Pushing open the door, she slipped through and closed it in her wake. He heard the turn of the lock. She’d left a gaslight burning, and he waited until the main part of her shop went dark. Although the windows sporting little shelves for books and knickknacks prevented him from having a clear view inside, he still managed to follow the journey of a lamp’s glow as it rose higher—no doubt her climbing the stairs—until it disappeared from his sight, assuring him that she would soon be safely tucked into her rooms. Glancing around, he considered returning to the pub for another brew but as she was no longer there, the din within those walls that usually drowned out his thoughts didn’t hold much appeal.
He headed down the street and turned the corner. Looking up at the brick building, he could see pale light spilling out of a window on the top floor. She was in her rooms now, undoubtedly preparing for bed, removing the pins from her midnight-black hair, dragging the brush through the long strands. Braiding it. Then she would slowly unbutton the bodice of her navy frock—
His thoughts came to an abrupt halt. He was not going to be enticed into falling into her web of deceit by her passion for books or her ability to create a shop that invited one in and offered comfort as welcoming as a warm blanket on a chilly evening. Or her large eyes or her pretty face or her kindness to a pub serving girl or her welcoming of a stranger.
He passed the mews that ran between her shop and his residence. Continuing on, he took a right at the street, turned up the path to his terrace house, jogged up the steps, and let himself in. Reaching for the gaslight, he turned up the flame until the soft yellow glow illuminated the front parlor. He went straight ahead through the tiny hallway, ignoring the narrow stairs that led to the floor where he slept, and entered the small room where he ate the meals prepared by the woman he’d hired to come in daily to cook in the small kitchen beyond and keep things tidy. A stuffed chair rested near the fireplace, and he’d spent many an evening reading there. He went over to the plain table that housed a solitary decanter and poured himself a tumbler of scotch.
With comfort in hand, he climbed the stairs. At the top, the narrow landing branched off into a door on either side. He went through the one on his right, into his bedchamber, simply furnished with a fourposter bed, a table beside it, an armoire across from it, and a high-backed brocade chair in the corner. He carried on until he reached the window.
Taking a sip of his scotch, he leaned a shoulder against the window casing. When he was in a contemplative mood, he preferred to become lost in whatever lay beyond his own window. In the early mornings, he’d watched drays pulled by large horses make their way through the mews. Late at night, he’d often witnessed drunkards stumbling around. He’d seen a number of cats, a few dogs, and the occasional child. And sometimes, like tonight, his gaze would drift upward to the faint glow from her window spilling into the darkness and defeating a small part of it. Often he wished it would reach into his soul and conquer the black void that resided there.
Because it was a terrible abyss of emptiness and despair, craving that which he’d never possessed and never would: love. Having put his heart at risk once, he was determined to never do so again.
Watching shadows moving behind the drawn curtains on the top floor of the bookshop, he wondered if the window looked into her bedchamber, if he was observing his neighbor preparing for sleep. He wondered if Fancy Trewlove took the Earl of Rosemont into her dreams.
The poor girl was going to be disappointed when she attended her first ball because her hopes of being introduced to Rosemont would be dashed. He would not bow before her, take her hand, and kiss it. He would not ask her for a dance, hold her in his arms, and sweep her over a polished parquet floor. He wouldn’t tell her that she had the most expressive brown eyes he’d ever seen. He wouldn’t confess that more than once during dinner, he’d decided that her mouth had been perfectly designed for kissing.
No, the Earl of Rosemont would do none of those things.
Because now he knew her plans, and he wanted no part of them or her.
Chapter 5
At half seven the following morning, Fancy rapped her knuckles on the door to her brother’s suite of rooms in the hotel. It was quickly opened by a tall footman who bowed deferentially. “Good morning, Miss Trewlove.”
“How are you this fine morning, James?” She skirted around him, removed her hat and gloves, and handed them over to him.
“Very fine, miss. It’s kind of you to inquire.”
Hardly. It was simply good manners, although she was given to understand the nobility never thanked their servants or engaged them in idle conversation. “I’ll see myself to breakfast.”
“Very good, miss.”
As she made her way down the corridor, she couldn’t help but reflect at how comfortable she felt within her brother’s lodgings. As she stepped into the smaller dining room, Mick set his newspaper aside and came to his feet. Not that he’d been reading it. Rather he’d been leaning toward his wife seated beside him and telling her something that caused her cheeks to turn a pinkish hue. Fancy wanted that, a man who, long after they’d been married, would whisper wicked things in her ear.
“Good morning, little sister,” Mick said, the normal teasing tinging his tone because she was not only the youngest but the smallest of Ettie Trewlove’s children. Even Gillie was nearly as tall as her brothers. “How are you this morning?”
A bit tired. Thanks to Mr. Sommersby, she’d not slept well. Surreptitiously parting the drapes just enough to peer through them, she’d seen him standing in the window of his bedchamber, looking out. Because he was too far away for her to see his features clearly, she couldn’t be sure if he was staring at the mews or the sky or even had his eyes closed. His movements, however, were more discernible. He’d leaned against the window casing and sipped something. Scotch most likely. Lazily, languidly. As though the view were arresting and deserving of his utmost attention.
She’d taken those damned green eyes into her slumber and dreamed of a man who enjoyed reading penny dreadfuls, whispering the words provocatively in her ear as his hands stroked places that had never been stroked by a man. She’d grown warm, writhing with need, only to awaken to find her blankets and sheet on the floor, Dickens peering out from beneath the mound with a narrowed glare, leaving her to wonder if perhaps she’d kicked him out of the bed as well. Not that she would confess all that to her brother.
“Doing very well, thank you. And you?” She headed for the sideboard where his personal cook had prepared a virtual feast, not that any of it would go to waste. Aslyn always distributed any remaining food to area shelters tasked with feeding the hungry.
“Couldn’t be better.”
She walked to the table where a footman pulled out a chair for her. After sitting, she looked at Aslyn. “And you?”
“Perfect.”
“In every way,” Mick added as he took his seat.
Of all her brothers, Mick was the last one she’d ever expected to be so frightfully besotted. Another reason she didn’t often take her dinners here. While she was ecstatic that the couple had fallen so madly in love, it was difficult to watch when she had yet to acquire the same level of devotion. Besides, she often felt like an intruder, knowing if she weren’t present a good deal more touching, stroking, and kissing would go on.
“How did you spend your evening?” Mick asked.
“I had dinner at the Jolly Roger. When I returned to the shop, I stacked five books on my head and walked up the stairs balancing them—”
“Did you really?” Aslyn asked. “Five?”
