Now he drummed his fingers on the counter, making more noise. "Just to be clear, Miss Ashford, I buy these books from you, merely because your lips won out over my better sense. Something for you to consider, in future. Make the most of your natural attributes. You could trick some gentlemen into spending a small fortune in this shop, if you knew how to put those lips to better use."
"Sir, if a lady has any care for her dignity, she should limit the use of her lips." Especially around men like him, she mused.
"Madam," he smiled. "There are no limits, only possibilities."
"You are an expert in such matters, I suppose."
"Yes, I am very successful in business, so it would do you no harm to take my advice. "
She had referred to the subject of ladies’ lips and their possibilities, not of business matters, but Mary said nothing.
"And, let me tell you, Miss Ashford, I managed to thrive in life without reading a single book for pleasure."
"Just imagine how much more successful you might have been, had you picked up a novel once in a while. A good story can do wonders for enlarging a man's mind, his perspective, and his imagination."
"There's naught amiss with my imagination," he drawled, leaning on one elbow and treating her to a meaningful wink.
"That depends on what you use it for."
"For wickedness, of course. All manner of vice and inequity. Is that not what you would expect from a man like me? You took one look at me and knew everything."
"As you did when you looked at me."
He squinted as if she'd just squirted a lemon in his eye.
Mary thrust the parcel of books at him. "Do be careful, sir, not to catch cold out there in this weather. Dressed as you are for warmer climes. Good day."
"You won't offer me that cup of tea then?"
"I'm afraid not. You must slake your thirst elsewhere." She could well imagine the chaos he would cause in that tiny back parlor, especially if her sister Violet came down. That girl had impractical, romantic ideas enough without encouragement from this partially undressed scapegrace. What Violet needed was a steady, honorable gentlemen with an earnest mind to marry and raise a family, not a handsome, lusty scoundrel who took nothing seriously and kept himself trim by running speedily from commitment.
About to turn away, he stopped. "You ought to..." he grinned, just a little less self-assured than before, "dine with me. I could give you some more business advice."
It took her a moment to answer, her breath taken away by the surprise. "No." She laughed softly, shaking her head. "Thank you."
His grin faded. "I suppose you worry for your reputation, in light of mine."
"Oh? Do you have one?" She blinked innocently. "Is it very bad?"
"It's the worst," he confessed without hesitation.
How curious that he was honest about it, even proud. Mary considered for a moment. "I would not fear for my reputation, because I know myself. When others see fit to judge me and find fault, only they are affected by it. Their opinion of me can have no bearing on my happiness or my convictions. I know who I am."
"Then what—"
"My concern is that you and I would have nothing in common, nothing to talk about."
"Talk?"
"You are a man who admits he seldom has time to read a book. While a handsome face is all well and good to look at, if I must share my dinner with a man, I prefer that he have a brain and interesting conversation to offer."
"I have a brain, madam."
"But your interests are not the same as mine."
"How do you know?"
She smiled. "Just an erudite guess."
With long fingers he scratched his unshaven cheek again, and then paced before the counter. "You, a meek little bookseller, are turning me down?"
"It would seem so. I'm sorry, but I'm certain you will survive the disappointment."
"Wench, you have no inkling of the chance you let slip through your fingers."
Now she was a wench again. "Oh, I think I do. We've attempted conversation for about a quarter of an hour, and I've been exposed to half your naked person for that entire time. I believe I have a good idea of the sacrifice I'm making."
"Damn it all to blazes, woman." Tucking the package under one arm, he murmured, "You really don't know who I am, do you?"
"I do. You told me your name. You even spelled it for me."
"That's not what I meant."
Her lack of awestruck swooning was apparently killing him.
Mary pretended to consider, tapping her chin with one finger. "Are you in disguise then? You must be the Prince Consort. Or the Duke of Norfolk? Or Isambard Kingdom Brunel?" She widened her eyes. "No...oh, don't tell me. I do love a good riddle... the King of Siam?"
A thunderous scowl swiftly darkened his features and cooled his gaze again. He strode to the door, grumbling, "I've wasted enough time here already."
"Do come back next time you need saving from a lady," she called out. "French or otherwise."
She watched, quietly amused, as he fought with the truculent handle. But he didn't waste much time. No gentlemanly restraint and smothered frustration for him. He kicked the door just once, very hard, and his temper apparently frightened the sticky handle into submission, after which he pulled it open with such violence that a screw went flying across the floor.
As he triumphantly slammed the shop door in his wake, Mary closed her ledger with an equal amount of gusto.
That felt better. Put the artful charmer in his place.
But how quiet it was again now.
All that remained was a half-hearted tickle of rain at the windows, and behind her, in the small parlor, the soft snuffle and wheeze of that coal fire. These were the usual sounds of a cold, dreary winter's morning, but for just a few minutes Ransom Deverell — and the breeze that brought him into the shop—had shaken up the dust and spun her around, like a drunken dance partner, until she was dizzy. Now he was gone and her pulse could return to its stable, sober pace.
If only it didn't suddenly feel like a funeral dirge. And now the most she had to look forward to was a stale, two-day-old muffin.
Chapter Five
Ransom had never liked the plump-cheeked cherubs cavorting around the plaster medallion on the ceiling of his office. There was something sinister, he always thought, about flying babies looking so pleased with themselves. Today, as the club's chief valet drew a razor across his cheek and Ransom scowled up at those plaster figures, it seemed as if they watched him and giggled together with even greater menace than usual.
His mind wandered to the mysterious contents of that brown paper parcel where it lurked on the corner of his desk. Waiting.
Well, it could continue to wait. Ransom didn't like to think of any woman getting the better of him, but she had. He'd been robbed, bamboozled into a purchase he didn't want or need. To punish her for that he would not open her damnable parcel and he'd send it back to her at the first opportunity. He would treat it with as much offhand disdain as she had treated his offer of dinner.
My concern is that you and I would have nothing in common, nothing to talk about...if I must share my dinner with a man, I prefer that he have a brain and interesting conversation to offer.
Bloody cheek.
He thought of her fingers gripping his sleeve so determinedly, making him stop and look at her.
Mary Ashford. He'd heard that name before somewhere, he was almost certain. But where? Wherever he'd heard it, the name must have been uttered as a warning. She was a woman who hid among dusty, abandoned books and skulked there, lying in wait for unsuspecting gentlemen to pass within her reach. Anyone who wandered into that dark, cluttered bookshop must fall prey to her peculiar charms and soon find their pockets lighter. She was such an unexpected sight emerging from the gloom that a man was instantly knocked off balance. He did not stand a chance. It was like the discovery of a bright daisy growing in a coal mine. With a wasp hidden in the petals.
Having trapped these
helpless men in her thrall, she pretended — with wide eyes and pert lips— that she didn't meant to do it.
Only when he was safely outside the shop had Ransom returned to his senses and, out of her spell, realized she had separated him from his money with as much skill as a gypsy dancing girl. He had no doubt she'd sneakily added a few extra pounds to the bill. Who knew what else she might have winkled out of him if he’d stayed longer? Even the shop door had tried to block his escape, no doubt working in mystical alliance with her very strong will.
In short, he felt pushed and pulled about like a child's toy.
So who was this woman? She claimed to have no inkling of his notoriety, but then he'd known nothing of hers either, he mused, and he was sure she must have some. A woman with tempting lips like hers, and more than a spoonful of cunning impudence, definitely had a past littered with conquests.
My concern is that you and I would have nothing to talk about.
No, but she'd take his damn money, wouldn't she?
"You seem out of sorts, sir," the valet remarked as he put away his razor.
Ransom ran a hand over his smooth cheek. "I suffered a long night and an abrupt awakening with little sleep between." But that was nothing unusual.
"You ought to get more rest, sir, if you don't mind me saying. It cannot do your health any good to burn the candle at both ends so often."
Ah, but when he slept, Sally White was waiting.
He gave the valet a tense smile, a very good tip, and then got on with his day.
Miss Ashford's brown paper parcel remained on his desk, in his peripheral vision, something to be circled warily but not approached. Which is what he should have done with her. Never should have stayed to buy her rotten books.
So why did he? Something had drawn him to her, and it wasn't great beauty or charm or any seductive quality. She did not gaze up at him with shy admiration or coy invitation. Her expression, in fact, was akin to that of a woman who had just turned in the street to see a large, muddy, wolf-hound galloping playfully toward her with its eager, slobbering tongue hanging out. She did not know whether to flee or brace herself.
Of all the ways women had ever looked at him, that one was hitherto unknown.
But despite that bemusement and faint horror, her fingers had held his sleeve boldly to stop him leaving— those same fingers that had a knack for opening doors other folk struggled over. Her hands were chapped and in need of some tender care. His father said you could tell a lot about a woman from her hands, but what would he make of this coal mine daisy with her wry humor? She was, in fact, as mysterious as the contents of that tightly wrapped package. Possibly as dangerous too.
He scratched his left eyebrow as he passed the corner of his desk again.
Did he hear the paper whisper? No, must be his imagination. Or the fire in the hob grate. Or rain dashing at the window in a sudden gust.
He turned his attention to the sooty view of London rooftops. On this grim day, plump pigeons kept warm atop the chimney pots, fluffing their chests and letting out the occasional chortle.
Miss Ashford's eyes were grey— at first they had seemed as dull and drab as the color of those pigeons and overcast skies, but by the time he escaped her presence they were a shining, lively silver grey, like mercury in a thermometer. Apparently, he had succeeded in raising her temperature to some degree. Was it that hint of something breaking through, some small success achieved that made him feel as if his business with her remained undone?
She was wretchedly tenacious when she set her mind to something, as proven by that tidy, smug brown parcel of unwanted books on his desk. But she could do even better if she had someone with business sense to encourage her. Currently the shop interior was dim, full of shadows that did a good job at hiding her in the gloom. A dust mop could work wonders, as could some proper organization and a good window cleaner. A new sign outside with brighter paint would draw more attention to the place. It was purely by chance that he’d stumbled upon the entrance, and no doubt it was the same for many of their customers.
But when he tried to give the stubborn woman advice she summarily dismissed it, too proud to take his guidance. Why he even tried to help her was quite beyond Ransom's understanding. There were enough females in his life, and he really did not need one who challenged him the way she did— rejected his guidance with cynical amusement, as if he had nothing to offer her.
Yet she had not given him away to Belle when she had the chance. She owed him no loyalty.
He supposed it was this that puzzled him most of all.
She was beginning to make his head ache again.
Better let that big, hungry falcon in his mind chase Miss Ashford out of his thoughts and off his moor. But the bird was very slow today. Sluggish.
As he walked back to his desk he heard a sudden ruckus approaching his office. Scuffling footsteps and loud French curses.
Of course, Belle had chased him down here, knowing he would head to the club, sooner or later. As Miss Ashford had said, he couldn't hide from her forever.
The staff made a valiant effort to hold her at bay, and he heard them calling for his strongest "arm" Miggs, a former boxer, fiercely loyal to his employer. If anyone could stop Belle, Miggs would.
But Ransom thought of Miss Ashford's words again. Problems are better dealt with at once, rather than put off. It saves everybody a vast deal of trouble.
So he opened his office door and signaled with his hands up in surrender. "Let her through."
At least now he had eaten something— thanks to the club's excellent chef— and was better able to face Belle's fury without losing his own temper. In fact, he felt quite unusually serene and decided, as if his encounter with Miss Mary Ashford had thrown cooling water on his hot head, made him see clearer.
Belle elbowed Miggs aside, marched down the passage, removed her glove and struck Ransom's face with her bare hand. It stung for a moment, then went numb.
"How pleasant to see you again, Belle," he muttered, following her into his office. "You should have—"
"'Ow dare you? The moment my back is turned!"
Ransom closed his door. "Belle, I thought that you and I had an understanding. We never promised each other monogamy." Until he heard the note of possessiveness in her voice that morning he had assumed they were of a shared mind.
"Monogamy? What is this?"
He sighed and scratched the back of his neck. "We did not promise to be exclusive, did we?"
The greatest advantage of an affair with Belle was that she, like Ransom, led a mostly nocturnal life and since she was a popular stage artiste he knew where she would be every night for a certain number of hours. Her career also took her away from London occasionally, which kept their relationship from becoming stagnant.
"Exclusive?" she demanded, her artificially blackened brows arched high.
"We made no promises to each other."
"I did not think we must promise. Why should any man need more than I," she dramatically held a clenched fist to her bosom, "Belle Saint Clair, beauty of the stage?"
"I see I should have made it clear. I am not fit for a permanent relationship of exclusivity, and I assumed you realized that when we met. I thought you felt the same."
"But I 'ave given you weeks of my time! I turned away many offers, because of you."
"It was very good of you to put yourself out for me, but not at all necessary, my sweet." He knew she was lying. Mademoiselle Saint Clair was much too ambitious to throw away any chance of bettering her career on the music hall stage, and she had plenty of gentlemen followers who would give her anything her little heart desired. More than he could. No, she had kept her options open, as indeed a clever woman in her position should.
"I suppose it's a defect in me," he added, "but I find it quite impossible to give up my freedom. Nor would I ask a woman to give up hers just for me. People are far better off not becoming entangled, in my opinion."
She laughed shrilly. "You are a boy, R
ansom Deverell. You are a spoiled, frightened little boy who runs away when he is in trouble. Run, run, run down the street. He does not stay to face the consequence."
Ransom let her laugh at him. That was better than having her fingernails scratching his face and trying to gouge out his eyeballs. "Yes, you're quite right, of course. I'm a hopeless case. You're better off without me. I'd only make you miserable in the end." He fell back into his chair with a gusty sigh.
"No, mon ami, you are the one who will be miserable a la fin! You will never be 'appy, until you become a grown man. Until you stop this running and running. Until you are brave enough to risk your 'eart and love!" She raised her fist to the ceiling as if she was about to storm the barricades in Paris. "To love with all of yourself, not just the one part. When you can say— this is the woman for me. Until you face the bad, not only the good. Until you see there is more to life than your pleasures. Then you will be a man. But I fear it will not be so until you are on your deathbed. Only then will you see what you 'ave missed. And too late!"
This must be a speech from one of her better roles. It certainly did not sound like something she would have thought up herself, for her deepest considerations usually went no deeper than surface appearances.
"I see," he muttered. "Well, I'm sure you're right, Belle." He was distracted by that parcel on his desk, still certain he could hear the paper rustling, whispering. You are deliberately evasive, an habitual flirt who uses that skill to get out of anything he doesn't want to do...
Nothing to talk about, indeed! Mary Ashford had no idea how much pleasure he could give her without a single word shared between them.
"Oui! Certainement, I am right, Monsieur Deverell! But do not call for me then, when you lay dying. For I," she gestured with her hand, "will twist the knife deeper."
"No doubt." He allowed a little smile. "I'll bear that in mind for my final moments."
"You are impossible."
"And you are as ill-suited to a permanent relationship as I." He paused and then added thoughtfully, "Did you ever think we ought to talk more? Perhaps we should have."
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