The Earl Takes a Fancy

by Lorraine Heath

  “You might meet someone at the next ball who does.”

  “I suppose. I haven’t really given it much time, have I?”

  Her mum studied her for a full minute before saying, “Tell me about the gent who comes into your shop.”

  What could she say that wouldn’t give away she’d actually done things with him without a chaperone, had kissed him, had given him permission to do something he shouldn’t have? “He likes penny dreadfuls. He’s teaching my reading classes on the nights I can’t be there. I’ve seen him give coins to children. And he’s shown a great deal of patience with Dickens. When he’s about, I feel as though my entire body is smiling. And he’s made me laugh a couple of times.” And wiped my tears.

  “He sounds right jolly. Has he set his cap for you, do you think?”

  She smiled, felt the heat warming her cheeks. “No, I think he’s just friendly.” Exceedingly friendly. “But I don’t want to disappoint—” Closing her eyes, she released a sigh. “It was one ball, one night.” She opened her eyes. “I’m certain in time I’ll meet some lord who will sweep me off my feet.”

  “As long as you’re happy, love, that’s all that matters.”

  At eight, Timmy Tubbins had an honest, but dirty face with large, guileless brown eyes that, in all of Fancy’s dealings with him, had never once not been steady as they held her gaze. Thanks to Matthew, as she examined the tattered book with several pages that had come loose of their mooring, she doubted the lad. “Where did you say you found it?”

  “In Whitechapel, in the street, just lyin’ there, abandoned loike.”

  “Not from a bookstall, where it could have been easily plucked from a cart or box?”

  “No, Miss Trewlove. That’d be stealin’, woodn’t it? I ain’t no thief.”

  He appeared truly hurt that she’d questioned the origins of his find, and she felt guilty about having done so. It was one of the better ones he’d brought to her. With a little loving care, she could restore it to its former glory, having become quite skilled at book restoration, hating the thought of the life of any tome coming to an end. “A shilling, then.”

  His grin caused two large dimples to form on either side of his mouth, and she suspected it was those dimples that had her believing him. He held up a hand that was slightly grimier than his face. “Deal.”

  She removed the coin from her till. Reaching into an onyx box, she retrieved a wooden token that Gillie had first begun passing around in an effort to feed those who would go without sustenance otherwise. Handing both items over to him, she suspected he’d purposely planned the timing of his arrival to ensure he had a free late midday meal that would keep his stomach from grumbling until morning. “Go to the pub and get yourself a bowl of soup.”

  He doffed his flat-cap. “Thanks, miss.”

  He rushed to the door, opened it, and then stepped back, holding it ajar as though he were a trained footman as three ladies walked past him, two scowling at him, while the third, Lady Penelope, reached into her reticule, pulled out a coin, and handed it to him. “Thanks, miss!”

  He dashed out, slamming the door in his wake. Fancy grimaced at the sound as she moved away from the counter to greet her three new guests. “Good afternoon, Ladies Penelope, Victoria, and Alexandria. How wonderful it is to see you.”

  “You still remember our names,” Lady Penelope said, smiling brightly.

  “I’m not likely to forget them now. What brings you here?”

  “You, of course. We so enjoyed visiting with you last night that we wanted to call upon you.”

  “We had no chance to speak with you again after Lord Dearwood took you out onto the floor,” Lady Victoria said. “My word, you had so many dance partners that you must have worn a hole in the sole of your slippers.”

  “Not quite.” Although she had come close.

  “Lady Aslyn had informed my mother that if we wanted to call on you, we were to go to her residence at the Trewlove Hotel,” Lady Penelope continued, “but when we disembarked from the carriage, Alexandria noticed the name of this shop—The Fancy Book Emporium—and we thought it must surely be yours! How cleverly you named it.”

  “We adore it,” Lady Alexandria said. “It’s a play on your own name, isn’t it?”

  “It is, yes, although not everyone understands that. Some think it needs an apostrophe and an S.”

  “That would absolutely ruin it.”

  “I thought so as well.”

  “So you actually own the shop,” Lady Victoria said.

  “No, my brother does. Because of the law regarding married women and property.”

  “Oh yes, dastardly thing.”

  “But other than that, it’s all mine. I decide which books I’ll carry. I arrange everything, create the displays. Would you ladies like a tour?”

  Lady Penelope looked at her friends. They all nodded. “That would be splendid.”

  Fancy introduced Marianne to them—not certain she’d ever seen her clerk so starry-eyed—and while she watched the counter, Fancy took the ladies up to the reading parlor.

  “Oh, isn’t this lovely?” Lady Penelope said. “It’s like a regular parlor only with lots of books.”

  “People can borrow them and read them in here.”

  With her delicate brow pinched, she looked at Fancy. “I thought you had a bookshop, which means selling books.”

  “I do. Downstairs. Up here is a lending library. But there is no subscription fee.”

  “How do you maintain it?”

  “With donations.”

  Her brow smoothed out, and she seemed quite relieved. “Oh, I see. How clever you are. So people who can’t afford books can read them.”

  “Exactly.” She went on to explain about her classes.

  “What good works you do, Miss Trewlove,” Lady Penelope said, while her friends smiled and bobbed their heads. “You must find it all very satisfying.”

  “I do.”

  “What if you marry a man who won’t let you continue with these endeavors?” Lady Alexandria asked.

  “Well, I shan’t marry a man who won’t.” Fancy had spoken without thinking. And yet, she knew she’d stated the truth. No matter how much she wanted to please her family, she couldn’t marry a man who would make her unhappy. Could she? Would they ask her to make that sacrifice?

  Lady Victoria appeared shocked. “You get to choose whom you marry? I don’t believe my parents are going to let me. They care too much about his position—their position.”

  “Hopefully it’ll work out that the man you love is the man they want you to marry.”

  “I don’t know that I have to love him, but I would very much prefer to like him.”

  “We’re all going to have splendid matches,” Lady Penelope said.

  “I’m certain we are,” Fancy concurred.

  “Oh, my goodness. Is that a cat on that shelf?” Lady Penelope asked.

  Looking toward the bookcase to the right of the fireplace, Fancy saw Dickens lounging between Austen and Brontë. “That’s Dickens. He keeps a watch over things for me.”

  “I love animals, but my mother would never let me keep one inside.” She wandered over to the bookcase, lifted her arms, then glanced back at Fancy. “Will he scratch or bite?”

  “No. He loves to be held.”

  Carefully, Lady Penelope shifted him from his perch into the cradle of her arms. “Isn’t he a sweetheart? Does he stay here alone at night when you return to your residence?”

  “I have rooms here, on the floor above.”

  The ladies blinked at her as though they were having difficulty deciphering her words.

  “You live here . . . alone?” Lady Victoria asked.

  “Yes. It’s quite safe.”

  “You’re so independent,” Lady Alexandria said. “Living with my mother can be a nightmare at times. She has to know what I’m doing every moment of every day.”

  “At least you don’t have a sister who is always poking around, trying to find yo
ur journal.” Pressing a hand to her lips, she looked at Fancy with mirth reflected in her eyes. “I hide it in the fireplace flue. She doesn’t like to get dirty, so I know she’ll never look there.”

  Fancy had never really talked with others about their families. It made her realize how fortunate she was to have hers. “Would you all care to join me for some tea in the hotel gardens?”

  “I like this room too much and hate the thought of leaving Dickens,” Lady Penelope said. “Would it be possible to enjoy our tea here?”

  While the ladies settled in, Fancy dashed over to the hotel dining room, spoke with the majordomo, and returned to her guests. A short time later, the hotel staff delivered tea and cakes. The ladies stayed longer than they should have for a morning call, a full half hour, but Fancy enjoyed visiting with them, felt as though she was making inroads to being accepted.

  Chapter 15

  Friday night, sipping his scotch, Matthew sat in a large leather chair in one of several small sitting areas spread throughout the library at Dodger’s. The footman who had brought him his drink had done so without making a sound. Gentlemen who were sitting about spoke in low voices, their mumbles barely audible. Everything was so quiet, so dignified, so refined. So blasted boring. Not at all like the lively affairs he’d been attending with Fancy.

  He’d been avoiding her since the kiss. And he missed her like the very devil.

  “Good God, Rosemont, where have you been keeping yourself?” Lord Beresford asked cheerfully as he took the chair opposite him. “Haven’t seen you at any of the balls.”

  “I’ve been keeping myself busy elsewhere. After Elise’s letter made its appearance, I discovered I’d returned to Society a bit too soon.”

  Beresford furrowed his brow. A few years older than Matthew, he’d yet to marry, although the rumors bandied about implied that he was quite taken with his mistress. “Sorry, old chap. I wasn’t thinking. I imagine it’s difficult to return to the gaiety after suffering such a tragic loss. Not easy to move on, I daresay.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “Although your countess certainly gave you permission. That was some letter she wrote. Quite shocking, really. Took me a minute to remember she was no longer with us.”

  He was more than ready for a change in topic. “Any debutantes catch your interest this Season?”

  Beresford waggled his thick brown brows. “You’ve missed out on all the excitement. The Trewlove chit was introduced into Society.”

  One hand balled into a tightened fist, the other closed around his glass so firmly he feared it might shatter. He didn’t appreciate Fancy being labeled a chit, not that he hadn’t used the word himself on occasion in reference to other women, but she deserved a more respectful tone. It took everything within him not to launch himself at the man sitting across from him and introduce his jaw to his fists.

  “Waltzed with her at the Thornley ball,” Beresford continued. “She’s a comely little thing.”

  Matthew set his scotch aside because he expected the glass to crumble in his hand at any moment. He hadn’t expected the anger—or perhaps it was jealousy—to swell so forcefully within him when he imagined Beresford circling Fancy over the dance floor. “I heard rewards were offered to anyone who danced with her. What benefit did you receive?”

  “The benefit of her company. Nothing else. I don’t gamble so I have no debt. My stables are up to snuff, and my investments are sound.”

  He was at once happy for Fancy that she might have an actual admirer, while again experiencing a stab of jealousy that someone else might have an interest in her. “You were taken with her then?”

  Beresford glanced around as though on the verge of doing something he ought not. Leaning forward slightly, he met Matthew’s gaze. “She’s a beauty, doesn’t giggle or simper. Appears to be a woman of intelligence.”

  That was an understatement.

  “She asked after my family and my hobbies. I’ve never had a woman ask questions of me. They generally just talk about themselves or the weather. She was quite a delight to be honest.”

  She was most definitely that.

  “However, she’s unlawfully born. Her father could be a murderer for all we know.”

  He almost revealed that her father was a war hero, but then he’d have to explain how he knew, and things could get a bit complicated from there. “I don’t believe criminal tendencies are inherited.”

  “Still, tainted blood and all that. A man could lose some power and prestige taking her to wife.”

  Or he could gain it. “Thornley married her sister, a by-blow.”

  “He’s a duke from one of the most powerful families in all of England. He can do whatever he bloody well likes and suffer very little for it. You and I are mere earls.”

  It was true that Thornley came from an incredibly formidable family, but Matthew could hold his own when it came to power, prestige, and influence. “Is that the reason you don’t marry your mistress?”

  A sadness coming over him, Beresford settled back in his chair. “Duty before love. They were the first words I was taught.”

  They’d been battered into Matthew as well. They were the reason he’d married a woman knowing her treachery would forever prevent him from loving her. When he was in Fancy’s company, the past no longer mattered. She made him believe the potential for love hovered within reach, if he would but dare to grasp it.

  Fancy took great satisfaction in watching people wander through her shop, taking books from the shelves, opening them, perusing a few words, putting them back. Or hugging them close and bringing them to the counter to purchase. This particular Saturday afternoon, more people were about than usual and helping them select books kept her mind occupied so she wasn’t thinking about Matthew or the fact that she hadn’t seen him since the kiss.

  She had just finished helping a woman with her book purchase when the bells above her door jingled—and Matthew was dominating her thoughts once again because he stepped over the threshold and approached the counter. “Mr. Sommersby.” She wondered why she had to sound so breathless when she’d said his name a hundred times already, whenever she saw him in her dreams.

  “Miss Trewlove. How are you this fine day?”

  Wonderful now that you’ve made an appearance. “Very well, thank you, and you?”

  “At a bit of a loss. I’m in need of a book for my niece and was hoping you might have a suggestion.”

  “Oh, absolutely. How old is she?”

  “Four.”

  Such mundane conversation, and yet she so enjoyed the rumble of his deep voice that she would happily listen to him reading Debrett’s without growing bored. As long as words spilled forth from him, she really didn’t care what they were. “If you’ll come with me . . .”

  He followed her to the back wall where they were partially hidden by the bookshelves running perpendicular through the center of the shop, shelves around which they’d waltzed. She knelt. “I keep books appropriate for children on the lower shelves here, so they have easier access to them.”

  He crouched beside her, balancing on the balls of his feet, and she couldn’t help but notice how his trousers pulled taut against his thighs or how masculine it looked to have his elbows resting there, his hands clasped before him. He’d removed his gloves, and it took everything within her not to wedge her hand between both of his.

  “You’ve been rather scarce,” she whispered, her voice low, hushed.

  “I decided a bit of distance between us was needed.”

  There certainly wasn’t much between them now. She could feel the heat emanating from him, and the pull of her body toward his, as though he were the moon and she the ocean tides. Or perhaps she was the moon, but it didn’t really matter when the attraction between them seemed so strong. “I thought perhaps you found fault with my eagerness the last time we were together.”

  “I found fault only with my own actions. Thank God for your cat.”

  She gave him a sly smile. “I’v
e been cursing Dickens for interfering.”

  “You should be rewarding him for putting a stop to my antics. Things between us almost went too far, Miss Trewlove.”

  They had. She knew that. And she’d wanted them to. Whatever was wrong with her? Plenty of men were handsome, but no other made her feel as though she garnered all of his attention, as though he hung on every word she spoke, as though he cared about what she had to say. “After what transpired between us, it seems you should call me Fancy.”

  He’d said her name before, and she wanted to hear it again on his lips.

  “Fancy.” His voice was low, deep, hinting at secrets and seduction.

  “Matthew.” She’d never called him by name before, at least not out loud, not to his face.

  He slammed his eyes closed, released a shuddering breath. When he opened them, they contained an intensity that led her to believe he found his name on her tongue as sensual as she found hers on his. “The book?”

  The rasp of his voice alerted her he was searching for a distraction. A good thing as someone entered their aisle, turned the corner, and disappeared between two more sets of bookcases. “These here”—she skimmed her fingers over the spines—“all have illustrations. The stories are simple. This book”—she leaned partially in front of him, taking satisfaction with his hand coming to rest on the small of her back, steadying her—“has several of Aesop’s fables in it. They’re short enough to hold her interest while you read them to her.”

  “Your hair’s come loose of your bun.”

  “Has it?” She lifted a hand, and he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, stopping her actions.

  “Allow me.”

  She didn’t move a muscle while his knuckles skimmed over her cheek as he captured the few rebellious tresses between his finger and thumb before gently, carefully tucking them away. “You have the softest hair.”