“To my liking thus far.”
“My brother has worked hard to make the area welcom—”
“Here you are, loves,” Becky said, setting the pewter tankards on the table. “Drink up ’n’ enjoy. Food’ll be here shortly.”
After the girl wandered off, Fancy continued, “Welcoming, I was going to say.” She lifted her tankard. “Cheers.”
While he lifted his pint, she took a sip, enjoying the crisp flavor. Gillie served only the best. Watching as he turned back the cover on his recent purchase, she removed the miniature book from her pocket, taking satisfaction from his gaze darting over to capture her movements, unsure why she wanted to bask in his attention. Perhaps because she’d never garnered a man’s full interest before. It was no secret in the area where she’d grown up that her family considered her destined for greater things, so most of the boys had kept their distance, none of them wanting to face her irritatingly intimidating brothers.
“What are you reading?” he asked.
“Aesop’s Fables.”
“Have you a favorite?”
“The Ant and the Grasshopper, I think. It applies to my family. They’ve always worked hard, seldom taken time for play. Have you one you favor, one to which you can relate, perhaps?”
“The Fox and the Crow.Be wary of flatterers, or something to that effect.”
She could have sworn a tinge of bitterness laced his voice and wondered at the cause. Yet she didn’t know him well enough to ask for the reasons behind his selection. Although his choice of fable was certainly one she should take to heart when she began making the social rounds. Although as she understood it, the entire Season revolved around flattery. “Have you any advice on how to differentiate between flattery and honest compliments?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
Chapter 3
Not that Matthew Sommersby wasn’t presently tempted to let loose with a foray into flattery that would have his dinner companion blushing with pleasure. It had been a good long while since he’d been drawn to a woman.
He wasn’t certain he’d ever met anyone as small of stature as she was who still managed to project such a large presence. The Queen perhaps. The moment he’d walked into the shop, Miss Trewlove had caught his attention without artifice or fawning or inuendo. She’d merely welcomed him with a warm smile and a sultry voice that had caused him to recheck his surroundings to ensure he’d entered a bookshop and not a brothel. His mind had filled with images of that voice lowered into a rasp as she whispered wicked suggestions in his ear. He had no idea why he’d reacted to her as he had. Most certainly she was a beautiful woman with her high cheekbones, delicate square jaw, and inviting brown eyes, but her attraction had more to do with her confidence and bearing.
He shouldn’t have been surprised, at least not once he realized she was a Trewlove. In spite of their humble origins, they were making their mark on Society—Mick Trewlove especially with his tearing down of what had been left to rot and replacing it with buildings in which merchants and residents could take pride. It was one of the reasons Matthew had decided to lease a terrace house here. It was modern and clean, while the area itself provided a good many amenities.
“Why a bookshop?” he asked.
The smile she bestowed upon him seemed to encompass every aspect of her, to reveal her very soul. “The simple answer is that I love stories, but there’s more to it than that. My siblings are all quite a bit older than I am. My mother sent them to a nearby ragged school. It cost her nothing as the schools are free, funded by the generosity of others. Lessons were only given in the morning, and they were only allowed to attend until they were eleven, so all that was over by the time I came around. But they learned to read, you see, and after that there was no stopping them.”
The fire in her voice, her expression, held him captivated. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt passionate about anything.
“They continued to educate themselves. Informally. They pooled their earnings together and paid a guinea a year to a lending library. They could only borrow one book at a time, and they took turns deciding who would choose the book to be borrowed, but it opened up worlds to them—and to me. My fondest memories are of each of them reading to me, when I was quite small. It was magical. So, I wanted to open a bookshop in order to surround myself with the stories that my brothers and sister had loved enough to share with me. When I see the spines lined up on a shelf, it makes me happy. I’m happier still when someone takes a book home with them. Tales of adventure or romance or mystery bring undeniable and unending joy. Biographies, history, geography expand our knowledge of what surrounds us. Even if I don’t necessarily agree with all the sentiments expressed, I find value in every word written, every word read. That’s the reason I have a bookshop.”
As though she’d not just upended his world with her impassioned diatribe, she settled back and took a long, slow sip of her beer. When she was done, she licked her lips before lifting her gaze back to his, and he couldn’t help but believe he’d never been so enthralled by a person in his entire life, nor would he ever again be so. Her love of books was genuine,shewas genuine.
“Did you attend the ragged schools?” Knowing the moniker had come about because so many of the children who attended wore rags, he hated the thought of her in worn and tattered frocks, possibly without shoes. Although he was aware people grew up in poverty, he’d never before carried on a conversation with one who had. He routinely made donations to one charity or another but didn’t have an active role in doing good works. He was suddenly feeling quite ashamed that his lack of action might have resulted in a harsher life for her or others.
“Oh no. By the time I was old enough to be schooled, my siblings were all working, and they again pooled their coins, this time to ensure I went to a private school and later to a finishing school. In both cases, the students’ parents were merchants, bankers, tradesmen, or some other occupation that saw them with a decent income, but still I wasn’t fully embraced. Unfortunately, the circumstances of my birth carry a stigma.” She didn’t elaborate regarding the circumstances, but then she didn’t need to. It was common knowledge that the Trewloves wore their bastardy like a badge of honor. “I found my years at school quite lonely, not that I ever told my siblings that. I don’t know why I confessed it to you or rambled on about it. I do hope you’ll forgive my dip into self-pity.”
“It was hardly self-pity, Miss Trewlove.” He didn’t want to envision her sitting alone during meals, standing at the edge of a garden, not invited into a game of tag. Although perhaps whatever she’d endured had motivated her to invite him to join her tonight. He was beginning to feel grateful she had. She was without guile and he found it refreshing.
Embarrassed to have shared such intimate and personal memories and thoughts with a stranger, Fancy nodded toward the book he’d placed on the table. “I’d promised you could read if you took the chair.”
“So you did.”
Striving to make sense of the words in her book was proving to be an exercise in futility. Generally, she had no trouble at all blocking out any distractions when she became lost in a book, but her attention wasn’t usually snagged by a gentleman whose stories she wished to learn—for surely, he had stories to tell. He looked to be on the younger side of thirty. Where had he come from before landing here? How did he earn wages?
With her return, Becky set a bowl of shepherd’s pie, a piece of linen, and a spoon in front of each of them before rushing off to see to other customers. Mr. Sommersby set his book aside and, in unison, they draped their linen napkins across their laps. He gathered up some pie, and she fought against watching his mouth close over the spoon, but it was a battle she lost, imagining those lips closing over hers. Whatever was wrong with her to allow such naughty thoughts to travel through her mind? Averting her gaze, she concentrated on her own meal.
“Difficult to read whilst eating,” he said quietly.
She usually managed it quite well, especially in her youth, much to her mum’s dismay since it wasn’t the way that proper ladies were to occupy their time at the table. With conversation, they were to involve themselves in other people’s lives, listen attentively, gleaning bits of information in order to gain an understanding of the person, build an image of his or her character. With Mr. Sommersby she was failing miserably, which didn’t bode well for her entrée into Society and judging the man who might ask for her hand.
