She’d stopped breathing altogether, watching him as a bird watches a tomcat just before it pounces. Her? A conflagration? The mere thought made her hot.
“I…” She glanced down at her drawing, realizing she had no idea where she was. “I…”
Jean-Marie walked into the room. “Mon amie? You said to tell you when it struck two of the clock.” He stopped and glanced between her and Mr. Harte, his brows drawing together suspiciously.
“Yes, thank you, Jean-Marie,” she said breathlessly. She felt a pang of disappointment. She’d given her footman the instructions earlier as a sort of safeguard in case the sketching session turned uncomfortable.
Well, it had at that, but not in the manner she’d anticipated.
Mr. Harte sighed. “I’d best go if it’s already gone two. Have to make a trip to Bond Street.”
“Oh?” She couldn’t quite stifle her curiosity.
He nodded, standing. “Have to go buy a chandelier for the theater.”
Eve came to a rather impulsive decision. “In that case I’ll accompany you.”
ASA BLINKED. “WHAT?”
Miss Dinwoody smiled serenely. Where was the woman flushed from his mere words? Gone, it seemed, disappeared into the lady man of business. “Shall we take my brother’s carriage? If I’m not mistaken, it’s still in the mews from when I borrowed it this morning.”
Of course she had the use of a carriage. He didn’t even own a horse.
He scowled. He’d actually enjoyed the modeling session, odd as it was to admit, but he sure as hell didn’t need her nursemaiding his errand to procure lighting for the theater. “It’s just a chandelier. Bound to be boring.”
She gazed at him with pity. “Mr. Harte, shopping on Bond Street is never boring.”
Which was how he found himself in front of the house ten minutes later with Miss Dinwoody and her guard, watching a carriage round the corner.
The moment it stopped he grabbed for the door, then held it open for her.
That got him a scowl from Jean-Marie, which he returned behind Miss Dinwoody’s back with an obscene pursing of his lips.
“Thank you,” Miss Dinwoody said as she settled herself on the seat.
“My pleasure,” Asa muttered as he took his own seat. He eyed the bodyguard a moment and then chose a safe conversational subject. “So, French and German. What else did you learn at that girls’ school you went to?”
She shrugged. “Dancing, embroidery, a bit of maths and classical literature and a smattering of geography. Nothing very helpful, I’m afraid. The other girls who went there were mostly preparing to marry well.”
He settled more comfortably in the seat. Might as well enjoy the carriage ride. “But not you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You didn’t expect to marry?”
There was a small pause, and Jean-Marie sent him an oblique glance that was hard to interpret.
She pursed her lips and looked down at her lap. “No.”
Which was a bit odd. She might be a bastard, but the daughter of a duke was the daughter of a duke. She could’ve made quite a nice marriage had she wanted to, especially if Montgomery had been willing to dower her.
“And you?” Her voice cut into his thoughts.
“Beg pardon?”
She cocked her head. “How were you educated?”
“At home.” He debated leaving it at that, but just because she’d decided to be damnably closed-mouthed didn’t mean he had to be. He shrugged. “Along with my brothers and sisters.”
She blinked at that. “You have family?”
He grinned. “Did you think I crawled out from under a rock three decades ago? I’ve three sisters and two brothers.”
“Do you?” For some reason this information made her lean a little forward, her eyebrows winged up in interest. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a large family.”
He grimaced at that, thinking of the last time he’d seen Concord, his elder brother. That had ended in them shouting at each other, Con managing somehow to do it without blasphemy—which couldn’t have been said for Asa. “On the whole, it’s more trouble than it’s worth.”
She looked confused. “What do you mean?”
He sighed. “There are rules and expectations in a family—especially my family. And I’ve never been any good at rules or expectations, luv.” He lifted a corner of his mouth in a mirthless smile. He’d never truly fit in with the rest of the Makepeaces—a cuckoo in a sparrow’s nest. “So I’ve found it’s easier just to avoid the lot of them.”
She sucked in a breath. “Avoid them? You don’t see them at all?”
He grinned hard. “Not if I can help it.”
“Then you don’t love them,” she said, strangely intent.
“Didn’t say that,” he muttered, looking out the window. The carriage was moving at a bloody slow pace due to the London traffic.
She was silent a moment, and then, “I can imagine that you aren’t very amenable to rules, but I would think that your family would consider you a great success.”
He snorted at that. Oh, if only she knew. He glanced at her. Both she and the footman were looking at him. “My family isn’t much… ah… interested in the theater.”
“But you own Harte’s Folly,” she said, sounding almost outraged. “Until it burned down the garden was an enormous draw. I’d think your family would be very proud of you.”
Pride hadn’t been what his father had felt for him the last time Asa had seen him alive. He shook the thought aside. “It took years of constant work before Harte’s Folly finally made money. Until then I put every ha’penny back into the garden. I expect my family still thinks I’m struggling—which, because of the fire, I am.”
“Thinks?” She stared once more at him. “When was the last time you actually spoke to your parents?”
“They’re dead,” he said. “Mother when I was fifteen, Father five years ago.”
“And that’s when you inherited Harte’s Folly?”
“What?” He smiled at the thought of his stern father’s ever being involved with something as frivolous as the theater. Old Josiah Makepeace was probably rolling in his grave at the very notion. “No, I told you, my family frowned on the theater—and pleasure gardens, come to that.”
“Then how did you become owner of Harte’s Folly?”
“Ah, well,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t usually tell people, but since you’re an investor—or at least the sister of my main investor—as it happens I received the garden in a bequest left by Sir Stanley Gilpin, who was a great friend of my father’s.”
“Really?” She seemed truly interested in his answer. “He must’ve liked you very much to leave you the gardens.”
“I suppose he did,” Asa said. “Sir Stanley and my father had very little in common. My father worked as a beer brewer all his life, while Sir Stanley was moderately wealthy and liked to dabble in the theater. He bought Harte’s Folly as a young man and worked to build it off and on over the years. When I was seventeen or so I started sneaking away from my family and hanging about the theater whenever I could. When he found out where I was going my father didn’t approve.” A magnificent understatement.
“But if Sir Stanley was his friend…” Her brows were drawn together as if she tried to understand.
He shook his head. “I think he genuinely loved Sir Stanley, but at the same time my father thought what he did was sinful. I was nineteen when he found out. I told my father then that I wanted to work at Sir Stanley’s theater. He didn’t take it well.” He paused and swallowed, remembering the words his father had roared at him.
The words he’d screamed in return.
Asa shook his head and continued, “Sir Stanley took me in. He had no family of his own. He was kind to me, taught me all he knew about theater and opera and running a pleasure garden. Over the years I gradually took on more and more responsibility.” Asa stared for a moment out the window, remem
bering Sir Stanley’s childlike wonder and enthusiasm for the theater.
“You sound as if you were very fond of him,” she said quietly.
“I loved him like a father,” he said. “And when I realized that he’d left me Harte’s Folly, I vowed to make it the most wonderful place on earth.”
“So you’ve been laboring at the gardens ever since the age of seventeen.” Her sky-blue eyes were narrowed thoughtfully on him. “That’s over a decade, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m four and thirty and I’ve worked all my adult life for the gardens.”
She nodded slowly, her expression pensive. “There’s just one thing I don’t understand.”
“What’s that?”
“Well,” she said as the carriage drew to a halt near Bond Street. “If Sir Stanley’s last name was Gilpin, why did Harte’s Folly bear your name before you inherited it?”
EVE WATCHED MR. HARTE curiously. He was a much more complex man than she’d initially thought, and she found she wanted to know more—more of what had made him the man he was today, more of what lay beneath that dangerously roguish exterior.
Mr. Harte’s lips twisted as he glanced away from her. “Ah. Well, to be perfectly truthful…”
“Yes,” she prompted drily. “I do like truthfulness.”
Beside her Jean-Marie snorted under his breath, and Mr. Harte glared at him. “My name’s not Harte.”
She waited, her eyebrows arched, even as she felt her pulse jump. Discovering information about Mr. Harte—or whoever he was—was rather exciting.
“It’s Asa Makepeace,” he said, and she blinked.
Asa. The name suited him. She hadn’t been aware of wanting to know what his Christian name was, but now that she knew it, she felt an undeniable gratification. Asa. Asa Makepeace. Pity addressing a man by his given name was simply not done.
Her eyes widened on a thought. “Makepeace. That’s the last name of the manager of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children. I met him and his wife when I attended a meeting of the Ladies’ Syndicate for the Benefit of the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children there.”
He nodded once. “Winter is my younger brother. So you’ve been to the orphanage?”
“Yes.” She had, though under circumstances she wasn’t particularly proud of.
Fortunately, the door to the carriage opened at that moment, providing a welcome distraction.
Eve rose and descended with the help of the carriage footman. She waited for the two men before she asked, “You took the name Harte from the garden, not the other way around?”
Mr. Makepeace held out his arm to her, not speaking for a moment.
She glanced at him curiously.
His face was grim. “When we had our… falling out, my father made it clear that he didn’t want me using the family name if I intended to continue in the theater business.”
She inhaled sharply. She was beginning to think the “falling out” had been closer to his father’s disowning him. Mr. Makepeace was a proud man—she’d seen that from the first. How must it have felt for his father to forbid him his own name? The thought sparked a feeling of… well, not pity, for Mr. Makepeace wasn’t a man to be pitied, but perhaps sympathy.
“I see.” She eyed his proffered arm a moment. Normally the only men she allowed to touch her were Val or Jean-Marie.
It felt daring to place the tips of her fingers on his sleeve.
He didn’t seem to notice, though, as they set off down Bond Street. It was a lovely sunny day and her spirits lifted as she walked beside him. Jean-Marie was right behind, close enough to come to her aid should she need it.
“Where are we headed?” she asked.
One could buy nearly anything on Bond Street if one had the desire and the money for it. From stationery to furniture to lace and tobacco and everything in between. Goods from all the corners of the world streamed into the port of London and were offered for sale here. The street was lined with shops, each one with bulks in front—tables fixed to the shop’s façade and used to display the wares. But Bond Street wasn’t simply for commerce. Everyone who was anyone promenaded up and down the street, examining the displays, stopping to chat, and strutting for all to see.
“Thorpe’s,” he replied, solicitously steering her around a rather noxious puddle.
“The candelabra maker?”
“Yes. I need to outfit the stage with lighting. I’m thinking we’ll want a large chandelier overhead, with many sconces and freestanding candelabra as well.”
She nodded and then stiffened, instinctually stopping as she saw a small, fluffy dog on a lead coming toward them.
Mr. Makepeace glanced at the animal and then her before deftly turning her so that the dog passed behind and out of sight.
She blew out a relieved breath, feeling both foolish and irritated with herself. These fears were so silly! She knew this intellectually, but her body still responded without her consent to certain situations.
As if he knew her thoughts, Mr. Makepeace bent his head closer to hers. “Is it all dogs, then?”
She nodded jerkily, aware that she could smell some woody scent on him, perhaps his soap? “All canines, but especially large ones.”
He straightened without comment, but he laid a hand over hers on his arm and gave a squeeze. The simple touch seemed to travel up her arm and straight to her center and she struggled to keep her face serene.
“Here it is,” he said after another few paces.
Thorpe’s sign swung overhead, the name of the shop in elaborate black script. Two wide bulks were laden with candlesticks of every description. There were no windows to the shop, but when Mr. Makepeace held the door open, Eve stepped into a large display room filled from floor to ceiling with thousands of candlesticks, candelabra, hanging chandeliers, and wall sconces, many of them lit, making the room blaze with light.
Eve stopped and stared, feeling the heat of the hundreds of candles beat against her cheeks, but Mr. Makepeace walked to the middle of the show room. He turned in a circle, examining the fittings overhead, and pointed to the largest chandelier in the shop. “There. That’s the one I want.”
“That looks very expensive.” Eve squinted at the curlicues and swirls and the multitude of crystal drops hanging from them. The entire piece seemed to be gilded. “What about that one?” She pointed to a smaller brass chandelier with far fewer crystal drops.
“It won’t do,” he snapped, his face darkening with irritation.
She fought an instinctive urge to move away from masculine anger. Instead she made herself stand her ground. “Won’t it? Explain.” For a moment she thought he would simply argue. She touched his arm with a fingertip. “Please. I want to understand.”
He actually closed his mouth, thought for a moment, and then indicated the chandelier she’d chosen. “Look at the number of candles it holds. I estimate it at only half the number of the bigger one.” Mr. Makepeace turned to the chandelier he liked. “This one not only has more candle holders, but also more crystals to reflect the light of the candles.” He looked at her. “The light in the theater is very important. If my guests can’t see the stage and the actors, they’ll not enjoy the show and they’ll not return.”
Eve glanced at him, reluctantly seeing his concerns.
He must’ve read her face, for he smiled wryly. “You thought I just picked it because it was the most expensive.”
“Perhaps.” She cleared her throat. “Then it’s the light that most concerns you, not the gold?”
His eyes narrowed. “Naturally the appearance of the chandelier must be handsome as well.”
“But it’ll be high above your guests’ heads.” She looked shrewdly at the chandelier he liked. “I wonder if we can have one made like this, but in ungilded brass. From above, with all the crystals, I doubt most in your audience will know the difference.” She glanced at him. “But the savings would be considerable. Do you see?”
“Yes,” h
e replied slowly. “Yes, I think I do.”
He was looking at her with admiration and she felt heat rise in her cheeks. Eve knew she was blushing as his smile grew wider. His green eyes were knowing, almost intimate, and she couldn’t look away.
“May I help you make a selection, sir?”
She blinked, the spell broken by a shop assistant. The man was bowing before Mr. Makepeace, entirely ignoring her. She wondered what the man would say if he knew she was the one who held the purse strings.
She watched as Mr. Makepeace asked about having a chandelier made. He and the assistant began bargaining over the price and delivery times and she saw that same smile, the one he’d used on her, aimed at the other man.
Eve glanced away. She shouldn’t feel disappointed—nearly hurt—that his smile wasn’t just for her. She had to remember that Mr. Makepeace was a charmer—he made his living by convincing others to do things for him, whether they were singers or composers, a shop assistant, or she. It wasn’t intimate or special when he smiled at her. She mustn’t become confused and think that he had any particular interest in her.
She knew what she looked like, knew as well that she was too private, too odd for most gentlemen. Eve took a deep breath. And what did it matter anyway? If, in the unlikely event, a gentleman became interested in her, she would be unable to respond appropriately.
She’d long ago realized that such things were not for her.
“What do you think?” Mr. Makepeace said, his deep voice drawing her out of her morose thoughts.
She looked up and there was that smile again, warm and inviting. It was hard—so hard—to remind herself it wasn’t hers, that smile. He gave it out freely to all comers.
“I think the chandelier still too expensive, even made with brass,” she said slowly. “But if it is what you must have for the theater, then buy it.”
His wide lips quirked, the dimples flashed, and his eyes were warm and lit. He wasn’t a handsome man, Asa Makepeace—she’d realized that when trying to capture his essential allure this afternoon. It was frustratingly hard to put it on paper, for she’d discovered that it was in gesture and breath that he came alive. He was a being of action and vitality, and when he moved, when he smiled, he became almost impossible to resist.
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