by Charlie Lane
She sighed, stroking Udolpho’s spine. She’d give it back, leaving it for Lord Trevor to take away after next week’s luncheon. She wouldn’t even read it now, not even a little bit. Her fingers tingled, itched.
“If only I had my own copy!” she wailed into her shoes and dresses.
Not to mention, there would be no more books from now on. She’d discovered her source, discovered she did not care for him, and sent him packing. Tears pressed through, wetting her cheeks.
She wiped them away, outrage filling her chest. Was she really going to cry over a book?
Yes! Of course! She fell onto her back. The ceiling offered no consolation. If only she could do the things she wanted to do, read the books she loved! But the last time she’d tried—buying Pamela from the friendly shopgirl at the bookstore—her mother had found her out in short order, ripping the book from her hands and doing who knew what with it. And once more, Allison had found herself locked in her room until “you can learn to represent your family at the station to which we’ve risen.”
Nothing but restrictions everywhere she looked. No books, at least not the ones she enjoyed. No food if she wasn’t careful. And she’d resorted to mumbling most of her thoughts because those, also, were too unruly for her mother’s tastes.
Allison stood and stomped her foot. “Enough!” She pulled her cloak from the wardrobe. She knew what she would do—venture into the streets, to Hopkins Bookshop, on her own. It would need to be a secret.
Pulling the cloak around her shoulders, she hesitated. No, not the cloak. She put it back and drew out a bright green spencer. She didn’t want to hide anymore, her books, her body, or her thoughts. She’d visit Hopkins Bookshop proudly as Miss Allison Shropshire, secret keeper no longer! After she climbed out of the window.
Chapter 4
Carson swallowed a sigh as Hopkins Bookshop rose before him. Hopkins always had the best novels. He’d lost four books to his courtship of Miss Shropshire, and he wanted them back.
He breathed deeply when he wobbled through the door. One drink to ease the disappointment of rejection at the club had turned into—he counted his fingers one by one—three? Three drinks to ease the disappointment of rejection?
It didn’t matter.
Getting his books back mattered. He could go anywhere he wished and be anyone he wished just by walking through the door and cracking the spine of a book.
So, he walked through the door, relishing the tinkle of the bell announcing his entry. He heard Hopkins from the back of the shop, speaking with a customer whose low, feminine voice sounded sweet as honey but more hurried than the slow-dripping nectar. Carson took a step toward the voices, wanting to see the woman, then backed away. Woman. No, thank you. Not after today’s debacle. Nothing could be worse than a beautiful woman with a sultry voice.
He bumped into a pile of dusty books. Except for those.
Hopkins had bought who knew how many copies of Carson’s mother’s Guide to Moral Rectitude, but as far as Carson could tell, had sold not a single one. The horrid novels at the back of the shop called to him, but he couldn’t help himself. He picked a dusty copy of Moral Rectitude off the top of the pile and flipped to a random page. He read aloud.
“A sterling example of perfect British manhood can be found in the figure of my very own son.” He choked on the words. He seemed to have a knack for opening the book to the pages most likely to cause bile to rise to his throat. Or, possibly, three pints had been too many. He continued reading. “Lord Trevor is calm, confident, condescending when necessary, and comports himself at all times with elegance and courtesy.” Could she have found any more C words to make him sound like a boring prig? Was he really “condescending when necessary”? What did that even mean? And could Miss Shropshire’s rejection really have stemmed from this damned book? It had certainly plagued him in other ways since its publication. Women, daring only in how high they meant to climb the social ladder, flocked to him, expecting pretty manners and snobbish views. Now, they were boring. And what’s more, they expected him to be boring, too.
Boring. Miss Shropshire could not have thrown a sharper weapon at him than that word, nor one more honed to hit his sensitive spots. She thought him boring.
Carson snapped the book shut, replacing it on the teetering pile.
“Shh,” he told the pile as it crashed to the floor. Ignoring the mess, he walked to the back of the shop. He reached up high, hoping whichever random book he pulled from the shelf would ease the pain of rejection as ale had not. Ann Radcliffe would do the trick. But the thought of Radcliffe reminded him of the book he’d left behind at Lord Grantley’s townhouse. Allison most likely cradled The Mysteries of Udolpho in her elegant fingers at that very moment. She’d rejected him, but surely, she’d still read his book. He pulled another copy of Udolpho from the shelf, propped his hip against the wall, opened the book up, and read the first sentence.
Then reread it.
The voices from the front of the shop rose louder. “Shh!” he told the voices.
They didn’t listen. Mr. Hopkins rumbled, and the feminine voice rang out loud, clear, and urgent. “But you must, Mr. Hopkins, you must!”
Carson knew that voice. Its throaty timbre shot a bolt of lust through him, as it had the first time he’d heard it and every time after. He swallowed the frustration rising in his chest. He’d gone there to escape the afternoon encounter with Miss Shropshire only to have her follow him!
His heart jumped. Had she followed him? Did this mean she’d changed her mind, that she desired to give their courtship a chance? No. She’d been there already when he’d arrived. Carson crept to the front of the shop, following the conversation as he moved, stealthily he hoped, closer. Oops. There went another pile of books.
Hopkins’s voice rang with worry. “My dear young lady, it’s just not possible.”
“But you must sell to me. You must. I won’t tell my mother. She’ll never find out. I promise!”
“She found out about Pamela,” Hopkins grumbled.
“Yes, but I’ve gotten much better at hiding the books.”
“Books? As in multiple?” Hopkins grunted. “Where did you get those from? You can just continue getting your books from there.”
Allison clasped her hands together. “I can’t. It’s not possible.”
It wasn’t possible because she’d not known where the books had come from, and now that she did know the identity of her patron (book fairy, indeed!), she wanted nothing to do with him. Turn away, Carson. But he couldn’t. He was a gentleman, and she a woman in distress. Surely, he could help her in some way. It’s what his mother had taught him to do, after all.
He stepped forward, just enough to see the bickering pair without them seeing him, and caught his breath. She looked the embodiment of innocence: sunny complexion, strawberry-gold curls he wanted to tug then sink his fingers into, a pink little bow of a mouth, and the widest blue eyes. She even had a dimple, though it currently hid from his view. It only popped up on the rare occasion she chose to smile, which now that he thought of it, wasn’t often. At least in his presence.
The first time he’d seen her, he’d not been able to help but grin like an idiot himself. It’s what one did when faced with one’s future. He’d known it in an instant. He was in love. His mother rejected the idea of love within the bounds of matrimony. Marriage united two houses through financial and social compatibility. He’d never objected, not knowing otherwise. But from the moment he’d seen Allison Shropshire, he’d known his mother was wrong.
Love came on all of a sudden, a bit like drinking champagne too quickly. Not that he could use that explanation with his mother. Then, he’d have to admit he sometimes drank to excess. Impossible. She’d expire on the spot. After a good harangue about confusing lust for love.
He stood, riveted by Miss Shropshire’s anxious countenance, and realized his mother’s hypothetical lecture had a good point. He certainly lusted after Miss Shropshire. Gentlemanly behavior wasn
’t the only reason he itched to step farther forward and see what services he could offer in her defense. The curve of her hip. The blond bobbling curls. The plump impertinent lips. She drew his gaze as soon as she entered a room. The magnetic pull had once or twice almost gotten him in trouble. The last time he’d been at Almack’s, he’d been gazing his fill on her lovely form when his mother had noticed. He’d had to focus on keeping his eyes above the crowd after that, to best remove temptation.
There was nothing to stand between him and temptation now. They were almost entirely alone. Hopkins didn’t really count.
Damn. What was she doing alone in a bookshop? Did her maid wait outside? Likely not. If a maid knew of Allison’s adventure, her mother would, too. She was alone. On Bond Street. “Shit.” He’d have to get her home safely.
Her voice floated over the bookcases. His groin tightened. He still wanted her, and perhaps her solitary situation wasn’t entirely a tragedy. He would take her home and use the opportunity to find another way to convince her to reconsider a courtship. They’d be unchaperoned during the short journey back to her townhouse, of course, and that came with its own consequences—ruined reputations and a quick marriage to patch it all up. A hurried and coerced marriage to Allison Shropshire wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to him. In fact, no one would have to coerce him, but he didn’t want her that way. He’d rather she welcome his advances.
He strode out into the open.
The echo of his boots across the floor jerked Hopkins and Allison’s attention his way. Hopkins clearly welcomed him as an escape from an annoying customer.
Allison’s eyes shifted from the clear blue of shock to the stormy blue of anger. “What are you doing here?”
Hopkins looked from Allison to Carson and back again. “You know one another?”
Carson nodded, risking a small smile in Allison’s direction. “We do.”
Miss Shropshire cocked her head to the side and studied him like he was an odd statue in a curiosity shop.
“Do you require assistance, Miss Shropshire?” he asked. Courtesy achieved more than anger.
“No,” she blushed, opening and closing her mouth a few times, clearly flustered. When she finally found her voice, she leaned close to him. “I do appreciate your kindness in the past few weeks, leaving the books for me. But accepting a kindness from you now would suggest I’m in a mood to accept other things from you.”
Carson leaned close, too, hiding his mouth behind his hand. “You mean the proposal?”
She shot away from him. “I’m trying to be nice, Lord Trevor! Recent events suggest there’s more to you than meets the eye, and I am sorry to have hurt your feelings this morning. And I am grateful for the books, more than you can understand. But I cannot … you know.”
He should make her say it. The words I know what? were on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t want her gratitude; he wanted her hand in marriage.
Hopkins looked between the two of them. “I find it hard to believe you two are at odds with one another if you truly are acquaintances.”
“Why?” Perhaps Hopkins’s observations would help his cause.
Hopkins pointed at Carson. “Your mother can’t possibly know you come here to buy gothic novels and the like. Firstly, she can’t stand them, and secondly, she thinks you’re perfect.”
Carson felt his entire body flush with embarrassment, a common occurrence ever since his mother had published the Guide.
“And she,” Hopkins continued, nodding at Allison, “wants to read gothic novels, too, but I happen to know her mother doesn’t allow it, either.”
Allison snuck a peek at Carson, and he ventured a smile. She shyly returned one right back; it bloomed only briefly before she tugged it back under control, returning her full attention to the bookseller.
“I’d think you two would conspire against your maternal shackles together, not—” He waved his arms at the two of them. “Whatever this is.”
“Whatever what is?” a deep voice grumbled from the doorway of the shop.
Carson swung around.
A giant of a man, as wide as he was tall, swept inside. When he reached them, he bowed low. “The Earl of Hellwater at your service.” When he raised from his courtly introduction, he inspected Carson then Allison, his gaze flying back and forth between them. With each look, his smile widened. He rubbed his hands together. “You’ve found them, old friend! You’ve found them!”
“Old friend, my ass,” Hopkins grumbled. “You gave the Gulliver away. Gave it away to a woman you’d never met.”
Hellwater pulled his beaver hat from his head and slapped it on his thigh. “Old news, Hopkins. Do keep up. Who are these attractive, vivacious, and surely dramatically-inclined young people?”
“I’ll not introduce you to my clientele,” Hopkins snorted.
Allison huffed. “I’m not your clientele, Mr. Hopkins, because you will not sell to me.” She dipped a curtsy to the earl. “I am Miss Allison Shropshire.”
The earl stroked his clean-shaven chin. “Shropshire … Shropshire … it’s familiar. I think—ah! Of course. Your father was recently elevated to baron.”
“Yes, my lord, for his service during the war. He is newly Baron Grantly.”
The earl nodded. “You’re just perfect for the heroine, I tell you. I must have you.”
An ominous statement. Carson stepped closer to Allison. “Excuse me—”
“And you are?” the earl asked.
Carson blinked but obliged. “The Earl of Trevor.”
“Lady Hemsworth’s esteemed son! I know you, my boy,” the earl chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Everyone knows you.” His chuckle disappeared. “You’re not what I thought you would be.”
Damn his mother’s Guide. Everyone expected Carson to be a certain way now and most of those ways weren’t acceptable to Carson himself. “I’m exactly who I expect myself to be, Lord Hellwater.”
Hellwater clapped his hands, grinning as if a buffet of the most luscious foods sat before him. “Perfect. Just perfect.” He turned to Hopkins. “I came here to invite you to tonight’s production, Hopkins, but now I see the universe had ulterior motives.”
Hopkins frowned and groaned. “You only invite me to those blasted affairs when—”
“Oh yes, this is a Hopkins original.” Hellwater turned to Carson and Miss Shropshire. “It’s sure to be perfection. All of Hopkins’s plays are.”
“You write, Mr. Hopkins?” Carson asked.
Hopkins dropped his face into his palms, groaning. “I used to think I could.” He pointed accusatorily at Hellwater. “He stole my journals, and now, when the mood strikes, he produces one of my plays and invites me to watch.”
“Do you go?” Miss Shropshire finally crept out of her angry shell. Her air of curiosity made Carson want to kiss her.
“No!” Hopkins exclaimed. “Never! Oh, God. How embarrassing.”
“That’s the point, Hopkins. Glad you see it.”
“You’re not very nice to Mr. Hopkins, Lord Hellwater,” Allison admonished.
“We’ve never been nice to one another. There’s another point for you. And here’s a third point. The two of you are perfect for the hero and heroine of the play. I must have you. Come along.”
Carson did not follow as the earl swept toward the exit. Neither did Miss Shropshire.
“What are you waiting for?” the earl asked. He strode back toward them and clapped Carson on the back. “Look at you! Tall and dark and jolly handsome! But you’ve got secrets, I can tell. So does the hero.” He turned to Allison, clasping his hands before him as if in prayer. “And you, my fair lady, are as bright as a summer day. Who better to solve the mystery of a husband’s death?”
Carson snuck a glance at Allison.
She looked curious still, interested. Yet she hesitated. “You want us to perform in your play?” The corner of her mouth twitched.
“Entirely scandalous,” Carson s
aid, taking a step toward her in case she needed protection from the clearly mad earl.
Allison frowned at Carson. “Yes, scandalous.” She closed her eyes. Thinking? When they popped back open, her body seemed to hum with excitement. “But fun!”
Hellwater laughed. “You’ve come to the fourth point, Miss Shropshire. What’s life without a bit of fun? And if you come with me to Drury Lane, we’ll have our fair share of it this evening. What do you say—Miss Shropshire, Lord Trevor, will you be in my play?”
Carson’s hand shot out, wrapping around Allison’s wrist before she could answer the earl. He tugged her closer. “He’s mad.”
She nodded. “Wonderfully so.” She sniffed. “Are you foxed?”
Maybe. A little. “No. I’m not. Not really. More like fuzzy.”
“Fuzzy?”
“You know, when you’ve had just a bit over what you should and your teeth feel—”
Her arched brow suggested she thought him as mad as the earl.
“No matter. We can’t go with him.” His mother’s lectures rang in his ears. Young ladies were to be kept safe at all times and at whatever cost to a gentleman’s personal desires. Gallivanting off with a strange earl appealed to Carson’s sense of adventure. But the danger inherent in the scheme sparked the gentlemanly traits his mother had so carefully cultivated in him. Could he really encourage Allison into a dangerous situation? Besides, if his mother should find out … But another voice inside him insisted he already hid so much from her, why not one more afternoon?