He’d heard similar sounds when he was a lad and went to the coal mines with his father, in order to better understand the workings of the Yorkshire legacy that would be left to him. He’d gone down into the labyrinth of tunnels, even wielded a pickax a time or two, enjoying the stretch of his muscles, the toil, and the concentration his labors required to avoid creating a mishap. All the worries of living up to his father’s expectations had dwindled as the target at which he needed to strike had become his sole focus.
He’d applied the same attention to gaining a wife, falling too hard and too fast. He’d actually been grateful his father hadn’t been around to witness the cock-up he’d made of that enterprise.
“Where women are concerned, always think with your big head, not your little one,” his father had often instructed him. “Females can be manipulative wenches.”
His mother had been responsible for teaching his father that lesson. The old man had held no qualms about revealing that tidbit of information. They’d been married a little over six months when Matthew’s sister—now the Marchioness of Fairhaven—made her appearance, so evidence existed his father had been caught by deception as well. He’d never heard one kind word spoken between his parents. Their home had been chilled by their disdain for each other. Matthew suspected his father had breathed a sigh of relief when he was born because it gave the earl an excuse for avoiding the countess’s bed.
He should have paid more attention, learned from their example. Perhaps then he would have foreseen he was destined to repeat his father’s mistake when it came to acquiring a wife. Eventually he would have to marry again in order to secure the lineage, but intended to go about it like a business arrangement, listing out the required qualifications. No brown doe-like eyes, no warm, welcoming smile. Nothing to lure his heart from its guarded state.
Like a dog coming out of a lake ready to rid itself of the water clinging to its fur, he shook off the morose thoughts as he realized he’d reached his residence. The walk hadn’t served to maintain the good spirits he’d achieved that morning. It was always a difficult journey down the path of regret.
Unlocking and opening the door to his residence, he staggered to a stop as Mrs. Bennett came hustling out of the room that served as his main living area. He hadn’t expected her to be about. She generally left once she’d finished cleaning up after his midday meal. As she hadn’t needed to prepare anything for him, she should have been gone by now. “Is something amiss, Mrs. Bennett?”
“Ah, no, sir. But I wanted to let you know Miss Trewlove stopped by. She’d like to have a word.”
He furrowed his brow, not certain he’d heard correctly for surely she had no reason to call upon him, not after they’d left matters between them a bit terse. “Miss Trewlove?”
“Aye, sir. She has the bookshop on the high street?”
“I know who she is.”
“Well, then, sir, she come by earlier, as I was finishing up.”
What the deuce could she possibly want? “It would have been perfectly acceptable to have left me a note, Mrs. Bennett.”
“I thought it too important. I wanted to tell you myself, in person.”
“While I certainly appreciate your dedication, in the future, a note will suffice. No need to wait about for my arrival. I could have been out until all hours of the night.” Not that he’d done that in ages. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew a coin for her.
“Oh no, sir.”
“Please. Your dedication deserves an additional token of appreciation.” He’d paid for her daily services before he left.
After she finally took his offering, he saw her to the door and bid her a good day.
Curiosity getting the better of him, he shortly followed suit and left the residence. When he reached the shop, he opened the door, stepped over the threshold, and didn’t much like the ferocity with which disappointment slammed into him because a young woman with wheat-colored hair was standing behind the counter. Not the one he expected, not the one he wanted. No, he didn’twant. Want implied desire, and he most certainly didn’t have yearnings when it came to Miss Trewlove.
The young woman bestowed upon him a dazzling smile. “May I help you, sir?”
It hadn’t occurred to him that Miss Trewlove wouldn’t be about. Yet, still among the musty aroma of all the books she’d gathered to lovingly arrange on shelves and in various places around the room, he detected her scent, a mixture of oranges and a fragrance uniquely her. “If you’d be so good as to let Miss Trewlove know when she returns that Mr. Sommersby stopped by.”
Her face brightened further, her eyes widening with pleasure as though she sought nothing more than bringing him joy. “Oh, she’s here. Upstairs in the reading parlor.”
Unsurprised she’d have such a thing in her shop, he imagined her curled up in an extremely large overstuffed chair.
The clerk was still smiling with exuberance. “You may go up, if you like.”
Maynotcan. He suspected Miss Trewlove had had a hand in educating the shopgirl, generously sharing what she might have learned in order to better others’ lives. “Thank you.”
He made short work of ascending the stairs, taking the steps two at time, certainly not because he was anxious to see Miss Trewlove, but he was curious to know why she’d bothered to stop by.
At the landing was a small hallway. Another set of stairs stood at the far end. He assumed they led up to her lodgings, to the window where light often spilled out late into the night.
Bringing his mind back to his purpose in even being here, he noted the open doorway to his right, strode over to it, and came to an abrupt halt. She was indeed sitting in a large overstuffed chair but wasn’t curled up. Her posture was erect, graceful, perfect. A dozen or so children in an assortment of poses—sitting cross-legged, on their knees, stretched out on their bellies—were gathered at her feet, all as enthralled as he was. She was readingAlice’s Adventures in Wonderland, her voice animated as she took on the role of various characters. He was familiar with the tale as he’d given a copy to his niece at Christmas and she’d pleaded with him to read it to her, which of course he had. He had very little resistance when it came to the pleadings of the females ensconced in his life.
Which was no doubt the reason he was here—even if Miss Trewlove wasn’t exactly entrenched in his life, she was certainly some part of it. Otherwise, he’d be able to stop thinking about her, from wondering what precisely she was doing every minute she wasn’t visible to him. Entertaining children, it seemed.
She lifted her gaze from the words, and it landed on him as solid as a punch. Her mouth curled up at the corners, spreading her lips into a radiant smile as though she’d spied her salvation, the deliverer of whatever she desired. He should turn on his heel and leave at once. Instead, he remained rooted to the spot, held in place by some invisible force—by her and the joy wreathing her face at his arrival.
