He edged farther inside but only by a couple of steps. “I don’t wish to impose if you were on the verge of latching up for the night.”
“It’s no imposition I assure you. Partnering people with books is one of my greatest joys. I can even recommend a few of my favorites if you like.”
“As long as you’re so graciously willing to accommodate me, I’m in the mood for some dastardly deeds. Have you the latest penny blood?”
She blinked, parted her lips—
And heard the smallest of scoffs beneath his breath. “You’re no doubt too young to recall that phrase. I believe it’s more popularly known these days as a penny dreadful.”
“Ah, yes, over here.” She skirted around the edge of the counter and approached a narrow stand of slanting shelves where she displayed the weekly publications. “I have the individual serials available here and, on this shelf”—she walked a short distance away—“I’ve bound editions containing all the episodes for a particular tale.”
“Very good.” Having approached, he leaned down to study the covers facing out revealing the title of the series represented within. He’d brought with him the scent of bay rum. Had he not lowered himself, she’d have not noted that the curling strands of his hair at his nape appeared damp on the ends, leaving her to believe he’d bathed shortly before beginning this sojourn. But he’d not bothered to shave as dark bristles shadowed his jaw. It was a magnificent jaw, strong and squarely cut. She thought it a shame to hide it away beneath a light coating of whiskers yet couldn’t deny the masculinity of them. His broad shoulders also gave her pause, and she wondered if he’d come by them naturally or if his labors, whatever they were, had formed them. Those prone to leisure didn’t reside in the area and seldom shopped here, so he no doubt was engaged in some occupation. He seemed an odd mixture of rough and smooth, like the brandy she enjoyed on occasion.
“Ah, Dick Turpin.” A warm fondness marked his tone. “When I was a lad, I spent many an afternoon reading about this highwayman’s exploits.” He pulled it from the shelf. “I’ll take this one.”
“It’s six shillings. If that’s a bit of a stretch for you at the moment, I can give you credit until the end of the month if you live or work in the area.”
It wasn’t exactly a smile he gave her, but more a twitch of his lips—and fine lips they were, full and nicely shaped with a natural tilting up at both corners as though he were constantly amused by the world at large. “I’ll settle things between us now.”
“Excellent.”
She wandered back over to the counter. He removed a small purse from inside his jacket, withdrew the necessary coins, and passed them over to her. She couldn’t help but notice his large gloved hands and the elegant ease with which they tucked the supple leather back into place. Suddenly drawing in breath seemed a challenge as images of those hands tucking other things—hair behind an ear, a button back through its mooring, a stocking over a knee—raced unbidden through her mind. She didn’t know what was prompting her to have such lascivious thoughts where he was concerned, although of late she had begun noticing the pleasing attributes of men. Her family would no doubt be horrified to learn that she’d recently started reading books banned by obscenity laws—when she could find one. She didn’t want to be a complete innocent when she made her foray into Society.
His eyes narrowed as he studied the shelf behind her that housed her rare finds, some she had restored to perfection herself. They brought her such pleasure and joy, it took everything within her not to parade him on a journey through the extraordinary tomes, allowing him to carefully handle them in order to see how well preserved they were.
“Is that an early edition ofPride and Prejudice?”
“A first edition.” She couldn’t stop the bright smile from forming. “It was found in a rubbish bin of all places.” Outside of a house in Mayfair. With great care, she had removed the soiled, discolored leather binding and worked with it until it was once again supple. When the book was reassembled, it gave the appearance of being barely used.
“Sort through rubbish bins often, do you?”
“You’d be amazed by the treasures people toss out.”
“I suppose I would.”
“However, I don’t rummage through the rubbish, but some poor or orphaned children do, and they bring me their finds, in hopes of gaining a few coins.” Even when the book was beyond use and couldn’t be restored, she paid them to ensure they had a bit to see them through to the next day.
“You don’t think you’re encouraging them to steal from elsewhere?”
“Aren’t you a cynic? No, I’m encouraging them not to accept the harsh life they’ve been dealt but to know it can be improved upon with effort, hard work, determination, and a bit of ingenuity.”
“I wish you the best with that, then.” He tipped his head slightly.
But she couldn’t let him go without telling him more. “I once had a lad bring me a story written on bits of foolscap he’d collected here and there. He’d sewn the pages together with needle and yarn. I bought it for two pence. My hope was to encourage him so perhaps he’ll grow up to be a storyteller. You might have noticed it on display in the window.”
She’d taken great effort in arranging small shelves of knickknacks in the front bay windows as a means to entice people inside. Books, a statuette of a woman reading and another of a boy, book in hand, sitting with his back leaning against a tree. One of the windows exhibited an extremely tiny desk with paper, quill pen, and inkwell—all to signify a writer at his labors.
“I did notice it. I was intrigued and wondered what it was about.”
She offered him a warm smile. “Now you know.”
“I do indeed.”
He was studying her with the same intense scrutiny he’d given her shop when he’d first walked in. She didn’t know why she’d told him as much as she had. Yes, she did. She so loved talking books. They’d been her passion ever since Gillie had first sat her upon her lap and turned back a cover to reveal the magic hidden within. She was rather certain, based on the warmth spreading through her cheeks, that she was blushing under his examination. “Apologies, sir. I didn’t mean to carry on so. I’m keeping you.”
“’Tis I who have been keeping you. Thank you for so graciously remaining open for me.”
“It was my pleasure.” How could it not be when he provided such a compelling view? She’d only ever seen paintings of mountains, and yet she couldn’t help but think he rivaled them in majesty. “I hope you enjoy the book as much as you did when you were a lad.”
