“Nor for me,” he responded.
“Is ’e with ye, Miss Trewlove?”
She glanced over to see his brow deeply furrowed, and confusion mirrored in his eyes. It was time to repay his earlier generosity in offering her the table. “Yes.”
Becky smiled brightly. “Meal is on the house, then.”
“No,” he said quickly, brusquely. “I’ll pay for my meal.”
“But yer with Miss Trewlove ’n’ Trewloves don’t pay in a Trewlove establishment.”
“This is a Trewlove pub?”
“My sister Gillie’s,” Fancy told him.
“The duchess.”
She smiled because keeping up with her family members was a task, and it seemed he’d already mastered it. “Yes.”
Coming to her feet, aware of him quickly following suit, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a crown. Unfortunately, the newspaper clipping came out with it and fluttered down to land near the toe of his polished boot. Before she could react, he was reaching down to gather it up. She pressed the coin into the serving girl’s hand. “This is for you, Becky.”
“Ah, Miss Trewlove, ye don’t ’ave—”
“You took such good care of us. Thank you.”
The girl gave a quick bob of her knees. “Appreciate it, miss, sir.” Then someone was calling for her, and she was racing off to see to another’s needs.
When Fancy looked at Mr. Sommersby, it was to discover him staring at the embarrassing clipping that had the audacity to open itself up as it made its way down to the floor. She held out her hand. “I’ll relieve you of that now.”
“Why would you carry this about with you?”
“Because I find the letter terribly romantic and enjoy reading it. And if I may be honest”—she didn’t know why she felt a need to confess to him, perhaps because she feared without further justification, he would think her a silly chit—“I hope to meet Lord Rosemont at the ball next week and have the opportunity to spend time in his company.” To offer her condolences, to come to know better a man who had given his wife so much of his heart.
Mr. Sommersby hesitated several heartbeats before carefully folding the letter and placing it in her waiting palm. “It is a dangerous thing, indeed, Miss Trewlove, to fall in love with a man before ever having met him.”
Chapter 4
If the mutinous glimmer in her eyes was any indication, Miss Trewlove had not taken kindly to his remark. He didn’t know why he’d made it. What did he care if she went around snipping poppycock from newspapers and carrying it about in her pocket?
Perhaps because he realized, much to his mortification, that he’d misjudged her. He’d viewed her as open and honest, had begun to take more than a casual interest in her, only to learn that a devious mind possibly lurked behind those deep brown eyes that reminded him of a doe he’d adopted as a pet when he was a lad and spent most of his time in the countryside.
It irked, irked that she was planning to land a lord and would use any means necessary to obtain him. He found it more irritating that because of a daft letter, she might possibly be setting her sights on the Earl of Rosemont.
“I’m not in love with him,” she finally snapped, stuffing the clipping back into her skirt pocket. “His wife adored him, and I find it commendable that he should inspire such devotion. But more, her entreaty to bring him out of his sorrow touched my heart. Not that it’s any of your concern nor should I have to justify myself.” She heaved an impatient sigh. “Thank you for providing conversation during dinner. It’s late. I must be off.”
It had grown dark. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten a leisurely meal. Generally, he wolfed down his food so the task of providing his body with sustenance was done, and he could move on to drink. “I’ll escort you back to your shop.”
“I’m fine on my own. No one would dare accost me. They know my brothers would see them dead.”
“You’re assuming everyone hereabouts knows you’re a Trewlove. I didn’t.”
She opened her mouth to protest, and quickly shut it, obviously coming to the realization he’d already won the argument. “I can’t stop you if you’ve a mind to accompany me.”
However, she was certainly determined to give it a go, because she turned on her heel and marched briskly for the door, a couple of lads jumping out of her way, obviously realizing they were in danger of being mowed down. Just as she neared the door, he easily caught up to her, reached around her, grabbed the handle, and pulled. She passed over the threshold with a muttered “thank you” that, for some inexplicable reason, made him smile for the second time that evening. He’d grown accustomed to happiness being absent for some time and it was a strange thing to feel it tapping on his shoulder.
In silence, guided by the lit streetlamps, they crossed the street and strolled along the bricked pavement until they arrived at her shop. She reached into her pocket and withdrew a key. This time no paper fluttered to the ground. After unlocking the door, she went still a heartbeat before looking over her shoulder. “I hope you won’t be a stranger to the shop, Mr. Sommersby.”
She was protecting her business. In spite of her ambitions. Or perhaps because of them. She didn’t strike him as a woman who would accept failure of any kind, including when it came to securing her lord. “I’m certain I’ll be in want of another book before long, Miss Trewlove. Sleep well.”
