by Shana Galen
“Glennish,” he finally answered. “Though I speak English, French, Gaelic, and a fair bit of Italian.”
“Oh.” She looked down at the book she now clutched tightly to her breast. Lucien feared he’d said too much.
Finally, her eyes fastened on his face again through spectacles that were just slightly askew on her nose. “I fear I am terribly ignorant. What is Glennish?”
“It is the language—”
The lad who was often in the shop shelving books and assisting customers passed by, then doubled back after he saw Lucien and the lady in conversation. As her back was to the lad, the lady did not see him, but Lucien saw and interpreted the lad’s glower perfectly. Lucien was allowed to warm himself in the store and peruse the volumes all he liked, but he was not to accost the patrons.
Lucien looked back at the lady before him. As much as he wished to continue to speak with her, he could not risk it. “Excuse me,” he said. Placing the volume back on the shelf and noting where he had left off, Lucien made a quick bow and walked away. He strode all the way to the door of the shop and out onto the sunny street.
The weak light warmed him, and the breeze invigorated him. Or perhaps it was the attention from the lady. For a moment, he felt human again, not one of the countless masses populating London.
He would always remember her for that kindness, one she couldn’t possibly realize she’d bestowed.
He did have one regret. He did not even know her name.
***
Cass stared at the book in her hand, some dusty volume about Rome, and sighed. What had she done wrong? Why had he left so abruptly? Oh, she was such a ninny to think that a man like him would want to speak to her. He was all tawny skin and broad shoulders, and those sensuous eyes. She’d never used a word like sensuous before, but she could not think how else to describe his eyes. When he looked at her, she felt warm all over.
And when he’d smiled...
Lord, she’d thought her legs would fail her. He was the most handsome man she’d ever met, and the first man she had ever wanted so much that she’d dared to approach him. Now she’d had her brief interlude with him, but it was not nearly enough. She wanted more.
She couldn’t have more—not because Society forbade it. She was a widow, and Society would look the other way if she chose to take a lover.
The very thought of such wanton behavior made her blush with shame.
But, of course, Effie would not allow such a thing, and Cass did not have the freedom to engage in such a liaison without Effie knowing. Freedom such as that would require her to stand up to Effie, to cause conflict. Cass could think of nothing she disliked more than conflict and discord.
She sighed, feeling despondent despite the pleasant mood she’d been in when she awoke this morning and knew it was another day when she could make an excuse to go to the bookshop. If she went too often, Effie would chastise her. She turned, intending to find a novel to purchase so she would not return home empty-handed, as she had the first time she’d met the mysterious man.
“My lady?” a man said from behind her.
Cass glanced over her shoulder.
“I am sorry to trouble you. I could not help but notice Mr. Glen was speaking to you.”
So that was his name. Mr. Glen. It was not a particularly foreign name, which made him all the more mysterious.
“Yes,” she said, forcing the volume of her voice beyond a whisper. “I dropped a book, and he was kind enough to retrieve it for me.”
“I see. I worried he was troubling you.”
Now Mr. Glen’s abrupt departure made perfect sense. By engaging him in conversation, she’d jeopardized his place here. If he truly came every day, as she’d heard the shopgirl remark, perhaps he had nowhere else to go. And he did appear to be looking through each and every book for...something. He’d left rather than risk being asked to leave for accosting her.
How awful that she’d placed him in that position, when it was she who’d accosted him.
“Thank you for your concern, but he was not troubling me at all,” Cass assured him, perhaps a bit too forcefully. “He was very proper and polite,” she added.
The clerk nodded slowly, as though he saw right through her to her real motive for speaking with Mr. Glen. “Very well, then. Is there anything I can help you find?”
“Oh yes. I want something exciting. Perhaps Frankenstein or Mandeville?”
The clerk gave her a wan smile. “Of course.”
Walking home, Riggersby behind her with her packages, Cass tried to devise a plan to speak with Mr. Glen again. The only location where she knew she could find him was the bookshop, and yet, if she attempted to converse with him there, she was doomed to failure. He would most likely leave as abruptly as he had today. But what if she could arrange a chance meeting with him outside the bookshop? She had to assume he spent all day inside the bookshop, which meant if she arrived when the shop was closing, he would be leaving. She could ask him to escort her home.
Except she had Riggersby to escort her. Cass looked over her shoulder. She had to find a way to escape Riggersby.
Throughout dinner and Effie’s tedious droning on and on about every single ache in her bones, Cass considered. One might have said she schemed, but she had never schemed in her life. She was merely trying to arrange to speak with a friend.
Not that Mr. Glen could be considered a friend... yet.
“Cass, are you listening?” Effie asked, staring at her across the gleaming wood table. Although it was only the two of them, Effie still insisted they dress for dinner and indulge in at least four courses. Effie had very little appetite, so most of the food went back to the kitchens.
Cass did not think the servants minded.
“Of course,” she lied. “I was thinking we might ask Allen to make you a tonic. It might relieve some of the discomfort.”
Effie nodded approvingly. Her maid was known to use brandy liberally in her tonics, and Effie loved any excuse for her brandy. “That is an excellent suggestion.”
Cass smiled. It was so rare that Effie gave her any sort of compliment that she almost felt guilty for not having truly listened to all of the woman’s complaints. She would listen diligently tomorrow.
Effie was eager for her tonic and retired early, which meant Cass could also escape to her room. She still resided in the viscountess’s room—Effie had not been able to justify taking that for herself—and it adjoined the viscount’s room. The master’s room was empty now, all of the furnishings draped in Holland covers. It would likely never be occupied again, considering Norman had had no heir, and his will stipulated that in the event there was not an heir, the house was Cass’s until she either died or remarried.
Not that she would ever remarry. What man would want to marry her?
Content to wait until Allen had finished with Effie, Cass curled up on the bed and opened Frankenstein. She didn’t see the words, though. Instead, she tried to remember what it had felt like to have Norman in the bed, lying beside her. She tried to remember a time when she hadn’t been alone.
Norman had not visited her bedchamber often, but he’d come often enough that no one could accuse him or her of not having done his duty for the title. But he grew ill only six months into the marriage, and then he was mostly confined to his bed.
She’d spent all day and many nights nursing him, reading to him, talking with him. She hadn’t loved him, but she’d had an affection for him. He had been a kind man who had treated her well. She suspected that in his estimation she had been like a loyal dog. One allowed it inside, allowed it to rest by the fire, and fed it scraps from the table. One felt affection for it, patted its head, but when it finally passed away, one went on with one’s life and acquired another pet.
She’d slept with Norman, spent his last moments with him, held his hand through the worst of the pain before he’d passed into unconsciousness, but she’d never really known him. They’d both enjoyed reading books, but as to his other passio
ns, he’d never divulged them, nor had he asked about hers. Or perhaps he had, but she had none to speak of.
Now he was gone, and she would sleep in this bed alone for the rest of her life. She’d never know true passion or what it meant to be in love.
The very thought depressed her—and made her all the more determined that her plan to spend an hour with Mr. Glen did not fail.
Chapter Three
She’d waited for him outside.
Lucien knew what time the bookshop closed, and although he did not have a watch, he knew the closing routine. He did not like to be asked to leave and made certain he was always out of the shop before such a request became necessary.
He trudged out, disheartened that his search had been as fruitless today as every other day, but buoyed by the knowledge that it had not started to rain while he’d been inside. Perhaps he could sleep outside tonight and use the little coin he had to fill his belly.
“Mr. Glen?”
He turned at the tentative voice, half certain he had imagined it. She stood beside the shop window, her bright hair the only relief from the darkness of her widow’s weeds.
He covered his surprise with a bow. “Good evening, Miss—Lady—I’m sorry. You have me at a disadvantage.”
“My fault entirely,” she said with a look over her shoulder. “We have not been formally introduced. I am Lady Ashbrooke.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said. “I’m afraid the bookshop is closing.” He nodded to the door he’d exited. He could hear locks rattling as they were put in place.
“The bookshop?” She seemed to wake from a dream then. If he’d been the arrogant man he once was, he would have attributed her distraction to himself. But here, in his tattered clothing and unkempt hair, he could not fathom why she would speak to him, much less find herself flustered after staring at him.
“Will you walk with me, Mr. Glen?” Another furtive look over her shoulder. Was she looking for someone, or was she fearful someone might be looking for her?
“Of course.” He could not allow her to walk about London unprotected. He offered his arm. She took it and all but pulled him away from the bookshop in the opposite direction of the way he’d wanted to go. But of course she was for Mayfair, while he would have ventured west and into the city’s rookeries.
“You must think me terribly forward.” This was said with her head bowed and her cheeks flushed pink.
“I worry you do not have a footman to chaperone you.”
Another look over her shoulder. “Yes. I seem to have lost Riggersby. Perhaps you might escort me home.”
“I...” He couldn’t refuse to assist a lady in need, but he did not wish to walk all the way into the heart of Mayfair. It would take hours to find a place to sleep, and he did not like walking in the rookeries after dark.
She opened her pelisse and produced a small package wrapped in brown paper. “I just bought these currant buns, but now I find I am not very hungry. Would you like them?”
Lucien’s mouth watered at the very thought of currant buns. He’d take her to the ends of the earth for one bite. “I cannot possibly eat your food,” he said, his voice strained with the effort it took to refuse.
She looked up at him, her eyes very blue behind her spectacles. “Oh, then I suppose I could give them to a beggar—”
He snatched the package from her hands. “I don’t want them to go to waste.” Good God, he was only human, after all. He struggled not to rip the paper open as they walked, but he could smell the yeast rising from the package and feel the warmth from the bread. These were freshly baked. His head felt light with anticipation. As they were on Piccadilly now, he did not have the luxury of distraction lest she be jostled or both of them become victims of pickpockets.
“Why don’t we stop at Green Park so you might enjoy them while they are still warm?” she suggested.
He liked that suggestion very much, especially as they had almost reached the park. “I wouldn’t want your family to worry.”
“Oh, I’m not expected home yet.”
Interesting. “Won’t your family worry when the footman returns home without you?”
She sighed and turned to him. “Mr. Glen, may I make a confession?”
He raised a brow. The woman grew more interesting by the minute. “Of course.” He gestured toward Green Park, now visible down the length of Piccadilly. “No one should have to confess all in the melee of Piccadilly. We shall find a park bench.”
They strolled along the street until they reached the park, stopping when they found an unoccupied bench. Though it was not raining, the clouds hid the sun, and the park was all but empty. He allowed her to sit and took a standing position beside her to better see the park and any ruffians who might approach.
“Will you sit?” she asked.
“I prefer to stand.”
“Will you at least eat the currant buns before they grow cold?”
That he would do. “Would you like one?”
“No. I’m not at all hungry.”
He could barely remember what it was like not to be hungry. Lucien struggled to take small, civilized bites of the buns. Still, he finished the first far too quickly. There were three in all, and he vowed to savor the last of the three.
“I suppose I should confess and be done.”
Her voice was small and whispery, and he glanced away from the two remaining buns and at her face. It was as red as the falcon on the blue flag of Glynaven. “I promise to be a very lenient priest. The world needs more of them.”
“Are you Catholic, then?” she asked.
“Only on the Continent.” He rested a foot on the bench and leaned an elbow on his knee. “What is troubling you, my child?”
She smiled at his mock-serious tone. “I’m afraid I did not actually lose my footman.”
“I am shocked.” He did not even blink.
“I actually sent him on an errand so I might have the chance to meet you.” It hardly seemed possible, but her face reddened further, and she looked down at her lap.
“Appalling,” he said in a monotone. He had not been wrong in assuming she’d sought him out. Perhaps he did not look as bad as he thought. That illusion lasted only as long as it took him to look down at his scuffed boot.
“It is, isn’t it? It’s just that I heard Miss Merriweather talking about you, and she said you were a prince. I suppose I was intrigued.”
“I can hardly blame you.”
She glanced up at him, probably trying to determine if he was in jest. With her face flushed pink and her eyes so large, she looked quite pretty. “You must think me very silly.”
“Not at all. Does that mean you believe what Miss Merriweather said?”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
A breeze blew, ruffling his hair. “Oh, come now, Lady Ashbrooke. That is a very diplomatic reply. What happened to the forward young woman I met earlier?”
“She’s gone back into her shell.”
That, he could believe. Lady Ashbrooke did not strike him as a woman who took many risks, which made it all the more surprising that she’d approached him. She must be terribly curious. Why not reward her?
Why not satisfy his own curiosity in turn?
“I will tell you the truth about who I am if you promise to return the favor.”
Her pretty eyes widened. “You want to know about me?”
“Of course. If I tell you something about me, you must tell me something of yourself. That is only fair, after all.”
“I suppose.”
“Do not fret, my lady. I will not seek out all your dark secrets.” Her lips curled in amusement at that remark. “I will give you leave to ask me three questions, and in turn, you give me the same privilege.” This was not a new game to him. He’d played it often at the royal court.
Lady Ashbrooke took her time to consider. The woman was no fool.
“Very well,” she finally agreed. “How do we begin?”
He really should have been thinking of where he would sleep tonight. Instead, he rewarded himself with another bite of currant bun. “You ask me a question, and I must answer truthfully.”
“But you also have three questions.”
He smiled. She was definitely no fool. “Ladies first.”
She looked down at her hands again, considering her question. Lucien was disappointed to find his second currant bun gone and even more disappointed to realize he missed seeing her face. When she looked up again, her cheeks were once again pink. “My first question is, are you really a prince?”
He should have known she would ask that, and he was bound by honor to answer truthfully. “I am. I am Prince Lucien Charles Louis de Glynaven.” He gave a little bow, which was more theatrics than courtesy, and was rewarded by her smile.
“Glynaven? I looked it up after you mentioned the language. It’s a small country on the Continent. Was there recently a revolution?”
“There was. My father was overthrown as king, and I barely escaped with my life. And that is your second question. My turn.”
“What?” She stood abruptly. “I didn’t ask a question!”
“You asked if there was a revolution in Glynaven.”
“That was a clarification, not a question.”
He gave her his best princely stare, but she did not back down. “I’ll allow it. This time.” He held up a finger. “But from now on, clarifications also count as questions.”
“Fine.” She sat back on the bench with a huff.
His fingers itched for him to eat the last currant bun, but he wanted to savor it and thus denied himself. Instead of eating, he pondered his first question. Should he ask her if she was a widow? Yes, but how best to ask it?
“Who waits for you at home?”
“I live with my late husband’s sister. She will certainly worry if Riggersby returns without me.” She twisted a finger of her gloves. “But I am willing to risk the repercussions.”
English was not his first language, but that didn’t make her statement any less telling. She was a widow, and she didn’t like her husband’s sister. If the woman frequently imposed repercussions on Lady Ashbrooke, he could hardly fault the woman for wanting a brief respite.