The Earl Takes a Fancy

by Lorraine Heath

  “What a shame every strand of yours is in place.”

  His hand came around to cradle her cheek. “Aesop’s Fables, you say?”

  “Yes. Here.” She pulled it from the shelf and handed it to him. “The illustrations are lovely.”

  “As lovely as you?”

  “You can’t tell me in one breath that things between us are going too far and then in the next flirt with me.”

  “It’s only flirtation if the words aren’t uttered with all sincerity.”

  She was vaguely aware of the jangle of the bells. “Matthew—”

  “Miss Trewlove! Miss Trewlove! Ah, there you are.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, at the entry to the aisle, she saw Aslyn’s maid, smiling brightly and breathless. Fancy quickly shoved herself to her feet, Matthew hastily following suit. “Nan.”

  “Lady Aslyn sent me for you. You have a gentleman caller. Well, two actually.”

  Fancy stared at the maid as though she’d spoken in a foreign language. “Gentlemen callers?”

  “Yes, miss. Lady Aslyn is entertaining them until you arrive.”

  “Well, this is a surprise.”

  “Would you like me to help you change, maybe tidy your hair a bit?”

  She suspected Nan thought she should have it styled a little more elaborately than in a simple bun. As for her clothing, it was serviceable. Both reflected who she was, and she wanted to be completely honest with any gentleman who might have an interest in her. Sometimes she wore plain attire and her hair had not been fiddled with for more than an hour to ensure that every curl dangled just right. “I appreciate the offer, Nan, but I don’t think we need to go to such bother for afternoon tea.”

  The woman looked stricken but didn’t say anything. “If you’ll give me a minute to finish with this customer, I’ll be right there.”

  “I’ll wait by the door.”

  “Thank you.” She turned to Matthew. “I have to go, but I think your niece will very much enjoy that book.”

  “Go boating with me tomorrow.”

  She opened her mouth, closed it. He was correct. They needed to keep distance between them. However, if they went out in a rather large boat and sat at opposite ends—

  “I go to church with my mother in the morning.”

  “In the afternoon, then. Say one o’clock?”

  She nodded. “I’ll meet you at the park, shall I?”

  “Bring a chaperone if you wish.”

  She gave him what she hoped was a saucy smile. “I think we’ve moved beyond that. See you tomorrow.”

  She hurried through the shop, toward the door. “I’ll be back shortly, Marianne.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  She heard the excitement thrumming through her clerk’s voice. “It’s only tea, Marianne.”

  “With a couple of gents.”

  “You’re not supposed to eavesdrop.” Her words lacked conviction or sternness, so the shopgirl simply continued to smile.

  “This will be the first of many such visitors,” Nan said when Fancy reached her. “You mark my words.”

  “Let’s not have me betrothed before dinner.”

  Nan laughed. “Ah, miss. You deserve to have the very finest, and these two are quite a feast for the eyes.”

  They were indeed, but then she’d thought the same thing when she’d first met them. They both came to their feet as she entered. “Lord Beresford. Mr. Whitley.” Beresford was an earl, Whitley the eldest son of a viscount.

  “Miss Trewlove,” they said in unison, both bowing.

  She took the chair Aslyn had discreetly vacated in order to move to a chair in the corner, so she could chaperone without interfering. Both gentlemen returned to their respective places on the settee. Tea had been prepared and poured, and everyone picked up their saucers and cups to take a sip. Once her cup was back in its place, Fancy said, “It was so nice of you gentlemen to call.”

  “I’d have come earlier if I’d known Whitley was going to be here at this time,” Beresford said.

  “I’d have come later,” Whitley said.

  She didn’t have the impression the gentlemen disliked each other. It was more that they didn’t want to share the attention. “What book are you currently reading, Mr. Whitley?”

  “Well, I’m not reading. I’m having tea.”

  It took everything within her not to roll her eyes.

  “Good God, man, she doesn’t mean at this precise moment.”

  “Lord Beresford is correct. What book is on the table beside your bed or your favorite chair in your library? What book has a ribbon marking your place?”

  “My books are all on shelves. I don’t read them.”

  “You don’t read books?”

  “Haven’t time.”

  How could a person not find some time for the pleasure of reading? “How do you spend your time?”

  “Cricket. Polo. I’ve recently taken up marathon running. I prefer physical exertion to simply sitting about.”

  She supposed then she should be honored that he was simply sitting about here.

  “And you, my lord, are you reading anything of interest?”

  “A Tale of Two Cities.”

  “Are you a fan of Dickens, then?”

  “I am.”

  “A young lad brought me a rather dilapidated copy of Little Dorrit. I’m working to restore it.”

  “Is that a hobby of yours?”

  “In a way. It goes well with my bookshop as I’ll sell the book once it’s been repaired. Would you gentlemen like a tour of my establishment?”

  “You’re not going to work in it when you’re married, are you?” Mr. Whitley asked.

  “Well, no.”

  “Then it would be a waste of time, would it not?”

  It would allow him to get a better sense of her. As it was, she was beginning to feel he was a waste of time. “Well, this has been enlightening, gentlemen, but I must return to my endeavors.”

  Besides it was rude for a gentleman to linger more than fifteen minutes, and surely that much time had passed. She wasn’t going to double it just because there were two of them. She rose to her feet, and they both stood. “It’s been a pleasure, my lord, Mr. Whitley.”

  Beresford stepped forward, took her hand, and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “I do hope you’ll honor me with a dance at the next ball you attend.”

  “It will be my pleasure. I look forward to it.”

  Mr. Whitley looked as though he had a strong urge to shove the lord aside. As soon as Beresford was out of the way, Whitley also took her hand. “Until our paths cross again.”

  He planted a kiss on the back of her hand. Because she was not wearing gloves, she could feel the spittle leaking between his lips. As soon as he released her, she placed her hand behind her back and discreetly wiped it on her skirt, hoping she never had occasion to feel his lips pressed to hers. Still she returned his smile.

  “My lord, sir, I wish you both a good day,” Aslyn said, having approached. She led them into the hallway and called for a footman to show them out.

  Once she returned, she lifted her eyebrows at Fancy. “Well?”

  Fancy dropped into the chair. “Beresford seems rather fine, but Whitley. How can a man have no love for books? We would never suit.”

  Aslyn sat on the settee. “I have no advice when it comes to courtship as my betrothal to Kipwick and my eventual marriage to your brother were quite unconventional when it came to the wooing. All I can offer is to follow your heart.”

  Unfortunately, her heart was leading her toward a man who would not be all her mother wanted.

  “Unca Matthew!”

  “Poppet!” Bending down, Matthew swept his four-year-old niece up with one arm, laughing as she planted a rather wet and sloppy kiss on his cheek.

  Leaning back, she squinted and pointed at the package he held in his other hand. “What’s that?”

  “A gift for you.” Setting her back on the floor, he crouched and handed it to her,
taking delight in her excitement as she tore away the brown paper—quite quickly and efficiently with those little fingers of hers—to reveal the book Fancy had suggested. He hadn’t intended to ask her to go boating with him, but the realization that gents were calling on her had sent a primal and possessive need to claim her through him, and the invitation had come out before he’d been able to analyze the wisdom of it or give it much thought.

  “A book!” Tillie exclaimed. “I love it!” Immediately she sat on the floor and began turning pages.

  “Tillie! A lady does not sit upon the floor.”

  Glancing up at his sister, he smiled. Two years his senior, she’d been married nearly six years now and had yet to produce the heir. “Surely she is forgiven when it is her excitement over a book that prompted her actions.”

  “You spoil her.”

  “As though you don’t.”

  Straightening, he went to her and bussed a quick kiss over her cheek. “You have more color in you today. I’ve been a bit worried. You were quite pale the last few times I visited.” He remembered a time when he hadn’t noticed things like complexion.

  “Would you say I’m glowing?”

  “I would rather.”

  Lifting her shoulders, she gave him a secretive smile. “I’m with child.”

  He took her hand, squeezed. “Ah, Sylvie, that’s wonderful.”

  “Four months. I almost told you last time but wanted to wait until I wasn’t taking a second look at my breakfast each morning. However, that seems to have passed now, so we’re hopeful all will be well. Fairhaven is beside himself. I am praying for the heir. He says he doesn’t care, but he’s a marquess. Of course he wants a son to pass everything off to. Just as you do.” She touched his cheek. “You look healthier of late. I’m pleased to see that.”

  “I am more of myself, these days.” In part, thanks to Fancy Trewlove.

  “I’m glad. I have a favor to ask before Fairhaven joins us.” She moved over to her daughter and bent. “Come along, Tillie. The floor is no place for a lady. Let’s retire to the parlor so we can sit properly.”

  “I’ve got her.” He scooped her up into his arms, her delightful laugh warming his heart. He wondered if Fancy had been reprimanded in a similar manner when she was growing up, never allowed to truly be a child, but always cognizant of how one should behave instead of how one wanted to behave. He hoped her family hadn’t been quite as strict as his sister.

  In the parlor, he set his niece down on the corner of the sofa. She immediately opened her book. His sister lowered herself to a spot beside her daughter and lovingly brushed her fingers over her dark hair. He took a nearby chair, absorbing the tranquil sight, feeling an unwanted ache in his chest because his life had yet to bring him similar moments.

  Her hand never leaving her daughter’s hair, Sylvie looked over at him. “About this favor. I’m hosting a ball at the end of the month and it would be quite a coup for me if you were to make an appearance. As I’ve mentioned, you’re all the talk. Some good should come from this sabbatical from Society you’ve taken.”

  Some good was coming of it. He was once again enjoying his life. “I have no desire to step into the whirl that is the Social Season.”

  “But it will be the perfect opportunity for your foray back into Society. I have invited the most popular debutantes.”

  He already knew he wasn’t interested in the ones who’d made an appearance at his door. “Would Fancy Trewlove be included on that list?”

  Her head jerking back slightly as though he’d tweaked her nose, she blinked, blinked, and blinked again. “Not at the moment. I hadn’t yet decided if I would invite her. How do you know of her?”

  “Her bookshop is in the same area as the residence I’m leasing. As a matter of fact, I purchased Tillie’s book from her this afternoon. I assume you met her at the Thornley ball.”

  “I did. I found her to be beautiful, poised, and confident. To look at her, you wouldn’t know she was”—she glanced over at her daughter before lowering her voice to a whisper—“unlawful.”

  “It seems to me that term should be used for those who don’t adhere to the laws, not those who have no say in how they are born.”

  Her entire body gave a little twitch as though his words had been tiny stones pelted at her. “That’s certainly a novel thought. I’m not certain your avoidance of Society is to your benefit if it’s filling your head with such odd notions.”

  He was ashamed to admit a time existed when he’d have judged Fancy by her origins rather than herself. “Invite Miss Trewlove to your ball.”

  His sister went so still he wasn’t certain she continued to breathe. Very primly, she knitted her fingers together and folded them in her lap, her gaze sharp like a raven’s. “Why would I do that?”

  “Because I asked.”

  “She’s not accepted.”

  “An invitation to your affair will make her so.”

  “What is she to you?”

  “A friend. She’s been kind to me. She wishes to move about in your world, and I want to make it easier for her to do so.” He didn’t particularly like the thought of other men taking her in their arms for a turn about the dance floor, but he wasn’t selfish enough to deny her what she wanted.

  “Usually when a gentleman says a woman has been kind it’s because she spread her legs for him.”

  The fury that rent through him nearly made him tremble. “Such talk is beneath you, Sylvie.”

  Her cheeks burned red. “You’re asking me to put my reputation on the line.”

  “I’m asking you to show a kindness.”

  “Will you attend?”

  “No.” He stood. “I don’t believe I’ll be staying for dinner.”

  Rising, she placed her hand on his arm. “I don’t want to have a row with you. You’re my only brother. I’ll think about inviting her, if you’ll think about coming.”

  He nodded. Perhaps by the end of the month, he would have won Fancy over to such an extent that he’d have told her who he truly was. In which case, he would claim every one of her damned dances at the ball.

  Chapter 16

  If Matthew wanted to keep distance between them, he’d certainly selected the perfect boat for ensuring his goal. It was long with a flat bottom. Holding a white lacy parasol that Mick had given her a couple of years earlier, Fancy sat at one end, while Matthew stood at the other, impressing her as he stayed balanced while dropping the pole into the water and then pushing it back, guiding the craft through the stream.

  “I assumed we were going rowing,” she said. Matthew had been waiting in a curricle for her near the park entrance. It seemed this gentleman of leisure had his own conveyance available to him, but wherever he stored it made it inconvenient to retrieve on short notice. But he’d made arrangements to have it on hand for this planned excursion.

  “I prefer punting,” he said.

  “It’s such an odd-shaped rowboat.” He’d rented it from a gent who’d had several boats available. Occasionally they passed another spot where it appeared boats were being let or could be returned if one had enough of the river.

  He grinned. “It’s a punt, not a rowboat. Hence, the punting, not rowing.”

  “Oh. Have you ever fallen into the water?”

  “Once, when I was first learning how to control the pole.”

  While others were about, most were in rowboats. Before shoving off from the shore, he’d removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. In spite of how much of her he’d seen, she realized now that she’d viewed very little of him. She was rather taken with his forearms, the ropy muscle and sinew, the raised veins indicating the strength that resided there. She liked the way the punt glided along the water, almost as though it sat on top of it. It was a smooth and relaxing motion, and she rather enjoyed her view of Matthew. “Did your niece enjoy the book?”

  “She did. She especially loved the illustrations.”

  “Did you read to her?”

  “Not
this time. I ended up not staying for dinner.”

  “So . . . you and your wife . . . you never had children?”

  “The strain of our relationship made that possibility very unlikely.”

  “Do you want children?”

  “With the right woman, yes.”

  “What would make the right woman?” she dared to ask.

  He’d discarded his hat as well, no doubt because the breeze would have blown it into the river, so no shadows kept his gaze hidden from her. His eyes were even more green in the sunlight, more intense, and she had the feeling he could see clear through her, knew she found him far more fascinating than any other man she’d met thus far.

  “A luscious mouth made for kissing.” His voice was low but still it traveled on the wind to her. “Sultry eyes that belong in a bedchamber. A raspy voice that whispers wicked things in my ear.”

  With a scoff, she rolled her eyes. “I think you’ve just described Lottie.”

  He laughed, a deep rich sound, and she thought it was the sort of laugh that would make him the right man. “I think every man wants his wife to be a tart in the bedchamber.”

  Leaning forward, she placed her elbow on her thigh, her chin in her palm. “Truly?”

  “Don’t you want your husband to be a bit of a scoundrel when it comes to bedding you?”

  She couldn’t believe they were discussing this topic on the river, in the open where anyone might hear—even if presently no one was within hearing distance. She looked toward the trees. “I’m not certain I know enough about it to determine precisely what I want.” She peered up at him. “I suppose when it comes down to it, in or out of the bedchamber, I want to feel I can be as open with him as I am with you.”

  “Do you feel that way about the gents who called on you yesterday?”

  She shook her head. “One of them I have no interest in at all. He has no appreciation for books. The other . . . was nice enough, I suppose. I’m not certain I have patience for this courting thing. I want an instant rapport, and thus far that has escaped me.” Except when it comes to you. Not that she was going to confess that to him. “Do you really only care about a woman’s mouth, eyes, and voice?”