“Rest assured, I have no plans to trick any lord into marriage. My siblings have all married for love. I’d rather like to follow that custom. So I’m in no rush to tie the knot. I intend to take my time and find the right fellow.”
“And if that means no more penny gaffs?”
She smiled. “One was more than enough. Besides, I’ll have theater and operas.”
“No more meat pies eaten on steps.”
“I’ll have the memory.”
He trailed his fingers down her cheek, along her jaw. “Will you?”
“I shan’t forget tonight. I’m glad the seat in the hansom cab had room for you.”
His hand dropped from her face, and he began tugging on his gloves. “It’s late. We should probably be off.”
Just like that, whatever magic spell they’d woven around each other was broken. Probably for the best.
He stood, reached down for her hand, and tugged her to her feet. They carried on as though the night had been nothing more than an outing between friends. But at least it seemed they were at last friends.
Without much bother, they found a hansom cab. Sitting practically snuggled against him seemed the most natural thing in the world.
When they arrived at her shop, she unlocked the door and smiled up at him. “Thank you for sharing my adventure, Mr. Sommersby.”
“It was my pleasure, Miss Trewlove.”
Once inside, she locked the door, leaned against it, and waited for the echo of his retreating footsteps. It seemed to take forever for them to sound. When they finally did, she rather wished that instead she’d heard a knock. For a chance to visit with him some more, she would have welcomed him in, even as she knew it would serve no good purpose.
Chapter 7
It was nearly two in the morning when Matthew let himself into his massive London residence. Having left the heavy mahogany door open so the light from the lamps lining the drive could at least chase back the shadows a bit so he could make out the shapes, he crossed over to a table, struck a match, and lit the waiting oil lamp. The residence had been built nearly a century and half earlier, so it didn’t have the convenience of gas lighting, which his terrace on Ettie Lane did. However, his terrace could easily fit into the foyer and front parlor while still leaving space for walking around their edges.
After closing the door, he lifted the lamp higher and glanced into the parlor. All the furniture, portraits, paintings, and statuettes were shrouded in white, giving the residence a ghostly feel that suited his mood. He didn’t want to see the portrait of Elise hanging over the fireplace or his ancestors looking judgmentally down on him as he began his journey along the hallway.
Ever since Elise had taken ill, sleep had been an elusive mistress, seldom on hand to give a man satisfaction. This night was no exception, but it was made worse by the fact that when it came to Miss Trewlove, he’d begun to feel like a royal arse. It was quite possible he’d misjudged her when it came to how she might endeavor to gain a husband. The more time he spent with her, the more she contradicted his notions about her.
He didn’t know why he’d been so insistent on joining her tonight. She obviously hadn’t wanted his company, not that he could blame her for that. She had the right of it. Where she was concerned, he didn’t seem to know his own mind. He wanted to avoid her, and yet when the opportunity presented itself to be in her company, he’d leapt on it like a ravenous hound being tossed a bone. She intrigued him, damn it all. With her mixture of innocence and worldliness, she was a puzzle box he wanted to figure out how to open.
And she made him feel guilty about his treatment of her from the moment the letter had fallen out of her pocket. He’d assumed she was as conniving as Elise and, as a result, had treated Miss Trewlove abominably and unfairly.
When he reached the library, he merely stood in the doorway and took a moment to appreciate what had always been his favorite chamber in the residence. He had a keen desire to bring Miss Trewlove here. He imagined her sighing in wonder, gasping in delight at the two floors of bookcases, the upper one accessible by a wrought-iron spiral staircase in the corner. He had no idea how many books lined the shelves. A couple of thousand at least. Not that any of them were visible at present. The staff had suspended sheets of white cloth over the shelves to protect the treasures stored there. Including the one he’d come to find.
He strode over to a far corner of the room, near the spiral staircase, carefully set the lamp on a low table draped in white, reached up, and yanked down a sheet to reveal a section of books. He was relatively certain he’d last seen the one he was looking for in this area.
He couldn’t decide if Miss Trewlove would be appalled that the books within these walls were shelved with no rhyme or reason or if she’d find the chaos delightful. Although he had a feeling she’d roll up her sleeves and pull every book off the shelf in order to arrange them in categories, no doubt taking pleasure in touching each and every one. When he’d first stepped into her shop, he’d been cocooned in wonder. Nothing within her walls was left to chance. It all reflected a celebration of the written word. She’d gone to a great deal of bother to arrange everything just so. She’d not told him that, of course, but it was evident in the way every aspect came together in such a pleasing manner to reveal her absolute love of books.
And so it was that he wanted to gift her with something that would make him feel less of a disappointment, less of a cad, less judgmental. Therefore, he’d come here in the dead of night to—
“My lord?”
He swung around to face the butler, who had served this household longer than Matthew had memory, standing in the doorway with an untied dressing gown hanging off his lanky form, a lamp held aloft in one hand, and a... no, it could not possibly be.
“Jenkins, is that a pistol you’re holding in your trembling hand?”
“Aye.”
“Pray, tell me it is not loaded.”
“What good is it unloaded, I ask you?”
