“I don’t really,” Miss Quinn informed him, her voice a bit edgy as she began wrapping his books.
“That’s not the impression I’m getting,” he murmured.
Her gaze shot toward his. “This is an irregularity. I… Please, you mustn’t say a word. If it became known that an unmarried woman works here, the shop’s reputation could be ruined. To say nothing about mine or my uncle’s. Please, Mr. Gibbs, I hope you won’t–”
“You needn’t worry. I shan’t tell a soul.”
She expelled a visible sigh of relief, and he noted her fingers trembled as she tied the string to hold the brown paper in place.
Regretting his comment and how anxious it clearly made her, he tried to think of something else to say – a subject to steer her attention elsewhere. An apology might do the trick.
He opened his mouth.
“I’ll require an address for you along with the payment. So your books can be delivered when they arrive.”
“Right.” He retrieved the coins he owed and placed them on the counter. “I could just stop by and check from time to time.”
She gave him an odd look. “I suppose so.”
He flattened his mouth. She’d already shared a great deal about herself with him. Hiding his true self from her felt wrong. It wasn’t the honorable way in which to start a new friendship.
“Number 2 Berkley Square,” he said and watched as she jotted that down. When she finished, she added his name. Mr. Gibbs. Anthony took a deep breath. “There’s a…ahem…slight error in need of correcting.”
“Oh?” She stared at her note. “Forgive me, but I don’t see it.”
“It’s the name.”
“Ah. Just one ‘b’ rather than two? I’ll just–”
He caught her hand to halt her movement and everything stilled, except the beat of his heart, which was thumping so hard he feared she might hear it. Her sharp intake of breath suggested she had.
He withdrew his hand slowly. “My name isn’t exactly Mr. Gibbs. Not formally speaking. I… Promise me what I’m about to share won’t change what’s between us. I need to know that you won’t perceive me differently.”
She knit her brow. “That would honestly be an impossible promise to make without knowing what you’ve been hiding. But I’ve enjoyed our conversations so far and would like to believe nothing will influence that.”
“The name should read, His Grace, the Duke of Westcliffe.”
6
Three whole days had passed since Mr. Gibbs – the duke – had shocked Ada into silence. For several moments after his life-altering confession, she’d wondered if she’d been struck in the head by another book. She’d then proceeded to ponder the probability of two such occurrences happening to the same woman in the space of one week and hadn’t realized her mouth had been hanging open until the duke asked if she was all right.
Embarrassment didn’t begin to describe the emotional calamity she’d experienced. Riotous thoughts and feelings had stormed her brain as she’d struggled to regain her composure.
Not only because of who he was, but because of the tragedy that was attached to his title. She’d been dismayed when she’d read of it in the paper – three dukes, all simultaneously killed when they’d gone to purchase some livestock and a cow pen exploded.
Words had failed her when she’d realized she stood before one of these men’s sons, frozen, with no idea how to respond.
Since their first encounter, she’d known Mr. Gibbs to be a man of elevated status. His attire, the gentlemanly air about him, and the way he moved, all attested to this. She’d known he stood apart from her sphere of existence.
And yet, in some strange way, a bridge had formed between her world and his. They’d chatted, laughed a little, gotten along. It had, she reflected, felt as though there might have been a chance for a deeper connection. A slim chance, perhaps, but a chance nonetheless.
Until he’d told her he was a duke.
Good lord. She might as well dream of wearing a gown made from stardust to the next ball. She felt like a fool. No, she was a fool. Allowing herself to hope a man of Mr. Gibbs’s caliber would ever shower her with romantic attention was absolutely preposterous. Even while he’d been just Mr. Gibbs. Now that she knew him to be a duke, this line of pondering was downright mortifying.
“You’re distracted today,” Harriet said, prompting Ada to blink.
She’d come to the cozy space rented by the Earl of Rosemont’s youngest daughter, Lady Emily Brooke, for the monthly book club meeting she’d been attending this past year. The club was open to fellow enthusiasts and encouraged women from all social stations to join.
