He narrowed his eyes slightly, in what appeared to be disapproval, as though she’d suggested they strip off their clothes and dart about through the establishment. “You’re an unaccompanied woman.”
“Which is the reason the other chair is available.” She kept her tone amiable and pleasant, rather than pointing out she knew exactly what she was. For the span of a heartbeat, she thought he was going to smile, but he seemed to be fighting his inclination to do so. “Please. You can read your book and I’ll read mine. We needn’t speak. It’ll be as though we’re dining alone.”
“You have a book?”
“A miniature. In the pocket of my skirt. Please join me. Otherwise, guilt shall gnaw at me for delaying your dinner, and I won’t enjoy mine.” She didn’t know why she was insisting when he seemed so uninterested in her company, but she never had liked the thought of inconveniencing another.
With a slight bowing of his head, he pulled out a chair and indicated it was for her. Gracefully, because she’d mastered the lessons that had taught her it was the only way a lady sat, she eased down to the wooden seat, grateful when he took the one opposite her, yet surprised he exhibited almost as much grace. She’d watched countless men drop into their chairs within these walls. Few did it with such deliberate care, as though every muscle, bone, and bit of sinew had been trained to respond with an elegance of motion, as if their owner were accustomed to being observed and intended to ensure none found fault with him. He tugged off his gloves and set them aside, while she placed hers across her lap.
“Evenin’, Miss Trewlove.”
She glanced up at the young woman whose face was flushed with her efforts and her bosom in danger of breaking free of her black bodice’s restraints. “Hello, Becky.”
“Wot ye be havin’ this evenin’?”
“What has Hannah prepared?”
“A lovely shepherd’s pie ’n’ mutton stew.”
“I’ll have the pie and half a pint of light beer.”
“Yes, miss. And ye, sir?”
“I’ll have the pie as well, along with a pint of Guinness.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll be back in a tick.”
Fancy watched as Becky hurried off, grabbing empty tankards and glasses as she went, nodding toward those asking for another pint or beverage. The woman was like a juggler, tossing far too many balls in the air, yet effectively keeping each one from landing on the ground.
“MissTrewlove.”
The quietly spoken name, drawn-out almost like it was a bit of confection to be savored, caused her attention to swing back to her table companion. “You say that as though you didn’t know who I was.”
“I didn’t. I assume you’re related to Mick Trewlove.”
She couldn’t stop her pride in her brother’s accomplishments from beaming forth. “I’m his younger sister. And you’re not to blame. We never introduced ourselves. I’m Fancy Trewlove.”
“The Fancy Book Emporium.” He mulled it over. “The name of your shop is lacking an apostrophe and anS.”
Trust a man to point out the obvious or seek to correct what needed no correction. “Their omission was intentional. It’s a play on my name you see. A bit of fun. You’ve yet to tell me who you are.”
A hesitation as though he weren’t quite sure of himself. “Matthew Sommersby. TwoMs.”
She held out her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Matthew Sommersby, twoMs.”
The smile he bestowed upon her fairly stole her breath. She’d seen hints of it, a twitch here, a small curl of a corner there, but when he spread his lips into a full smile that revealed perfect straight teeth, when his eyes sparkled as though he was truly pleased, she found herself astounded by the seeming swiftness with which he’d been transformed from a man of such seriousness to one who projected an image more welcoming, more inviting, more sensual, more... everything.
“A pleasure, Miss Trewlove.” His palm, hinting at the slightest roughness like the finest grains of sand on a beach beneath her soles, came to rest against hers. For some reason she envisioned him kissing the tips of her fingers. He possessed an elegance and refinement that reminded her of courtly gestures. But he merely released his hold, then opened and closed his hand as though wanting to hoard the sensation he’d experienced while touching her.
“I assume you live in the area,” she said.
“The next street over. 86 Ettie Lane. I can see the back of your shop from my upstairs window.”
Which meant he had a view of her bedchamber, or at least the light from it before she closed the draperies. She doubted he could actually see inside to make note of the furnishings, although she might be visible walking about. “Mick named the street after our mother. Have you lived there long?”
“A little over a fortnight now.”
“How are you finding it?”
