In spite of Juliette’s grumbling and mumbling about being too tired to help, she and Colette actually managed to paint two wall-length bookshelves a crisp, clean cream color. The shade did wonders for brightening up the store. It had always bothered Colette that it was so dark in her father’s shop, for how was anyone supposed to peruse or read books in such a dimly lit space?
After months of penny-pinching, she had finally gathered enough money to buy the paint and supplies she needed and had set to work on her plans. With the cream-colored walls and shelves, the store was becoming a place in which one would want to sit and read comfortably. Once the shelves were dry enough, she intended to rearrange the way the books were traditionally displayed. She would place some of the books with the front covers facing out, making the titles easier for customers to read. She smiled at the prospect her changes would create.
The three sisters worked for over an hour together, pausing only when Juliette tripped backward over some rolled canvas and fell flat on her bottom. It had taken a good five minutes before she and Paulette had stopped laughing at the ridiculous image of Juliette on the floor and got back to their painting.
“What do you think, Colette?” Paulette proudly held up two small wooden boards, with elegantly printed letters in black paint. One read “Philosophy” and the other “History.”
Colette clapped her hands together in glee. “Oh, that looks lovely, Paulette!” She took one of the signs from her little sister and held it up. “It’s perfect!”
When all the signs were completed, they would designate the different areas for various subjects of books throughout the shop. Again, the signs would allow customers to search with ease for books. Paulette’s neat and uniform lettering added an element of sophistication to the plain wooden placards. The gilt-edged trim did the same as well.
“They will look wonderful when we hang them with that green ribbon,” Juliette announced in rare accord.
The green ribbon had been a wonderful stroke of genius on Colette’s part. While at the dressmakers being fitted for their new gowns one afternoon, she saw rolls of the most beautiful green grosgrain ribbon. Instantly knowing just how to use them in the shop, she quietly asked the dressmaker to include the rolls in their purchases. Saying a silent thank-you to an unwitting Uncle Randall for purchasing the yards of ribbon, she smiled at how tasteful and elegant the shop would look when she was finished.
“I have to admit, Colette, that I thought you were batty to try to change this old place. But it’s beginning to look beautiful. The new paint makes it look as if it were a completely different store.”
“Thank you.” Colette was starting to believe it, too. Her father’s shop was actually going to change. That she was the one who was making those changes thrilled her. Ever since she could remember, working in the bookshop was all she ever wanted to do.
After years of assisting her father, Colette had discovered ways to make the shop better, more attractive, more efficient. Her father had always disagreed with her, shaking his head in a patronizing manner, dismissing her modern ideas as the silly whims of a little girl. Now that her father was no longer alive to deny her innovative proposals, Colette was finally free to do everything she had ever wanted to improve the store. The first order of business was a new coat of paint. That was, of course, after she and Paulette had thoroughly scrubbed and polished the dusty store from top to bottom.
Pleased with the look of the wooden placards, which had turned out better than she had hoped, she hugged her little sister in gratitude.
Just then Yvette strode into the room. “Heavens! Look at this place!” she cried in astonishment. “It looks so different!”
“Doesn’t it?” Paulette agreed, her sweet face beaming. “And we’re not even finished yet!”
“Well, supper is ready, so come upstairs now,” Yvette said, already losing interest in the progress of the family shop. “Lisette made popovers!” She and Juliette, who needed no extra encouragement to head up to supper, left through the door immediately.
Paulette turned to go as well, then looked back at Colette. “Are you coming up?”
“In a few minutes,” Colette answered, placing a paint-brush back into the bucket of paint. “I’m not hungry, so I’ll just do a few more things down here and clean up a little bit.”
Paulette nodded with an understanding smile. “I’ll bring you down something to eat when I come back to help you.”
“Thank you.” Colette and Paulette shared a love of Hamilton’s that their other sisters did not. In fact, it was little Paulette who for days on end had painstakingly helped her sort through, reorganizing and cataloguing, all of the books in the shop.
Wishing the paint would dry faster so she could begin reshelving the books, but knowing she would have to wait at least until tomorrow, she began to clean up the pots of paint and the sheets of canvas. Stretching her back and wiping the paint from her hands, she recalled the strange encounter with the extraordinary man who had come into the shop earlier that afternoon.
Lucien Sinclair, the Earl of Waverly.
As soon as she laid eyes on him she knew his type, for she had come across them in the shop many times before: entitled, arrogant, idle young noblemen who had no need to earn a living and looked down upon those who did.
His self-assured manner, his look of cultured breeding, and the fine cut and style of his expensive suit told her all she needed to know. He was predictably aristocratic and spoiled. Although as long as he continued to purchase some expensive books, she did not care who or what he was.
But oh, the way he looked!
He was unmistakably handsome. His patrician features were striking, and his dark green eyes lingered on her for longer than anyone would deem proper. His mouth had a charming dimple when he smiled, a smile that changed the hard lines of his face, warming him, and making him seem infinitely more attractive. She had had to catch her breath at the sight of him. He must lead women on a merry chase, indeed.
And she could have sworn that he wanted to kiss her.
That fact alone was startling enough, but what shook her to the core was that she had actually wanted him to kiss her. Well, not completely. To be fair, she had never been in such a position before. The man was a complete stranger. The most handsome stranger she had ever seen, but a stranger nonetheless.
Yet there was something about him that unnerved her. He was condescending, of course, showing blatant disapproval of her doing what he thought should only be a man’s job, but there was something else she could not easily put to words or explain. They had stared at each other for the longest time, and for the first time in her life, she felt…Well, she didn’t know how she felt, but she had never felt that way before. He left her breathless and shaky and with a fluttery feeling in her stomach. She did not like it. Not one bit.
She reminded herself that in spite of how he looked, Lord Waverly was an arrogant nobleman who looked down upon her, just like all the men she would meet next week at her first ball.
That thought caused a flutter of a different kind in her stomach as well.
She was fraught with worry over the coming Season. Having to please her aunt Cecilia and uncle Randall. Socializing with people she had nothing in common with. Needing to find a husband.
And marriage itself troubled her. Many nights she lay awake wondering if she would be able to find a husband who would condone her working in the bookshop. Most men outright frowned upon the idea of a woman managing a store, and some even found it mildly amusing, but all of them disapproved and automatically assumed she would refrain from working in the shop once she became a wife. But Colette had no intentions of quitting, of ever giving up something that she loved in order to please a man. She loved the bookshop too much.
And she knew she could make Hamilton’s more successful than her father ever would have dreamed. Yet she knew her family was depending on her to support them.
If only she had more time.
Chapter Three
Lucien Sinclair, the Earl of Waverly, entered the Hayvenhursts’ massive townhouse with a heavy heart and a forced smile on his face.
Usually he enjoyed the London Season. Nights spent socializing with his good friends, playing cards, going to the theater, attending parties and balls, and critiquing the latest crop of debutantes had always put him in jovial spirits. The start of a Season was exciting and he had always looked forward to it before. But this year would be different. This Season meant business. His father was ill and dying, and the inevitable could be delayed no longer.
As much as he hated the thought of it, he had to find a wife.
He had put it off for too long as it was. Not that he hadn’t tried over the years to find a suitable bride. Well, perhaps that thought was not quite true, he admitted to himself. In all honesty, since his disastrous relationship with Virginia Warren, he had been avoiding the thought of marriage altogether. And for good reason.
“Lord Waverly!” Countess Hayvenhurst welcomed him with a glorious smile, her long, white-gloved arms outstretched in his direction. “We haven’t see you in ages! I’m thrilled you could come to our little party.”
“Our little party” consisted of over five hundred guests, an army of liveried servants, a dining room filled to bursting with rich foods and drinks of every type imaginable, two orchestras, and enough flowers to fill a cemetery for a few years.
Lucien smiled at her warmly. “I’m happy to be able to attend, Lady Hayvenhurst. It seems you have outdone yourself yet again.”
“Oh it’s nothing.” She dismissed his compliments with an airy wave of her hand. “I simply adore parties. Now you must tell me, how is your father getting along?”
“He is much improved,” Lucien lied, not wishing to divulge the grim details of his father’s illness to his hostess. After years of his family being the favorite topic of gossips, he was reticent to share private information with anyone.
“I am so relieved to hear it,” she said. Lady Hayvenhurst, a matron with four grown children, had to be over fifty but still maintained a svelte figure with a considerable bosom, which she showed off to great advantage. Her laughing eyes and genuinely kind nature had won Lucien over years ago. “You must give him my very warmest regards.”
“I will be sure to, Lady Hayvenhurst.”
“There are some pretty new faces here this evening, Lord Waverly. Please try not to break all of their hearts in one fell swoop,” she admonished him with a merry wink.
“I’ll do my best.” As the heir to a marquis, Lucien knew he was considered to be “a catch” by most of society, but so far he had successfully eluded capture.
“It’s about time you found yourself a lovely wife,” she said with a knowing grin. “You’re too handsome to stay a bachelor. I think I may know just the perfect young lady for you. Would you like me to introduce you?”
“Thank you, but I think not. However, I’ll be sure to let you know when I’m ready to settle down,” he said, evading her usual matchmaking plans. Finding a suitable bride was a task he intended to accomplish without any assistance from well-intentioned matrons. “Where is Lord Hayvenhurst this evening?”
“Oh, he’s about somewhere.” She laughed carelessly. “He managed to lose me over an hour ago.”
“If I find him, I’ll send him your way.”
“Thank you, my dear!”
As Lady Hayvenhurst greeted yet another guest, Lucien made his way forward, pressing through the heavy crowd. Judging from the large number of people, all of London had turned out for the ball.
“Waverly!”
Lucien turned as his name was called. Lord James Buckley, one of Lucien’s closest friends and an inveterate gambler, stepped toward him. “How are you, Buckley?” Lucien asked.
“Just fine! We’re starting up a poker game in Lord Hayvenhurst’s back drawing room. Come join us and give me a chance to win back some of what I owe you.”
Lucien shook his head. “I’ve only just arrived. Perhaps I’ll join you later.”
“Right, then.” Buckley hesitated, his hands in his pockets, looking sheepish. “I haven’t seen you in a few weeks, Lucien, and I’m sorry about your father’s illness. And I know I owe you money. I haven’t forgotten and I would really like to pay you back tonight. But the thing is, I owe Crandall some also, and he’s pressing me for the money now, and as I’m rather short on funds at the moment…” He trailed off awkwardly.
“It’s all right, Buckley,” Lucien said. “Get it to me when you can.”
Absolute relief showed all over his freckled face. “Thanks, Lucien. I will pay you back. I’m good for it, I promise.”
“I know you are.” Lucien then added, “But perhaps you should forgo any games tonight.”
“Good idea!” Buckley nodded in understanding and headed off hastily. Lucien hoped his friend heeded his advice, but unfortunately sensed that he would not.
Continuing through the crush of people in the Hayvenhurst ballroom, Lucien paused now and then to acknowledge the familiar faces that greeted him. Above the growing din, he heard a very distinctive voice calling his name.
“Lucien!”
Lord Jeffrey Eddington, a tall, dark-haired gentleman with a wide grin on his face, waved in his direction, motioning for Lucien to join him. Still making his way through the mass of guests, Lucien finally reached his friend.
“It’s a madhouse in here tonight,” he commented when he reached the alcove where Jeffrey was standing. “I’ve been here forty-five minutes and still haven’t been able to get a drink.”
“Well, you can’t have mine.” Jeffrey held up a crystal tumbler half full of scotch. “I need it too much.”
“Rough evening already?” Lucien asked with a wry look.
“I have been cut down by the most beautiful creature.” After making a tragic face, he took a long swig from his drink.
Lucien laughed out loud. Lord Jeffrey Eddington, the illegitimate son of the wealthy and influential Duke of Rathmore, had a reputation only slightly worse than Lucien’s own. Women, young and old, swooned at Jeffrey’s feet.
He and Lucien had known each other since their days at Eton, becoming instant friends at the age of eleven when Lucien punched the arrogant and irritating Walter Brockwell in the face for calling Jeffrey a bastard. At the time Lucien wasn’t even entirely sure what that word meant, but judging from the stricken expression on Jeffrey’s face, he knew it signified something terrible, so he had hauled off and given Walter Brockwell a black eye, earning Jeffrey Eddington’s loyal friendship.
Each suffering the effects of a shattered home life and without the need for further explanations, the two young boys turned into fast friends from that day on. They even attended Oxford together. Over the years Jeffrey became one of the very few people in Lucien’s life whom he trusted implicitly. Lucien did not have a brother, but he felt that Jeffrey Eddington was as close to having a brother as he was ever going to get.
“I’d like to meet the lady who cut you down,” Lucien remarked with a laugh.
“I’ve only just been introduced to her myself. A Miss Juliette Hamilton. You know I never go after the debutantes on the marriage mart, Lucien, but this one is a stunner—”
“What name did you say?” The words sounded eerily familiar to Lucien’s ears. Hamilton with a French name. It could not possibly be the same name of the beautiful girl in the bookshop he had just met. Could it?
“Juliette Hamilton. Do you know her?” Jeffrey asked in surprise.
Lucien shook his head in wonder at the coincidence. “No, but I’ve heard the name before. Where is she now?” His eyes narrowed and scanned the room searching for a luscious brunette with stunning blue eyes.
“She was dancing with Lord Sudbury a short time ago. But I don’t see her any longer. She must be in the dining room.” Jeffrey shrugged carelessly.
“Who is she here with?” Lucien could not help asking, still searching the faces in the crowd
.
“An uncle, I think.”
Interesting. Lucien believed she must be the sister of the bookshop girl, for how many Juliette Hamiltons could there be? At the possibility of seeing Colette Hamilton again, he felt his pulse quicken.
Jeffrey resumed his story. “As soon as I laid eyes on her, I wrangled an introduction through Lady Hayvenhurst, who made me promise not to tempt the girl. I don’t wish to marry the chit, for heaven’s sake, I just wanted to meet her. Being the bastard son of a duke has its perks.”
Jeffrey gave him a rueful smile, but Lucien knew his illegitimacy was a sore spot with him, for all that he was raised as Rathmore’s own son.
“Just as I got to her side,” Jeffrey continued his tale of heartbreak, “I heard that stuffy prig George Bickford ask her to dance and she answered, ‘I am honored, but I am not interested.’ Can you believe that? Well, her honest remark made me only like her all the more! Bickford went off in a huff and I winked at her. And by God, she winked right back at me! She didn’t stammer and blush, like all the others would have. Greatly impressed, I told her that I thought she had discriminating tastes. She said that she certainly did. Then the uncle came marching over, to scold her, I would imagine. As he was dragging her off, she turned her head back, and I swear, Lucien, she poked her tongue out at me! Unbelievable! And a lovely little tongue it was, too.”
Lucien laughed at the idea of the girl acting so audaciously. Well-bred ladies did not behave that way. And if they did, they certainly did not do so in public. This one must be a firebrand, all right. “She sounds like a bit of trouble to me.”
“She more than likely is, which is what intrigues me. You know I like a woman who can stir things up a bit. But enough of her.” Jeffrey turned and leaned back against the wall in a careless manner. “Now you, my friend, you are here tonight on a matter of serious business.”
When His Kiss Is Wicked Page 3