She sighed, waved her hand. “A few bookshop owners and a couple of antiquities dealers know I’m always in the market for the unusual but this... it’s worth a fortune.”
“You could sell it to finance your lessons.”
She glared at him as though he’d sprouted horns and a tail. “It’s not the sort of thing one sells. If anything, I should donate it to a museum. But it seems rather at home here, and I’m reluctant to part with it.”
“Especially as you already had a way to display it.”
“Oh no. I designed what I wanted, and then took it to Mr. Bennett before going to church yesterday. He was kind enough to put it together for me using leftover bits from all the construction Mick is doing and brought it to me this morning. I just wish I knew who sent it.”
“Someone who wanted you to have it, I should think.”
“But why?”
“I wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Miss Trewlove. I doubt any other person alive would give it as much care.”
She smiled softly. “You may have the right of it there. Of all the people I know, I thought you would appreciate it the most.”
What he appreciated was that he’d accurately judged the joy it would bring her. Looking up at him, she held his gaze for the longest moment, as though she were waiting for something, for something more than words about a book. He was incredibly tempted to take her face between his hands and tell her that she was as rare a find as the original version of Shakespeare’s plays. “I should be off.”
The forced words sounded almost strangled. He wondered how she would react if he leaned in and kissed her. Would she stop him? Was she saving those lips for her lord—or would she be willing to experience a taste of passion and pleasure?
“You’re welcome to take a book with you. Not to borrow, but to keep. It’s how I thank those who assist me in my endeavors to educate.”
“It’s a wonder, Miss Trewlove, that you make any profit at all with your penchant for giving people books without taking coins in return.”
“I wouldn’t object to your calling me Fancy.”
A courtesy she’d obviously not bestowed upon Mr. Tittlefitz, a courtesy he would be a fool to accept as viewing her in an informal light could have him lowering his guard, allowing her to skirt past his defenses when she was already battering at the wall. How easy it would be to simply allow it to crumble, to open himself up to the possibility of having her in his life on a more permanent basis. But he needed to test the waters with her first. He’d lived the old adage about marrying in haste and repenting in leisure. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again. “Good night, Miss Trewlove.”
She offered up a tentative smile, and he regretted that he might have hurt her with his rebuff of her offer to call her by her Christian name. “Good night, Mr. Sommersby.”
He didn’t go straight home, but instead wandered through the streets, his mind a chaotic swirl as he debated the wisdom of pursuing her without telling her who he was. But how else was he to be sure her feelings toward him weren’t influenced by his position? When he finally returned to his residence, he followed his usual routine of pouring himself a glass of scotch, walking upstairs to his bedchamber, and gazing out the window.
Only tonight he was met with a lovely view. Fancy Trewlove sitting in the reading nook she’d told him about. Her profile to him, her back against a wall. He could see only a portion of her: chest, shoulders, head, bent knees upon which a book rested. Then she twisted slightly, lifted a hand, and waved. So simple an action that seemed to reach down and touch something deep inside him.
Without much thought, he set his glass aside, shoved a chair in front of his own window, grabbed a book, and sat. With any luck, he’d give the appearance of reading, while in truth he was simply watching her, wondering how the mere sight of her could bring such calm to his soul, knowing when he finally retired for the evening, he would dream of making love to a shopgirl.
Chapter 11
The following afternoon, inside the sweet shop unimaginatively named “Sweet Shop,” Matthew studied the selections within the glass case. In the mood for some sugar, but without even a hint of lemon, he’d already perused the jars on the shelves and found nothing of interest. When the bell above the door jangled, he didn’t bother to look, his focus narrowing to some red hard candies.
“Good afternoon, Miss Trewlove,” the silver-haired lady behind the counter said with enthusiasm.
He couldn’t stop himself from turning then. Did the woman always wear a smile? Was she always glad to see people?
“Hello, Mrs. Flowers.” Her eyes warmed. “Mr. Sommersby.”
“Miss Trewlove.” Her yellow frock reminded him of the sun cascading over a field of clover. With so little effort, she seemed able to brighten the dullest day.
Moving up to the counter, she set a piece of paper on top of it. “These are the sweets I’d like to have on hand for Friday’s reading time.”
Mrs. Flowers—he now knew the woman’s name thanks to Miss Trewlove and regretted that he’d been remiss in introducing himself. It was such a small thing to call someone by name, but he’d seen an immediate change in the clerk as though she’d been greeted by royalty—took the paper and read it over. “Ooh, strawberry bonbons. They’ll delight the little tykes.”
“I thought they might.”
“They’ll make a mess with them, though.”
“I’ll have damp linens on hand for cleaning sticky fingers.”
