With my most sincerest regards,
The Departed Countess of Rosemont
Each time he read it, the coldhearted lie she’d meticulously penned mocked him. She hadn’t loved him. Not in the least. Not with one iota of her being.
The daughter of an industrialist knighted by the Queen, Elise had been in want of a titled husband and, at only nineteen, she’d known well how to work her wiles on him. He had little doubt his smile had drawn her—that much was true—but she’d also been lured by the title he’d inherited only the year before. He’d been all of twenty-three, infatuated with her beauty and teasing eyes that promised wicked adventures and a tantalizing escape from all cares. When she’d suggested a tryst among the plants in the conservatory during a ball held at his married sister’s country estate, he’d been only too keen to accommodate her. Being caught by Elise’s father with her skirts up and his trousers down had resulted in a rather hasty trip to the altar. But the triumph mirrored in her eyes when they were interrupted alerted him that he’d been cast into the role of gullible fool.
It had been a hard lesson learned, a high price paid, and he’d made a solemn vow to never again be duped by anyone of the female persuasion.
A marriage based on a lack of trust was no marriage at all. During the first two years, they’d not confided in each other at all, preferred to spend their time apart, he in the country, she in the city. He’d been in no rush to get her with child. The joy of having her had died in the conservatory, and he’d been hard-pressed to work up any enthusiasm when it came to the bedding of her. The third and final year, he’d seldom left her side as the cancer had its way with her. Elise had made a point of listing all the things she’d never do. She’d not welcomed death, nor should she have. She’d been all of twenty-two, with hair that would never gray and skin that would never wrinkle with age.
Still, her letter confounded him. Why had she gone to the bother of writing it and arranging to have it published? To ease her guilt at having duped him? Knowing her deceptive ways, he couldn’t take her missive at face value, so what was she striving to accomplish? Based on what he’d experienced since the message first appeared, perhaps she merely wanted to make his life as unpleasant as possible. As though the coldness of their marriage had not been punishment enough for falling into her trap.
At the approach of hushed footsteps, he glanced up to see his butler enter carrying a silver salver. The slender man, graying at the temples, came to a stop and bowed slightly. “My lord, Lady Fontaine and her daughter have come to call.”
In frustration that Elise had placed him in this unenviable position, he slammed his eyes closed. His first visitors of the day. He could expect at least a dozen more before the sun finally bid its farewell. If he wasn’t home to them now, they’d only return later. After carefully folding the broadsheet, he shoved back his chair and stood. “Have tea brought to the parlor.”
And so it went. Day after day after day.
A parade of eligible young ladies through his front door. They had talked, talked, talked. Recited poetry. Sung on occasion. Played his pianoforte with gusto. He was invited for walks in the park as though he were a hound in need of having his legs stretched. They issued him invitations to dinners, recitals, the theater, and gatherings in their gardens. They sought promises of a waltz at upcoming balls once the Season was fully underway. They alternated between cooing over his abhorrent loss and assuring him that happiness waited around the corner if only he would march briskly toward it—and they were more than willing to become his countess and accompany him on the journey toward discovering what glories life still held in spite of the unfairness fate had already visited upon him.
It was the lemon balls that finally became the last straw. Within two weeks of the letter’s appearance, he’d received so many of the damned things he could have opened his own sweet shop. If he ever smelled lemon and sugar again, he might go stark raving mad.
Hence, after having his belongings packed up and his London residence shuttered, he went in search of peace.
Chapter 2
Standing behind the polished oak counter in her bookshop, Fancy Trewlove read once more the letter she’d clipped from theTimesa month earlier. The Countess of Rosemont’s words regarding her love for her husband had deeply touched Fancy’s romantically inclined heart, a heart she had feared would cause her—when she was introduced into Society at a ball the following week—to be foolish enough to fall for a lord who viewed her as someone to be only bedded but not wedded.
All of nineteen, she was more than aware of the realities of the world and understood fully that the circumstances of her birth would not serve her well when it came to securing her place among the aristocracy. Still, her family was determined to see her married to a noble. The man had to be titled. Not the second son or the third, but the first. A duke was preferable, a marquess adequate, an earl acceptable, a viscount... an outcome to be avoided if at all possible.
From the moment she’d made her entry into the world they had decided her destiny and moved her unerringly toward it, but the life they had mapped out for her seemed to lack one crucial element: love.
She yearned for love more than she wanted to breathe. Oh, her family loved her, she had no doubt about that, but she longed for the sort of devotion about which sonnets were written and poets waxed, a grand love like the one her mum had known. When Fancy was a wee lass, yet still old enough to be curious about the absence of a man about, she’d worked up the courage to ask about her father. With tears in her eyes, her mum had explained how she’d fallen for a handsome regimental officer. They’d not been married when they’d given into passion on the eve of his departure to a foreign land, but he’d promised to wed her upon his return. However, fate had intervened, and he’d died heroically, yet tragically, on a bloodied battlefield on the Crimean Peninsula.
“But, still, he gave me the most wonderful gift of all—you.” Even now, the recollection of her mum’s words caused her eyes to dampen. From that moment on, Fancy had understood she was special. Unlike her siblings who had all been left at her mum’s door, she had beenwanted.
And so it was that she had a tender regard for stories brimming with romance, and Lady Rosemont’s letter certainly fell into that category, serving as a talisman, offering hope that she, too, might discover a passion not to be denied.
At that very moment, with long, slender fingers, her future husband might be opening the gilded invitation that would set him on the path toward meeting her. Unlike her brothers’, his hands would be soft and without calluses or scars, his movements would reflect elegance. He would have mastered the waltz to perfection, and when he took her within his arms to sweep her over the parqueted flooring, although he would hold her at a proper distance and with decorum, his gaze would capture hers and communicate his intense regard toward her, would reveal how firmly she’d already won him over. His eyes would reflect warmth and hint at his desire—
Jingle. Jingle.
As the bell above her shop door heralded the arrival of a customer, she gave a guilty start. Based on the heat scalding her cheeks, she was blushing profusely at being caught dreaming the afternoon away. It didn’t help matters that the man crossing the threshold had smoothly removed his black beaver hat to reveal a handsome countenance, a face that no doubt set many ladies to swooning. Quickly, she folded the letter and slipped it into the pocket of her skirt, where she had handy access to it when she needed a reminder that love could be found among the aristocracy and that the path her family had set her on was one worth traveling.
The gent surveyed the various areas of her shop—the shelves lining the back wall, the parallel bookcases with the elaborate scrollwork standing perpendicular to it, the small tables with novels stacked on top of them, books gathered in corners. Books, books, books, everywhere he looked. She could never have enough of them, which was obvious to anyone entering her shop, whether for the first time or the hundredth.
In her youth, a lad had once told her she had a fetish when it came to books. Because of how much she read, she knew the word and that he was implying something untoward, and so she’d bloodied his nose. What she had for books was a healthy appreciation for all they offered, an admiration for those who penned them, and a gratitude to those who published them. She wasn’t ashamed of it; rather she reveled in it.
She couldn’t decide if her customer, who seemed absorbed by all surrounding him, was enthralled by her collection or appalled that so much space was taken up with literary works. Knowing she’d never before seen him within these walls—his mere mien indicated he was not one easily forgotten—she straightened her narrow shoulders to welcome the gorgeous stranger into her midst. “May I be of service, sir?”
He swerved his head toward her, and she became ensnared in the most striking green eyes she’d ever beheld. His black hair, a tad longer than was fashionable, every strand in place, made the green stand out all the more. Her wits seemed to have deserted her, and she knew staring into those emerald depths for the remainder of her life would be an insufficient amount of time to fully appreciate the various facets of them, of him. He seemed at once imposing, yet approachable—and she dearly wanted to approach him but remained where she was, unwilling to risk any action that might cost her a sale, or at the very least, placing a book into a hand.
“The sign on your door indicated you were closed.” His enunciation, hinting at an education, good breeding, and possibly an affluent background, was posher than that spoken by most of the people who lived in the area. But it was his deep smooth voice that sent a warm shiver through her.
Interesting that in spite of the sign, he’d given the door a try. A man who obviously didn’t quite trust what was before him—or perhaps one who merely needed proof that what he was told was true.
Glancing at the tall standing clock resting against the wall to her left, near her office, she saw that indeed it was ten minutes past the hour of six when she usually locked her doors. She’d been so engrossed in the letter she’d failed to even notice the chimes signaling the time. “My posted hours are more a suggestion, not a law. Nor am I one for turning away someone in need of a book. If you would like to browse... or I’m happy to help you find something to your taste.”
