Then the approaching man removed his hat, scowling deeply. Tilde caught a glimpse of his long, aquiline nose, firm chin and unsmiling lips. Tilde would have guessed him to be a gentleman even if she hadn’t met the two little ladies first. And then her breath caught.
Stormy gray eyes were lined with lashes, so black and thick he almost looked as though he’d rimmed them with kohl.
She’d seen those eyes before. And those lips.
Good Heavens! He was Jasper! It could not be. At this festival. Today. Of all days. She subdued her suddenly racing heart and ignored the heat creeping up her neck. His appearance here was merely an ironic coincidence. It was not some mystical twist of fate, foretold by a woman who claimed to have the second sight.
And that kiss had been so very long ago… It’s doubtful he remembers me.
Judging by the look on his face, he wouldn’t care if he had. In fact, no doubt all he felt was a mixture of relief and anger at his two lovely young daughters who’d managed to slip away from him.
A cheer arose as inhabitants of a nearby gaming tent chose that moment to celebrate some magnificent feat or other such nonsense. Peaches joined them merrily with a string of encouraging yaps. Her dog ran in circles, twisting her leading string around Tilde. The girls attempted to subdue her, but only added to the chaos.
Tilde refused to give into embarrassment. Likely he thinks we’ve all just stepped out of Bedlam. Of mind to bring some order to the situation, she moved to shush Peaches, but her entangled feet failed to cooperate. Without warning, Miss Matilda Fortune went toppling over backward into the fabric wall of the tent.
Shouts rose up from behind her and from within the tent. Then the thick material gave way rather easily. Crashes, screams, curses and finally a large thump added an exclamation point to Tilde’s loss of dignity. Stunned and mortified, she attempted to catch her breath as she lay on the ground wrapped in what had once been a poor merchant’s tent. She’d just made an utter ninny of herself.
Perhaps she could remain wrapped in the canvas for the duration of the afternoon. It wasn’t really necessary to greet him now, was it?
Because all she could think was that Jasper Talbot was the man the fortune teller spoke of.
Eleven years before, he’d been the first man to ever kiss her.
A half hour after they arrived at the fair Jasper Talbot, The Earl of Willoughby, was as far from amused as London is from Calcutta. First his daughters had demand a delay to enjoy the festival. Then they had immediately bolt out of sight, causing him no small amount of worry.
They could have been driving into Mayfair about now if he wasn’t so easily manipulated by the little urchins.
Cheers sounded from some sort of strength competition up ahead. Had his daughters not gone missing, he wouldn’t have minded a look at the show. A decade ago, his brash self might even have accepted the challenge. But for now, he needed to assure himself of their safety. God help him if anything ever happened to those two little imps.
They would be fine, of course. They likely got distracted by a tent filled with baubles.
A waft of manure drifted through the alley of vendors. Booths featuring animals would have captured his daughter’s attention as well. Willoughby wrinkled his nose in disgust when he passed a pen holding a giant hog. It wasn’t that he took issue with farm animal smells, but he did when they were directly adjacent to a tent selling meat pies.
Where are they?
Lengthening his stride, he flicked his gaze left and right. He’d ordered them to remain close. It would serve them right if he took the strap to their tiny little behinds.
Except he’d never do such a thing.
A flapping pastel pink ribbon drew his attention, granting him no small amount of relief. On the dirt, in their pretty pink dresses, playing with what looked to be, what he hoped to be anyhow, a dog. His daughters sat playing and quite oblivious to the grief they’d given him.
He did not shout their names but instead marched determinedly in that direction. The two dark heads were bent over as they were licked and pawed by the mongrel.
And then one of the heads glanced up. Eloise, of course. Althea spent an inordinate amount of time living within her own mind, a dreamland of sorts, uninterested in the world around her.
“We’re over here, Papa! Come see, Thea’s found a dog!” She twisted her lips into a grimace before adding, “And a missus that owns it!”
The dog’s owner––a spinster if he were to guess from her unfashionable attire––pushed herself off the ground as he approached. He was, indeed, grateful that she’d kept the girls in one place long enough that he could find them. He only hoped she didn’t take it upon herself to admonish his parenting.
Or lack, thereof.
The governess who’d been hired wasn’t to start until next week, and that wouldn’t be a moment too soon.
“They’re safe and sound and, I imagine, filled with apologies for worrying you.”
He half noted the spinster’s voluptuous curves with disdain. The material of her dress was faded and worn. Atop her head she’d perched a straw hat ornamented with flowers and what appeared to be… bumble bees.
But then the woman’s face caught and held his attention. Something familiar about her. Upturned nose, full rosy lips and eyes that were… brown, perhaps? As they widened in shock, they appeared more of an olive tone.
