“Your stories aren’t gothic.” He made it a statement, not a question.
“I fear I’m not interested in eerie manor houses and insane butlers. Or monks. Nor do I know how to write about them.”
“What about this one?” he asked, reaching past her to pull another from the shelf, again enveloping her in his heat, the smell of new leather, and his own hint of cedar scent. He turned it over to reveal volume one of the set the clerk had mentioned by the author ofPride and Prejudice.
“Northanger AbbeyandPersuasion. Two full novels. What is the cost?” she asked.
“I can—No, I suppose you wish to make your own purchases,” he said before telling her the price. “John Murray on Albemarle Street. Are they also a well-known publisher of fiction?”
“Mmm. They mostly publish poetry, I think. Lord Byron, some Scots fellows. Why are you asking?”
“But this is fiction, so they publish some,” he said, removing a notebook from his coat and making a note of it.
Her eyes narrowed when he returned to A. K. Newman and scribbled some notes. Suspicion grew. “Why are you doing that?”
He shrugged. “I know nothing about the business of publishing books, and I’m always eager to learn more. What other publishers have you tried?”
“My books are not your concern, Mr. Benson,” she declared.
“Allow me some curiosity, Miss Hancock,” he responded, his tone as tart as hers.
“Then exercise it over these shelves, not at my expense. Here.” She pulled out one novel after another, holding them out so he could write down the publisher’s names and directions.
If he thinks he can treat my writing like a business proposition, he is mistaken.Fanny frowned at her own pettiness.You want to make money from your books. What is your problem?
Writing, deeply personal, belonged only to her; she resented anyone’s intrusion. And yet she had learned to her regret that publishing was also a business, one she didn’t know how to navigate.What is the point of writing without publishing?She glanced at Eli from the corner of her eye, and her shoulders relaxed.
*
Publishers’ names becamerepetitive, and Eli quickly realized there were a relatively modest number of publishing houses who produced the sort of novels women enjoyed. Not that he knew what Fanny actually wrote. He closed his notebook with a snap.
“Thank you for your assistance.” He had upset her. Now awkward and uncertain, he couldn’t think what to say next.Apologies work, you dolt.
“You are welcome,” she murmured, coloring softly.
“And I apologize if I intruded before. Your work is your heart. I know that, and I had no right.”
It must have been the right thing to say, because she glowed. He wouldn’t forget that again. “Did you plan to buy one?” he asked.
She picked up the first volume ofNorthanger Abbey, and they made their way to the front. Lucy had her journals, and Maddy clutched an illustrated work on exotic flowers for English gardens. The ladies paid for their treasures and handed the parcels to a footman waiting outside. The Benson carriage ferried them to Gunter’s Tea Shop.
To his relief, the tension between himself and Fanny eased over ices at Gunter’s, during which he and Maddy kept the other two laughing with stories about growing up in Ashmead.
A mellow mood persisted, and when Lucy suggested a stroll through Berkeley Square just across the street, Eli proposed that they walk the few blocks to Hyde Park instead, “since you have such an able escort.” He winked at Fanny and was rewarded with a delicate blush.
Lucy agreed that dodging traffic for that distance made walking more attractive. The coachman promised to meet them at the gate of the park in two hours.
Walking next to him on the narrow sidewalk, her small hand in its cotton glove against his arm, Fanny became uncharacteristically quiet. Eli, for his part, feared that the feel of her at his side would torture his nights. It certainly did odd things to his breathing. He almost wished the narrow walk hadn’t caused the other two ladies to stroll in front of them. Almost.
The park came as a relief. Lucy directed them down her favorite paths and meandered toward the Serpentine. Eli offered his free arm to the others, and the three women made a game of taking turns. It wasn’t quite the fashionable hour, but the occasional carriage passenger nodded greetings at Maddy or Lucy. Curious glances cast at Fanny caused Eli to wonder what the family had decided about introducing her. He soon found out.
A carriage carrying two very young ladies and one old enough to be their mother paused next to them, bringing smiles of greeting from both Maddy and Lucy.
“And who is this young woman?” the older lady asked.
Fanny stiffened at Eli’s side, although the woman’s gaze appeared kind enough.
Maddy spoke up. “Lady Danbury, may I make known to you my sister, Miss Fanny Hancock? Fanny, the Marchioness of Danbury.”
