With a brusque nod, the young man made toward the exit, surprising Matthew by his willingness to leave him alone with Miss Trewlove, although he supposed her young clerk was about somewhere.
“Oh, Mr. Tittlefitz?” she called out as he reached the door. Abruptly, he stopped to face her. “Would you be so kind as to walk Marianne home? She doesn’t live far from here, and while I know Mick works hard to keep the streets safe, it is dark.”
“I’ll be happy to escort her, Miss Trewlove.”
When Matthew could no longer hear the man’s steps on the stairs, he spoke. “He is enamored of you, you know?”
Her cheeks blossomed like the pinkest rose unfurling. “I’m aware, but I’ve never viewed him as anything other than a friend.” Pressing her lips together, she looked somewhat guilty. “However, Marianne has a tender regard for him.”
He tilted his head to the side, giving her what he knew was an admonishing stare. In his youth, he’d spent hours before a looking glass practicing a series of expressions designed to put people in their place or cause them to move more quickly. “Are you playing matchmaker, Miss Trewlove?”
With a grin, she held up her thumb and forefinger with only a tiny bit of space between them. “Perhaps a little. They’re really quite perfect for each other, if he would only notice her.”
“When one’s head is turned by another, it’s difficult to notice anyone else.”
“Do you speak from experience?”
“Unfortunately. I suppose the lessons are at the same time on Wednesday.”
“Yes, although the students will be different. One class a week is all most of the students have time for.”
“You won’t be here at all?” Her absence made him fear the evening would be rather bleak. Still, he would endure it if for no other reason than to please her.
“I’ll pop in before I head to the ball.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No, I have complete faith in your ability to guide the students in their reading.”
He had little doubt she’d purposely misunderstood his question, and perhaps her doing so provided the answer and yet he yearned to hear it from her. “About the ball.”
She nodded. “Rather. I’m not certain that even having relations who are part of the aristocracy is enough to see me accepted.”
“Simply be yourself, Miss Trewlove. You’ll win them over.”
Her light laughter echoed around them, through him as though the center of his chest served as its North Star. “As though you know what the nobility will welcome.” She turned on her heel. “Come along.”
He followed her down the stairs. Her hips didn’t sway as much as Lottie’s and yet they were all the more provocative because of it. She was all the more provocative. She was small of stature and yet there was a mightiness to her that filled the space as adeptly as her brother had earlier. Something about her made it impossible to ignore her, not to notice her, not to want to map out every aspect of her from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, as well as her heart and her soul and her thoughts, beliefs, and dreams. Never before had he found a woman so compelling, had he yearned to fully understand everything about her, every aspect that encompassed her and made her who she was. He’d like very much to have her arms around him, to have her pressed up against the length of him, to have his hands skimming over the silkiness of her cheek.
The shop was quiet, in a comforting sort of way. Somewhere a clock was ticking. He stood at the door, waiting to depart, while light from a distant streetlamp spilled through the window to flow over her, creating a mesmerizing array of light and dark shadows, deep curves, enticing lines. She was temptation itself, and he had the unconscionable image of her suddenly reaching up, loosening the three buttons that followed the line from her throat, and slowly trailing a finger along the narrow length of exposed skin.
“May I show you something?”
Please do. Even one loosened button—
He gave his mind a mental shake. His thoughts were traipsing toward the gutter, and she deserved much better than that. “What did you have in mind?”
“Over here. I’ve placed it against the far wall so the sun can’t reach it.”
He followed her across the room to where a large clock stood. Beside it was a glass case perched on a wooden pedestal. Beneath the glass, open and spread beautifully like a butterfly’s wings, was the book he’d sent to her.
“It contains the original versions of Shakespeare’s plays,” she whispered reverently. Gingerly she touched her fingers to the edge of the case, and he imagined the prince approaching Sleeping Beauty with the same caution. “It was printed more than two hundred years ago. After all these years there can’t be that many copies left. Do you have any idea what a rare find this is?”
He’d known she’d appreciate it, far more than any of his ancestors had, far more than any future generations would. “How did you come to have it?”
With her brow deeply furrowed, she looked up at him. “That’s just it. I don’t really know. An elderly gentleman brought it in and left it with no explanation.”
Jenkins. He should have known the man wouldn’t leave the chore to anyone else.
