Chapter Three
“Nothing is wrong withme,” the American asserted.
Beatrice supposed the man could be telling the truth. After all, she and her sisters had been to very few dances by choice.
“Well,” she mused, “you seem a little awkward and ill-mannered. I thought perhaps that was the reason New York’s polite society kept you out of its ballrooms.”
She was pleased to see him pause and his jaw tighten. Then he shook his head.
“Youare callingmeill-mannered?” And he chuckled again, which annoyed her.
“You are not allowed to be back here.” She was about to yell the wordthreewhen she realized she wanted to know his purpose. “What do you want anyway?”
He smiled. “May we first exchange names?”
“You already know mine,” she reminded him. “You may call me Miss Rare-Foure. You may call my younger sister Miss Charlotte. That is, if you have any need to address either of us again.”
“Would you care to know my name?” he asked frankly, tilting his handsome face slightly.
“Not particularly. I cannot imagine that I will ever see you again once you leave the shop.”
“And if I return, or if you pass me on the street?”
In her mind, Beatrice would think of him asthe American. “A polite greeting is a nod of the head. I would hardly shout your name by way of greeting. However, if it makes you happy, you may tell me your name.” Because now, she was devilishly curious.
He stuck out his hand. “I am Greer Carson.”
He wasn’t wearing gloves for some incredible reason, and naturally, since she was working, neither was she. However, there was nothing for it but to take his outstretched hand.
He pumped her arm up and down a few times in a friendly, somewhat exuberant manner — entirely unnecessary Beatrice felt, since they were standing right there addressing one another.
“Nice to meet you, Miss Rare-Foure.”
She knew she should return the quaint sentiment, but it was nearly as false as the upper echelon’s insistent declaration of beingenchantedwith one another whenever they met.
As he released her hand, she said, “We are properly introduced now, Mr. Carson. State your business, and then you must leave. Quite obviously, I have another tray of toffee to make.”
“I am looking for a titled lady to be my wife.”
She couldn’t help the snicker of laughter that escaped her, nor the flush of irritation at such shallowness as his words invoked. “Well, you won’t find one here at Rare Confectionery. Although it does sometimes work the other way around.”
He stared at her, but she didn’t elaborate. It wasn’t his business to know how a duke had swept in and married her older sister.
Mr. Carson slipped his hands into his pockets, looking relaxed. “You probably know everyone who is anyone in London,” he insisted.
Beatrice shook her head. The man was deranged. “Why would you think that?”
“The aristocrats come in here, don’t they? I saw those two ladies the other day, the ones you chased off with yourcourteousshop-girl manner.” He coughed as if laughing at her. “This is the best confectionery in Mayfair. I was told that by another shopkeeper. And this is the most exclusive shopping street. Where else would the upper class go for their sweets?”
“True, but the nobility usually send in their servants. And when they do come in, I’m not very nice to them because they’re not very nice to me. Or to anybody.”
“Those two ladies seemed pleasant enough,” he said.
Beatrice tossed up her hands. He didn’t understand how dismissive the nobility could be, how some wouldn’t even speak to her but insisted she and her sisters speak to their servants. It was galling, and she, for one, pushed back against such class rudeness.
“Mr. Carson, even if I knew how to get you into the company of the nobility, you would be disappointed. Titled ladies want titled men — or at the very least, extraordinarily wealthy ones. I don’t suppose you are one of those.”
