“And now, Miss Birdwell?” he asked. “Do you have new dreams that have taken the place of the old ones?”
Yes, she almost said, but held her tongue still.
A man like this lord couldn’t understand the dreams of someone like her. Her dreams were pragmatic, not the lofty or high-minded ones born aristocrats could aim for. Her dreams flew closer to the ground.
What would this man—lord—understand of her dream to open a shop?
He’d never washed a single dish in his life until ten minutes ago.
She couldn’t tell this man her dreams.
“Oh, Lord Rhys!” sing-songed a female East End voice from the other side of the house.
Relief pulsed through Tilly. “I believe your services are wanted.”
“Oh, lord,” he groaned, making her laugh, breaking the moment.
“Take heart, Lord Rhys,” she said. “That’s your first noble deed done.”
His brow trenched deep into his forehead. “You’re not leaving, are you?”
“I have a day to get on with, and I’ve witnessed enough.” She began walking away. “Send me another note when it’s time for your second noble deed,” she tossed over her shoulder.
Then she was saying her farewells to Lucy and making her way out of Hope House and into a hackney cab, all accomplished with a light step, but a heavy thought in her mind.
The truth was she had the rest of the afternoon free.
But she’d had to leave.
Because if she’d stayed, it wouldn’t have been to witness further noble deeds from Lord Rhys.
She would’ve been staying for him.
Which was an altogether different thing.
It was the sort of thing that could lead her down a path.
And she knew better than to follow paths involving handsome lords.
Even lords with good inside them.
Maybe especially those lords.
8
A week later
Loose fist poised to knock on the kitchen door, Rhys just held off.
What was he thinking?
The short answer was he wasn’t.
Actually, he had been thinking—and that was the problem.
Not the thinking itself, but the subject of it.
Miss Tilly Birdwell.
