“Mick, I’m across the street. No one is about.” It was after two in the morning and the streets were quiet, every business shut down for the night.
“Still.” He escorted her to the shop and waited until she’d closed the door behind her and turned the lock.
When Mr. Tittlefitz had locked up, he’d left a gaslight burning low to welcome her home. Shadows quivered around the bookshelves. With her back against the door, she inhaled the beloved fragrance of ink, paper, leather, and binding that filled shelf upon shelf. If she could find a way to capture the scent, she would dip candles in it and burn them throughout her future residence so she would always be comforted. She did hope her husband had an extensive library, was a reader of books. Could she marry someone who wasn’t?
Shoving away from the wood, she headed up the stairs, her steps increasing in tempo as she neared her private rooms.
She didn’t know what was driving her, knew only that she wasn’t where she wanted to be. Dashing through the front parlor, where low light greeted her, she rushed into her bedchamber and came to a stop at the window, the draperies falling on either side of it.
Warmth, joy, and relief swamped her at the sight of Mr. Sommersby standing with his arms upstretched and spread wide, his hands pressing against the window casings. In spite of the late hour, he was still awake, looking out, the unbuttoned cuffs causing his sleeves to have slipped down to his elbows, his throat visible because of his disheveled state, and she wondered if he’d been waiting for her return. Placing her forehead to the cool glass, she feared he’d think her forward if she were to knock on his door at this late hour. It was ridiculous how much she longed to speak with him, to tell him of her night.
Then he was gone.
But still she stood there, waiting for him to douse the light before crawling into bed. Was any man with whom she’d danced thinking of her at the moment? Did they wonder if she’d gone to her slumber, if she’d carried them into her dreams? She wouldn’t. Not a single one. But Mr. Sommersby—
A looming shadow caught her attention, charging through the mews with a purpose to his stride. It sent her heart into a gallop, a pace that only quickened when she heard the pounding on the back door that led into the storeroom. Delivery men used that entrance so as not to disturb any customers. But for a gent who lived around the corner, it was the most direct route to her shop.
She rushed from her rooms and down the stairs, the litany “I’m coming, I’m coming,” reverberating through her mind until she reached the wide portal, shoved back the bolt, and swung it open. The light from the streets barely reached here, and she hadn’t thought to turn up the gaslights, so he was almost lost to the shadows, and yet still she felt she saw him clearly.
“I wanted to ensure you were all right.” His voice came out strained, as though he’d been in fear of her life, as though she’d gone on safari and spent the evening facing wild animals that were intent on devouring her. Perhaps she had.
“I survived and am none the worse for wear.” She stepped back. “Do come in. The fog is making it chilly out there.” It wasn’t yet so thick as to make it difficult to see, but wisps of it were floating in.
Crossing the threshold, he shut the door behind him. Now that they were both standing inside, the storage room seemed incredibly small. Perhaps it was just that his presence overwhelmed the space. She’d noted it before, the manner in which he dominated his environment with such ease, as though it was his right to be in command. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any spirits on hand to offer you.”
“I’ve had enough scotch for the night.” She could feel the intensity of his gaze as it roamed over her, as if he was searching for wounds. “Your coming out was a success, then.”
Statement, not question, and yet it demanded a reply. She gave a tiny scoff, hating that it sounded so hard and bitter. “No, not really.”
Feeling the burn at the back of her eyes, she refused to give in to tears.
“What happened?” His tone was that of a man displeased, a man on the verge of calling others out to answer for their actions.
“My family had such hopes, but I fear they were rather dashed. I danced with my brothers, my brothers-by-marriage, the brothers or good friends of my sisters-by-marriage—always some relation in one manner or another. When they’d all had their turn, I wandered among the guests for several dances. Observed, but not approached, not spoken to. Very much like an exhibit at the zoological gardens. Or some theater of curiosity. Come see the girl born out of wedlock—”
“Fancy, no.”
He’d never called her by her given name before, nor had his palm ever cradled her cheek so lovingly. She wasn’t quite certain which of those two occurrences were responsible for making her feel as though her heart were made of candlewax and slowly melting.
“People fear what they do not understand,” he continued.
Slowly she shook her head, grateful his warm, gentle fingers stayed against her skin. “The worst was yet to come. Of a sudden, gentlemen began asking me to dance. But I sensed they were simply going through the motions. So I began making inquiries.”
If his thumb had not begun stroking the curve of her cheek, she might not have found the strength to confess the rest. “It seems my brothers were offering favors to those who took me on a turn about the room. I was beyond mortified because I’m certain everyone knew. The aristocracy adores gossip, and tonight I provided it.”
“Those lords are fools, every last one of them. I would not have needed a bribe to ask you for the honor of a waltz.”
She gave him a sad smile. “But you weren’t there. And you’re my friend.”
Something—an irritation, an anger—flashed across his face. He looked up to the ceiling. His jaw tautened, relaxed, and as though he’d reached some conclusion, he lowered his gaze to her. “Waltz with me now.”
Her laugh was soft, gentle. “We have no orchestra.”
“We don’t need one.” His hand left her cheek, skimmed down her arm, and laced itself between her gloved fingers. He began leading her out of the storage room. “What is your favorite tune?”
“‘The Fairy Wedding Waltz.’ The first one I danced to at my first ball.”
“I know it. If you had a pianoforte, I could play it for you.”
