“No need to mention it,” Lucy said with a bright smile.
Once Lucy had chosen a book for herself, they stepped back outside—and Evelyn’s emotion overcame her. She threw her arms around her friend and hugged her tightly, heedless of the wind tugging at their pelisses.
“It is beautiful, Lucy,” she murmured, blinking back tears. She was touched beyond words.
“You appreciate literature,” Lucy laughed. “How many of his other patrons do?” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
Evelyn giggled. “Thank you, Lucy,” she replied.
“Come—we must escape this dreadful wind,” Lucy replied, blinking. She was clearly touched by Evelyn’s delight and striving not to reveal it.
Evelyn glanced down the darkened, deserted street. A few figures lingered farther off near one of the park gates, but close by the road lay empty. As she looked behind them, her gaze caught on a man standing before a shop window.
The man was tall, and he wore a black tailcoat and black trousers, but no greatcoat. Her heart thudded at the sheer stature of him—he had broad shoulders, long legs, and when he stepped forward to gaze through the window, he moved witha lithe grace that surprised her. Most gentlemen she had seen—and she had little experience, having missed several Seasons since Papa’s passing—did not have that same muscled, smooth way of moving.
A creaking noise tore her gaze upward. She gasped. Above him, the heavy metal sign ofTynedale Millineryswung wildly, its chain nearly severed—only a single rusted link holding it aloft. One more strong gust, and it would fall directly upon the unsuspecting gentleman.
“I think my eye is better now—much better than it was last week,” Lucy began.
“That man—” Evelyn choked out. In the next instant, she was running. “Lucy, we must help him!”
She did not wait to see whether Lucy followed; clutching her precious book to her chest, she sprinted down the street. The wind howled around her. The sign lurched violently—and then began to fall.
Evelyn screamed. With no thought but to reach him in time, she hurled herself across nearly a yard of slick pavement, striking him full-force and knocking him aside just as the sign crashed to the cobbles with a thunderous clang where he had stood.
“What in—” the man swore, but before he could regain his footing, momentum carried them both down.
Evelyn shrieked as they tumbled, helpless. The man seized her instinctively, twisting as though to shield her from the worst of the fall, and they struck the ground together—Evelyn landing atop him.
For a heartbeat, the world stilled.
Evelyn became aware of the hard, lean body beneath her own, his muscled chest firm and solid under her cheek. His arms were around her, his grip strong and hard. His long legs stretched out under her, one of her knees trapped betweenthem. Heat flooded through her—not the burning heat of embarrassment, but a slow, intense, building heat that flooded from somewhere in her belly throughout her body, ending in her face. She was sweating, though it was not hot. Her entire body tingled with a new awareness.
Below her on the cobbles, the man gazed up. His eyes were blue—the rich, deep blue of an evening sky. His nose was thin and straight, his jaw firm, his cheekbones gaunt. It was the most handsome face she had ever seen.
She gazed into his eyes, and he gazed back. His eyes widened in astonishment and then narrowed in a look that she would almost have thought was appreciative, if it had been directed elsewhere. Seeing it directed at herself was infinitely puzzling, and that puzzlement brought her attention abruptly to the moment.
“Evelyn?” Lucy’s voice cut through the haze, high with alarm.
Evelyn blinked and looked around. A small crowd—eight or ten people—had hurried from the park at the sound of the crash. They now surrounded them, whispering, staring. Heat surged into Evelyn’s cheeks; she scrambled backward, mortified.
“Sir—my lord?” she stammered, though she did not even know his rank. He was rolling to his knees, rising more slowly than she, perhaps jarred by the fall. Evelyn tried desperately to focus on him instead of the murmuring onlookers.
Lucy seized Evelyn’s arm and tugged. Evelyn let herself be pulled away, stumbling around the corner to escape the speculative stares.
“They were all whispering,” Lucy said, her voice strained. “We have to get away from here. What if one of them knows you?”
Evelyn felt the colour burn hotter in her face. Only now did the implications of the scene strike her fully. People had seen herin the street—on top of a man. They would think… oh, goodness, they would assume she had been attempting to lie with him. She knew little of such matters—only snatches of giggled whispers overheard from maids—but enough to know what such a tableau suggested.
“We must go home,” she whispered miserably.
“We shall,” Lucy promised, guiding her away with gentle firmness.
They cut through the park, making the return more swiftly. When they reached the townhouse, Evelyn hurried up the steps.
“Thank you, Lucy,” she said at the doorway. She longed to retreat to her room, to try to make sense of what had happened, but politeness urged her to ask, “Will you come in for tea?”
“No, dear. I must get home—my parents will be frantic in this weather.” Lucy squeezed her hand warmly. “Rest now. You are exhausted.”
