“Get settled and we’ll begin work shortly,” Miss Trewlove said.
With a duck of her head, Mrs. Bennett scuttled past Matthew. How did she follow a recipe book? She couldn’t. Her only choice was to cook whatever her mother or a relation or a friend had taught her, remembering every ingredient, every measurement. He couldn’t help but be impressed that she managed not only her household but his. “She was embarrassed by my presence,” he said quietly.
“People fear being mocked, berated, or belittled for not possessing skills that others take for granted.”
“You give them pride.”
“We give them the ability to read. Within these walls we provide a place where they are not judged. Some people learn quickly, others not so fast. We make sure they never feel ashamed—even if they don’t master the skill.”
“And if I’m like her husband and haven’t the patience for it?”
She smiled softly. “Then I’ll have misjudged you.”
She hadn’t. Not if his enthralled attention was any indication.
Another new student arrived. Based on his wariness as he studied his surroundings like a trapped animal searching for an escape, she suspected he was recently released from prison. In which case, her brother Finn had sent him. Although it had been years since he’d been incarcerated, he tended to offer help to those who needed it when they were set free. He joined Mr. Tittlefitz’s group.
Three more current students—two men and a woman—joined her circle. They took turns reading aloud, the others following the story along in their primers. When one of them blundered, she’d gently nudge the lady or gent toward the correct word, helping to sound it out. Although on a couple of occasions, she’d lost her place and stumbled, and Mr. Sommersby had been the one to assist her. It was disconcerting having him so near, sitting beside her, facing the students.
Her lungs were filled with his scent of bay rum. He looked so splendidly handsome in a navy jacket and trousers, gray waistcoat, snowy white shirt, and perfectly knotted cravat. Her gaze kept wandering over to him, and every so often, his would glide over to clash against hers. Her cheeks would warm as she turned her attention back to the task at hand. She couldn’t help but believe that something was shifting between them and could only hope it wasn’t unwise to find excuses to have him near.
An hour in, several footmen from the hotel dining room paraded in, carrying small cakes, biscuits, and tea. She stood and clapped her hands. “Refreshments have arrived. We’ll take a short break now.”
As people scattered, the footmen set their items on a table near the door and began serving.
“Your brother provides the food and drink, I assume,” Mr. Sommersby said quietly just over her shoulder, creating a tingle of pleasure that traversed along her spine with his nearness. It took every morsel of dignity she possessed not to back into him so his arms could encircle her as they had yesterday afternoon.
“Yes. I suspect the offering entices at least one of our students to return.” She faced him. “May I prepare you some tea?”
“No, thank you. After this, I’ll be headed for a glass of scotch.”
“Is it so awful?”
He slowly shook his head. “No, but it is humbling to realize how often I’ve taken reading for granted. It’s a remarkable thing you’re striving to accomplish here, Miss Trewlove.”
“It’s a small thing really. I appreciate how you helped me earlier when I stumbled.”
His gaze roamed slowly over her face as though he were searching for something. “Why did you stumble?”
Because I find myself drawn to you and in two nights, I’ll be at a ball hoping to garner the favor of some lord—
“Whew, it’s ’ot in ’ere, id’n it?” Lottie asked as she wedged herself between Fancy and Mr. Sommersby, who was forced to take a step back to avoid having the woman pressed up against him.
Fancy watched in fascination as Lottie gave freedom to three buttons on her bodice and then trailed her finger over the exposed flesh. “Would ye loike to go outside, ’ansome, where it’s a bit cooler?”
“No, thank you.”
She shifted her gaze to the side, to Fancy. “She’s a proper lady, she is. She won’t even give ye a kiss.”
Fancy nearly shoved the woman aside in order to prove her wrong by latching her mouth on to Mr. Sommersby’s. That thought brought her up short. Whatever was wrong with her? Was she truly thinking of kissing him? She couldn’t deny wondering what it might be like to have his mouth pressed up against hers. “I would very much hate to have to report your inappropriate behavior to Beast. You might want to do yourself a favor by returning to your studies.”
Lottie winked at Mr. Sommersby. “Ye might get that kiss ye be wantin’ after all.”
She sauntered away, her hips swaying in such an exaggerated fashion that Fancy was surprised the woman didn’t harm herself. Her parting words made it difficult to meet Mr. Sommersby’s eyes. Instead she settled on studying his chin. It was one of the finer examples of nature doing its best work. It jutted out, not too much, but enough so it didn’t become lost in the muscles of his throat. It fanned out into a strong, square jaw, well-defined but then everything about him was.
“We should probably return to our lessons now.” She despised how her voice sounded almost meek, a tiny bit breathless.
“She wasn’t half-wrong, you know.”
Her gaze did jump to his then. “About it being hot in here?”
“About my wanting to kiss you.”
Chapter 10
He shouldn’t have said it, but hell, it was hard not to want to devour her mouth when the woman was passionate about every damn thing in her life. He watched her turn red and nod jerkily, before she mumbled something about getting back to work. Then she gathered her students around her like a goose her goslings—or perhaps a knight his armor. He’d unnerved her, which hadn’t been his intention. Yet, he’d felt a need to at least confirm he was drawn to her.
Did she truly think that men attending the ball weren’t going to want a taste of that luscious mouth? That any gent in her company wasn’t wondering what it might be like to press his lips to hers, urge them to part, and slide his tongue inside in order to know fully the velvety confines within and the taste of her?
If his thoughts continued on this path, he was going to grow hard and embarrass himself. The doxy would certainly notice and no doubt call attention to him or at least tease him unmercifully later. So he focused on her hair, the silkiness of it, and how the heavy black strands would flow over his hands if he removed the pins holding them in place. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. That foray certainly hadn’t helped matters.
So he concentrated on the fact that her attention wasn’t on him, was on the others as they struggled to make sense of the words that told the story of a young girl who dreamed of attending a ball and capturing the attention of a prince—very much as Miss Trewlove dreamed of capturing the attention of a lord at her upcoming ball. He imagined her being whisked over the dance floor, the joy that would light her eyes, the smile she would bestow on her partner. She would meet more than a handful of other gents, become enamored of them, and perhaps one would take her for a ride in a hot air balloon—if he cared enough to learn about the things she might enjoy. If she wasn’t merely a dowry to fill empty coffers. If they would look beyond her birth in order to appreciate the remarkable woman she was.
She had the skills and intelligence to successfully manage a bookshop. She had the generosity of spirit to make books available to those who couldn’t afford them. She sought to better the lives of the overlooked by giving them the gift of reading. She didn’t sit in judgment of people, not even women who earned their keep upon their backs. She was goodness, and kindness, and saw the best in those around her.
Becoming aware of the echo of books closing, he realized he’d lost his way in the narrative, hadn’t been listening as passages were read. Not that it mattered, not tonight. He wasn’t a tutor, merely a
n observer.
People stood. Offering words of encouragement, she hugged each one before they began wandering toward the door. She even had something reassuring to say to the pupils Mr. Tittlefitz had worked with. While the secretary began tidying up, spreading chairs throughout the room, not having to bother with the refreshments because the footmen had cleared all that away before taking their leave, she turned to Matthew. “What do you think?”
“It’s a commendable endeavor.”
“Will you be part of it?”
He gave a brisk nod. “On the nights when you’re not available.”
Her beatific smile nearly dropped him to his knees. Did she have to be so bloody grateful?
“He’s going to assist you, Mr. Tittlefitz.”
“Jolly good.” The man’s tone lacked enthusiasm, and Matthew was left with the impression the fellow didn’t think it was good at all. “I’ll see you Wednesday, then. Good night, Miss Trewlove, Mr. Sommersby.”
“Enjoy the remainder of your evening,” she encouraged him.
With a brusque nod, the young man made toward the exit, surprising Matthew by his willingness to leave him alone with Miss Trewlove, although he supposed her young clerk was about somewhere.
“Oh, Mr. Tittlefitz?” she called out as he reached the door. Abruptly, he stopped to face her. “Would you be so kind as to walk Marianne home? She doesn’t live far from here, and while I know Mick works hard to keep the streets safe, it is dark.”
“I’ll be happy to escort her, Miss Trewlove.”
When Matthew could no longer hear the man’s steps on the stairs, he spoke. “He is enamored of you, you know?”
Her cheeks blossomed like the pinkest rose unfurling. “I’m aware, but I’ve never viewed him as anything other than a friend.” Pressing her lips together, she looked somewhat guilty. “However, Marianne has a tender regard for him.”
He tilted his head to the side, giving her what he knew was an admonishing stare. In his youth, he’d spent hours before a looking glass practicing a series of expressions designed to put people in their place or cause them to move more quickly. “Are you playing matchmaker, Miss Trewlove?”
With a grin, she held up her thumb and forefinger with only a tiny bit of space between them. “Perhaps a little. They’re really quite perfect for each other, if he would only notice her.”
“When one’s head is turned by another, it’s difficult to notice anyone else.”
“Do you speak from experience?”
“Unfortunately. I suppose the lessons are at the same time on Wednesday.”
“Yes, although the students will be different. One class a week is all most of the students have time for.”
“You won’t be here at all?” Her absence made him fear the evening would be rather bleak. Still, he would endure it if for no other reason than to please her.
“I’ll pop in before I head to the ball.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No, I have complete faith in your ability to guide the students in their reading.”
He had little doubt she’d purposely misunderstood his question, and perhaps her doing so provided the answer and yet he yearned to hear it from her. “About the ball.”
She nodded. “Rather. I’m not certain that even having relations who are part of the aristocracy is enough to see me accepted.”
“Simply be yourself, Miss Trewlove. You’ll win them over.”
Her light laughter echoed around them, through him as though the center of his chest served as its North Star. “As though you know what the nobility will welcome.” She turned on her heel. “Come along.”
He followed her down the stairs. Her hips didn’t sway as much as Lottie’s and yet they were all the more provocative because of it. She was all the more provocative. She was small of stature and yet there was a mightiness to her that filled the space as adeptly as her brother had earlier. Something about her made it impossible to ignore her, not to notice her, not to want to map out every aspect of her from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, as well as her heart and her soul and her thoughts, beliefs, and dreams. Never before had he found a woman so compelling, had he yearned to fully understand everything about her, every aspect that encompassed her and made her who she was. He’d like very much to have her arms around him, to have her pressed up against the length of him, to have his hands skimming over the silkiness of her cheek.
The shop was quiet, in a comforting sort of way. Somewhere a clock was ticking. He stood at the door, waiting to depart, while light from a distant streetlamp spilled through the window to flow over her, creating a mesmerizing array of light and dark shadows, deep curves, enticing lines. She was temptation itself, and he had the unconscionable image of her suddenly reaching up, loosening the three buttons that followed the line from her throat, and slowly trailing a finger along the narrow length of exposed skin.
“May I show you something?”
Please do. Even one loosened button—
He gave his mind a mental shake. His thoughts were traipsing toward the gutter, and she deserved much better than that. “What did you have in mind?”
“Over here. I’ve placed it against the far wall so the sun can’t reach it.”
He followed her across the room to where a large clock stood. Beside it was a glass case perched on a wooden pedestal. Beneath the glass, open and spread beautifully like a butterfly’s wings, was the book he’d sent to her.
“It contains the original versions of Shakespeare’s plays,” she whispered reverently. Gingerly she touched her fingers to the edge of the case, and he imagined the prince approaching Sleeping Beauty with the same caution. “It was printed more than two hundred years ago. After all these years there can’t be that many copies left. Do you have any idea what a rare find this is?”
He’d known she’d appreciate it, far more than any of his ancestors had, far more than any future generations would. “How did you come to have it?”
With her brow deeply furrowed, she looked up at him. “That’s just it. I don’t really know. An elderly gentleman brought it in and left it with no explanation.”
Jenkins. He should have known the man wouldn’t leave the chore to anyone else.
She sighed, waved her hand. “A few bookshop owners and a couple of antiquities dealers know I’m always in the market for the unusual but this . . . it’s worth a fortune.”
“You could sell it to finance your lessons.”
She glared at him as though he’d sprouted horns and a tail. “It’s not the sort of thing one sells. If anything, I should donate it to a museum. But it seems rather at home here, and I’m reluctant to part with it.”
“Especially as you already had a way to display it.”
“Oh no. I designed what I wanted, and then took it to Mr. Bennett before going to church yesterday. He was kind enough to put it together for me using leftover bits from all the construction Mick is doing and brought it to me this morning. I just wish I knew who sent it.”
“Someone who wanted you to have it, I should think.”
“But why?”
“I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Miss Trewlove. I doubt any other person alive would give it as much care.”
She smiled softly. “You may have the right of it there. Of all the people I know, I thought you would appreciate it the most.”
What he appreciated was that he’d accurately judged the joy it would bring her. Looking up at him, she held his gaze for the longest moment, as though she were waiting for something, for something more than words about a book. He was incredibly tempted to take her face between his hands and tell her that she was as rare a find as the original version of Shakespeare’s plays. “I should be off.”
The forced words sounded almost strangled. He wondered how she would react if he leaned in and kissed her. Would she stop him? Was she saving those lips for her lord—or would she be willing to experience a taste of passion and pleasure?
“You�
��re welcome to take a book with you. Not to borrow, but to keep. It’s how I thank those who assist me in my endeavors to educate.”
“It’s a wonder, Miss Trewlove, that you make any profit at all with your penchant for giving people books without taking coins in return.”
“I wouldn’t object to your calling me Fancy.”
A courtesy she’d obviously not bestowed upon Mr. Tittlefitz, a courtesy he would be a fool to accept as viewing her in an informal light could have him lowering his guard, allowing her to skirt past his defenses when she was already battering at the wall. How easy it would be to simply allow it to crumble, to open himself up to the possibility of having her in his life on a more permanent basis. But he needed to test the waters with her first. He’d lived the old adage about marrying in haste and repenting in leisure. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again. “Good night, Miss Trewlove.”
She offered up a tentative smile, and he regretted that he might have hurt her with his rebuff of her offer to call her by her Christian name. “Good night, Mr. Sommersby.”
He didn’t go straight home, but instead wandered through the streets, his mind a chaotic swirl as he debated the wisdom of pursuing her without telling her who he was. But how else was he to be sure her feelings toward him weren’t influenced by his position? When he finally returned to his residence, he followed his usual routine of pouring himself a glass of scotch, walking upstairs to his bedchamber, and gazing out the window.
Only tonight he was met with a lovely view. Fancy Trewlove sitting in the reading nook she’d told him about. Her profile to him, her back against a wall. He could see only a portion of her: chest, shoulders, head, bent knees upon which a book rested. Then she twisted slightly, lifted a hand, and waved. So simple an action that seemed to reach down and touch something deep inside him.
Without much thought, he set his glass aside, shoved a chair in front of his own window, grabbed a book, and sat. With any luck, he’d give the appearance of reading, while in truth he was simply watching her, wondering how the mere sight of her could bring such calm to his soul, knowing when he finally retired for the evening, he would dream of making love to a shopgirl.
The Earl Takes a Fancy Page 11