“I assume you’re hoping for the same level of devotion.”
“It would please me immensely to be so adored, but I am realistic enough to know my dowry will no doubt play a large role in determining my future. I’m trying very hard not to feel as though I’m being sold off.”
He’d never thought of it in those precise terms. “Women have come with dowries for centuries. It’s not an insult to have one.”
“I know. I’m very fortunate. I simply hope it’s not the only thing he likes about me.”
He wanted to remove his gloves and skim his fingers over her cheek in reassurance. Instead he kept them balled into a fist on his thigh. If he had not left Society, would he have met her at a ball? Would he be as intrigued? Would he willingly walk into a trap to have her?
“It’s probably very unwise of me to be alone with a man about whom I know so little.” Within the confines, her voice was a low hush as though she wasn’t quite certain she wanted the words to be heard. “In which area of London did you grow up?”
“I didn’t. I grew up in Yorkshire.”
“A country lad. I hadn’t envisioned that for you.”
“What had you envisioned?”
“I’m not really certain. A father who was a success at some business. A solicitor perhaps.”
“A curmudgeon mostly, but he was skilled at investing and managing his income. I’ve benefited from his attention to details.”
“Is he no longer here?”
“No, he passed some years back.”
“Do you miss him?”
“I miss having his counsel.”
“I believe that’s the most you’ve ever shared with me, Mr. Sommersby. I feel considerably safer.”
“I would never take advantage, Miss Trewlove.”
“I should hope not. My brothers would kill you if you did, and your body would never be found.”
He grinned broadly in the encroaching darkness. “Such a tragic end. Perhaps you could write a penny dreadful about it. Although I’d prefer you make me the hero, as the hero never dies.”
“Regretfully that is not always the case. My father was a hero. He died in a war on foreign shores before I was born. But my mum told me all about him.”
“You know who your mother is?”
Her light laughter floated around him. “Ettie Trewlove is my mum.”
“I’m confused. I was under the impression she only took in by-blows.”
“The others, yes, but not me. She gave birth to me.”
Which further explained why her siblings were so protective of her. Not only because of the age difference, but because she was the child of the woman who had raised them. “She must have been remarkably young when she began taking them in.”
“Barely twenty. Her husband had died, and she needed a way to earn some coins. She lacked an education, you see, so her options were limited.”
He wondered if that was part of the reason that she was teaching others to read. His reason for not helping her suddenly seemed petty and selfish, especially as his resolve to avoid being in her presence had lasted only a few hours. He didn’t want to be drawn to her, and yet he was.
She leaned forward slightly. “Ah, here we are.”
The cab came to a stop. Matthew passed up the fare through a small opening in the roof and the doors quickly flipped open. After climbing out, he handed Miss Trewlove down and glanced at the building before them where people were streaming in. “It looks to be a church.”
“A converted one from what I understand. Quite appropriate, don’t you think, as I’m certain it’s filled with sinners.”
He’d wager no truer statement had ever been spoken. After he paid their admittance fee at the door, they climbed the stairs to a balcony and made their way to the benches at the front, which provided a clear view of the stage and the rows of pews lined up before it. A good deal more pandemonium was visible in the front. Young lads, many appearing to be in need of a bath, were jumping around, running hither and yon. Women were jostling bawling babes, no doubt trying to soothe them into silence. Some men were shouting and shoving on each other, while a few were sitting back puffing on their pipes.
She looked over at him and smiled. “So much mayhem. It’s marvelous, isn’t it?”
He thought of dinners, plays on Drury Lane, recitals, and garden parties he’d attended. Much more civilized, much less chaotic. “I think I would tire of it night after night.”
She nodded. “I agree. It should be saved for special occasions. Although for some of these people, I suspect it offers an escape, especially for those who can’t escape into books.”
“Are you always thinking about books?”
Her gaze lit upon his lips. “Not always.” When she looked away, her cheeks were lightly flushed, and he wondered how much more they might darken if he gave in to temptation and kissed her.
But before he did something he shouldn’t, a gentleman in an ill-fitting jacket strode onto the stage and began offering what Matthew was certain he believed to be witty comments about Americans. The crowd laughing uproariously spurred him on. Miss Trewlove, seeming less than entertained, leaned toward him, her mouth near his ear, bringing with her the scent of oranges. He was rather certain her actions were the result of the loud clamoring that made it difficult to hear anything, that she didn’t mean to be provocative, yet provocative she was. How simple it would be to turn his head and capture her mouth.
“Why do people find it humorous to make sport of others?”
“To distract others from making sport of them.”
As far as Matthew was concerned, the gent couldn’t leave the stage soon enough. He was followed by a lady who couldn’t have been any older than Miss Trewlove. She was far too thin, her skirt and petticoats too short, revealing her slender ankles and bare feet. But she belted out a song about two lovers whose parents sought to keep them apart. It ended with their deaths at their own hands with the aid of a silver dagger in order to be together for eternity. Glancing over, he saw Miss Trewlove discreetly wiping tears from her cheeks. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, he slipped his finger beneath her chin and turned her head toward him. Very gently, slowly, he gathered up her tears. “It’s only a song.”
“But such a tragic one.” Her brown eyes held so much sadness he wished he had a talent that would bring her a measure of cheer, chase away the sorrow.
“That is the way of love sometimes.”
“Still, I can’t imagine it’s better not to have it, even if only for a little while.”
“But having had it, could you give it up?”
“I don’t know. And who is to say that we cannot love more than once?”
Having collected all her tears, he stuffed his linen back into his pocket, touched by her tenderheartedness. A flurry of coins was tossed on the stage. The girl gave a series of quick bows and curtsies as she scurried around, gathering up her loot, and then she was gone. Leaning in, he whispered, “I’ll find out who she is and send money round to her tomorrow.”
Dear Lord, but he’d empty out his coffers for the smile she bestowed upon him. “That’s so generous of you, Mr. Sommersby.”
Hardly, not when he could easily afford it. “You enjoyed her performance, did you not?”
“I did. Do you think she really has no shoes?”
“I suspect the absence of them is part of her costume.”
She shook her head. “I forget these people are performers.”
“The really good ones manage to do that, to make you forget it’s all an act.”
His wife had certainly fallen into that category, laughing at his jests, bestowing upon him long, lingering gazes whenever he was walking toward her. She’d always smiled brightly upon first catching a glimpse of him, causing his heart to ratchet up its beat a notch in anticipation of his being nearer to her. Until he realized all her actions had been merely a ploy to achieve a certain end: his standing beside her at the altar.
Fancy didn’t enjoy
most of the performances, especially the lewd ones, where people pretended to fornicate. Children were in the audience for goodness’ sake.
Still, she was glad she’d come, had the experience of it so if anyone spoke of penny gaffs, she’d at least have an idea of what they might have seen. She was especially glad Mr. Sommersby had accompanied her.
When they stepped out of the theater, she spied a woman selling meat pies. “Oh, I’m famished. Would you like one?”
“You don’t know what’s in it.”
“Well, it’s a meat pie.”
“What sort of meat? Dog? Cat? Rat?”
“Honestly. Just because this is a poorer area of London does not mean the food suffers.” She stepped up to the cart. “A meat pie, please.”
“Make it two,” he grumbled, before handing over the required coins.
“It wasn’t my intention for you to pay for everything tonight.”
“It’s no hardship, Miss Trewlove.”
“That’s not the point. I don’t want to be beholden.”
“It’s the least I can do after inserting myself into your night.”
Not about to confess that she was glad he had, Fancy glanced around. The crowd who’d left the theater had dispersed, and those who’d been waiting for the next show had made their way inside. “We’ll sit on the steps, shall we?”
She didn’t wait for him but settled herself halfway up the stairway that led into the theater. He dropped down near her, his long legs stretching out before him. He wasn’t as near to her as he’d been in the cab, and she rather regretted that no portion of him was touching her. It had been quite lovely to brush up against him as they’d traversed through the streets.
“It’s surprisingly good,” he muttered.
“I noticed a queue earlier when we arrived. If you set up a stall outside a theater, you need to establish a reputation for dependable fare if you hope to have any success at all.”
He gave her a sideways glance. “Your brother teach you that?”
“No, I figured it out on my own, not to mention that it makes a great deal of sense. People don’t return if they’re dissatisfied with the results of a purchase.” She shrugged. “Well, around here they might return in order to introduce you to their fists.”
She bit into the tasty crust, laughing lightly as the thick filling dribbled down her chin. With her gloved hand, she wiped it away. So unladylike. But it was rather delicious.
When he didn’t respond, she looked over to find him studying her with a hunger in his eyes as though he wished to lick the broth from her skin—or perhaps she was merely projecting her own desires onto him.
“I have a linen in my pocket.” His voice sounded rough and raw.
“The one with my tears?”
He nodded. She’d been deeply touched when he’d gently wiped away the dampness, and for some reason she didn’t want to soil the cloth, having an irrational thought that perhaps he would never again wash it but would keep her tears for eternity.
She shook her head. “It’s really too late now. I’ll continue to use my gloves and simply remove them when I’m done.”
“They’ll be ruined.”
They were already ruined. She noted he’d had the wisdom to remove his before they began eating. “I’ve another pair.”
Abruptly, he returned his attention to his meat pie, and she took another bite of hers. Then she felt a need to confess, “I’ve peered through a part in my draperies and caught you lurking at your window late at night.”
“I’m hardly lurking, simply looking out over the mews.”
“Not at my window?”
“Sometimes my gaze might pass over it, but it is not my intention to spy on you, Miss Trewlove.”
She didn’t know why his words disappointed her. Perhaps because she wanted him to be as intrigued by her as she was by him. “From your window across the way, you can see my bedchamber but not the perfection of what rests on the other side.”
“Are you referring to yourself?”
Her light laughter floated around them. “I’m not so arrogant as all that. Beneath my window is a small reading nook. My brothers built a bench into the wall. My mum sewed a thick stuffed cushion and embroidered pillows for it. Sometimes I sit there and read until the world falls away.”
“Don’t let my looking out prevent you from doing what you enjoy.”
“Now who’s being arrogant, to think you could stop me from doing something I wished to do? I simply wanted you to be aware that if you should see me sitting there, it’s not because I seek to garner your attention, but rather it is my habit to do so.”
“I shall keep that in mind. What will become of your shop when you marry? Will you continue to manage it?”
“I won’t have time, will I? Not with all my social and wifely obligations. Morning calls, dinners, plays—being seen everywhere. Mick still owns the building.” He’d been unwilling to give it to her because the law wouldn’t allow her to keep control of it once she married. Her husband would be able to do with it as he pleased. “He has promised to let me have a say in how it’s managed, but I won’t be working there, certainly not living there. No, Marianne will take over the running of things, although I hope to still have a hand in the teaching. Ladies married to lords do good works, you know. That shall be mine.”
It would be a very different life, but she was excited about the possibilities of it. The challenge was in finding a man who also saw the potential and embraced it. She took the last bite of her pie, wiped her gloved hand over her mouth, and began tugging it off.
“You missed a spot.”
Turning, she found him studying her so intently she feared she looked an absolute mess. She lifted a hand, the glove dangling halfway off it. His fingers closed gently around her wrist. “May I?”
His voice held such sincerity she might have nodded had he asked to ravish her, but all he wanted was to remove a tiny bit of food that she’d overlooked. In amazement, she watched as he touched his tongue to his thumb—quite possibly the most sensual thing she’d ever seen a man do.
“Just there,” he said, pressing his thumb near the corner of her mouth.
Then he licked off whatever he’d gathered, and she grew so warm that it was possible the moon had morphed into the sun.
“And there.” He touched the other corner.
“And here.” Her chin.
“And there.” The space between her brows, where his thumb lingered.
People strolled by, and she wondered what they thought of this couple on the steps barely moving.
“And there.” Her left temple.
“I daresay, I wasn’t that messy.”
“Your face is perfect, Miss Trewlove.”
“From your mouth to the lords’ ears. And I don’t mean God’s. I mean the viscounts, and earls . . . I hope they find me comely.”
“I don’t see how they can’t.” His tone was terse, rife with disapproval. As though she’d suddenly ignited, he’d moved his hand away, and she found herself aching once more for his caress.
“May I be honest with you, Mr. Sommersby?”
“I daresay, I hope you always are, Miss Trewlove.”
She took a deep breath, not at all certain her words would ease whatever tension had abruptly risen within him. “You confound me, sir.”
“And how is that?”
How to explain so it didn’t appear that she truly cared, when in fact she cared a great deal, more than was wise for a woman who was on the cusp of going on a husband hunt. “You don’t seem to know your own mind.”
He arched a heavy dark brow. “Indeed.”
“It’s as though you can’t decide whether or not you find me to your liking. This afternoon, for example, I was left with the impression you couldn’t wait to be rid of me. Now, here you are, having inserted yourself into my adventure, making it a much more pleasant experience than it would have been had I come alone as planned. You saw to my tears and tidied my face, and yet, I c
an’t help but believe that just now I’ve offended you.”
He released a long sigh before shifting away from her, planting his elbows on his thighs, clasping his hands, and staring into the street where the first wisps of fog were making their presence known. “I was once married. It was not a happy arrangement.”
Her heart lurched at the confession he’d made and the somberness of his tone. “Did you get divorced?”
“No, she passed away. But our marriage came about because she arranged for us to be caught in a compromising situation. I had no choice but to marry her. So when you told me you were willing to do all that is necessary to acquire your dream of landing a peer—”
“It’s not my dream.”
He jerked his head around to stare at her.
“It’s my mum’s.” She felt rather silly saying that. “I’d be content to spend my life as a spinster working in my shop.”
“Then why not simply do that?”
She looked up, wishing the stars were visible. “Because they have all worked so hard and sacrificed so much to see me well situated that I have to at least give it my best. I fully realize that a woman of my scandalous background will not be any lord’s ideal, but I doubt a one of them will find any lady more prepared to manage a household than I. I can exhibit grace and confidence and be an asset. If you will not think me too obnoxious, I must admit I will be quite the catch.”
He gave a short chuckle, a small grin. “It seems you can add a lack of modesty to your list of attributes.”
“Mick says we must project what we want the world to believe.” Growing somber, she dared to place her hand over his forearm. “I’m sorry about your wife, your marriage. Have you been a widower long?”
“During some moments it feels like forever; during others as though no time at all has passed. I mourn her death, did not wish it upon her.”
“But you have scars from her deception.”
He studied her a full minute before confessing, “I do find it a challenge to trust women’s motives.”
“Rest assured, I have no plans to trick any lord into marriage. My siblings have all married for love. I’d rather like to follow that custom. So I’m in no rush to tie the knot. I intend to take my time and find the right fellow.”
The Earl Takes a Fancy Page 7