Her pulse stuttered at his protective words. At the concern in his hazel gaze.
“Jeremy would never hurt me.” She folded her arms around herself. “Why are you here? I thought I made things clear when we last spoke.”
“You did. That’s why I came. To apologize.”
Her heart flipped. “For what?”
“For not showing you the proper respect. The respect that I do, indeed, have for you.”
His words and expression were sincere. She didn’t know how to react, how to stem the tide of warmth that flooded her. At that instant, the front door slammed a second time…and brought her to her senses.
“Bloominghell.” She dashed around Rhys to get through the curtain.
She looked around the empty shop…saw her empty future.
Pickering-Parks was her last hope, and she’d lost him.
“Maggie, what’s the matter?” Rhys asked.
“My last patron left,” she said in a shaking voice. “He was poached by thatbastardBancroft.”
Desperation cinched her throat. Her last customer was gone, taking her livelihood with him. Her brother was furious with her. And her ex-lover, whom she needed to stay far away from, was standing right behind her. She was struck by a sense of unreality. For a mad instant, she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
At leastthings can’t get any worse, she thought wildly.
The door opened. Glory skipped in, chaperoned by Hypatia.
“Hello, Mr. Jones,” the girl exclaimed. “I was hoping to see you again!”
Numbly, Maggie watched as her daughter dashed straight to Rhys. Glory dimpled when he bowed, returning his greeting with the best curtsy Maggie had ever seen from her.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” Rhys said.
“It is indeed! Mama and Aunt Patty are taking me to the fair.” Glory’s eyes shone with excitement. “Would you care to join us, Mr. Jones?”
Rhys looked at Maggie, the intensity of his gaze making her heart thump against her ribs. For an instant, the mask of the insouciant rake slipped: he scrutinized her with a keenness that made her shiver with dread…and a strange sort of longing.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’d enjoy the company.”
“Hooray!” Glory clapped her hands together gleefully. “This will be great fun!”
Maggie did not share her daughter’s enthusiasm, yet uninviting Rhys would only draw undue attention. Her best course of action was to spend the afternoon with her ex-lover and the child they’d made together and pray that no one noticed the truth.
Panic increased her lightheadedness. At the same time, against her will, she felt a constriction in her chest…the threads of a tattered dream tangling around her heart.
8
The fair turnedout to be just a short stroll over from the shop. Clustered around the town’s Market House, the event was in full swing when Rhys arrived with Maggie, Glory, and Hypatia. Strings of paper flags fluttered in the ocean breeze. Purveyors had set up stalls on both sides of Broad Street, luring potential customers over with samples of foodstuffs and household items. A fiddler played a lively country tune, children gathering around him.
Despite the cheerful setting, the outing did not get off to a promising start.
Upon arrival, Glory made a bee-line for a hawker selling brown-spotted puppies. She alternately cajoled, begged, and whined at her mother to have one. Rhys had to admire Maggie’s patience as she explained firmly and repeatedly that a puppy would be too much work.
With a sulky look, Glory turned to him, saying loudly, “I’d wager Mr. Jones likes dogs.”
A memory ignited of Bailey, the foxhound he’d had as a child. Bailey had been his faithful companion and only friend—until the day his sire had shot the dog in front of him. With ease borne of practice, Rhys shut out the dark swell of emotion.
“I don’t,” he said.
