” He knew she wanted more, wanted him to answer with detail, but then the conversation might end too soon.
“What is your native language?” she asked.
Oh, he liked her. The boldness of her question made her delicate skin turn from pink to red, but she was brave enough to pose it anyway. He wondered if her nipples were as pale pink as her lips and if they flushed red when she was aroused. The thought was wildly inappropriate and absolutely lecherous, but he was a prince, not a saint.