“However, she’s unlawfully born. Her father could be a murderer for all we know.”
He almost revealed that her father was a war hero, but then he’d have to explain how he knew, and things could get a bit complicated from there. “I don’t believe criminal tendencies are inherited.”
“Still, tainted blood and all that. A man could lose some power and prestige taking her to wife.”
Or he could gain it. “Thornley married her sister, a by-blow.”
“He’s a duke from one of the most powerful families in all of England. He can do whatever he bloody well likes and suffer very little for it. You and I are mere earls.”
It was true that Thornley came from an incredibly formidable family, but Matthew could hold his own when it came to power, prestige, and influence. “Is that the reason you don’t marry your mistress?”
A sadness coming over him, Beresford settled back in his chair. “Duty before love. They were the first words I was taught.”
They’d been battered into Matthew as well. They were the reason he’d married a woman knowing her treachery would forever prevent him from loving her. When he was in Fancy’s company, the past no longer mattered. She made him believe the potential for love hovered within reach, if he would but dare to grasp it.
Fancy took great satisfaction in watching people wander through her shop, taking books from the shelves, opening them, perusing a few words, putting them back. Or hugging them close and bringing them to the counter to purchase. This particular Saturday afternoon, more people were about than usual and helping them select books kept her mind occupied so she wasn’t thinking about Matthew or the fact that she hadn’t seen him since the kiss.
She had just finished helping a woman with her book purchase when the bells above her door jingled—and Matthew was dominating her thoughts once again because he stepped over the threshold and approached the counter. “Mr. Sommersby.” She wondered why she had to sound so breathless when she’d said his name a hundred times already, whenever she saw him in her dreams.
“Miss Trewlove. How are you this fine day?”
Wonderful now that you’ve made an appearance.“Very well, thank you, and you?”
“At a bit of a loss. I’m in need of a book for my niece and was hoping you might have a suggestion.”
“Oh, absolutely. How old is she?”
“Four.”
Such mundane conversation, and yet she so enjoyed the rumble of his deep voice that she would happily listen to him readingDebrett’swithout growing bored. As long as words spilled forth from him, she really didn’t care what they were. “If you’ll come with me...”
He followed her to the back wall where they were partially hidden by the bookshelves running perpendicular through the center of the shop, shelves around which they’d waltzed. She knelt. “I keep books appropriate for children on the lower shelves here, so they have easier access to them.”
He crouched beside her, balancing on the balls of his feet, and she couldn’t help but notice how his trousers pulled taut against his thighs or how masculine it looked to have his elbows resting there, his hands clasped before him. He’d removed his gloves, and it took everything within her not to wedge her hand between both of his.
“You’ve been rather scarce,” she whispered, her voice low, hushed.
“I decided a bit of distance between us was needed.”
There certainly wasn’t much between them now. She could feel the heat emanating from him, and the pull of her body toward his, as though he were the moon and she the ocean tides. Or perhaps she was the moon, but it didn’t really matter when the attraction between them seemed so strong. “I thought perhaps you found fault with my eagerness the last time we were together.”
“I found fault only with my own actions. Thank God for your cat.”
She gave him a sly smile. “I’ve been cursing Dickens for interfering.”
“You should be rewarding him for putting a stop to my antics. Things between us almost went too far, Miss Trewlove.”
They had. She knew that. And she’d wanted them to. Whatever was wrong with her? Plenty of men were handsome, but no other made her feel as though she garnered all of his attention, as though he hung on every word she spoke, as though he cared about what she had to say. “After what transpired between us, it seems you should call me Fancy.”
He’d said her name before, and she wanted to hear it again on his lips.
“Fancy.” His voice was low, deep, hinting at secrets and seduction.
“Matthew.” She’d never called him by name before, at least not out loud, not to his face.
He slammed his eyes closed, released a shuddering breath. When he opened them, they contained an intensity that led her to believe he found his name on her tongue as sensual as she found hers on his. “The book?”
The rasp of his voice alerted her he was searching for a distraction. A good thing as someone entered their aisle, turned the corner, and disappeared between two more sets of bookcases. “These here”—she skimmed her fingers over the spines—“all have illustrations. The stories are simple. This book”—she leaned partially in front of him, taking satisfaction with his hand coming to rest on the small of her back, steadying her—“has several of Aesop’s fables in it. They’re short enough to hold her interest while you read them to her.”
