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He shifted on his feet. “And what would that look like?”
“Don’t turn her away. She won’t take to it so well as I.” A small, indulgent smile broke over Alfie’s features. “And let me talk to some of the fellows about the docks and warehouses. See what sort of opportunities might be out there. You could do fairly well for yourself, I think, if you lived a bit outside the city.”
Protestations bobbed up in his mind with ease: even a decent house in the country would be a sharp fall from what Sophie was accustomed to, she didn’t even know about his mother, Alfie still didn’t know, Thomas would never stand for this, he was thinking like a fool, like a dreamer—
“All right.” The words came not from his mind, but from lower down, deep within his chest. “All right.” He put a hand on Alfie’s shoulder. “Thank you, friend.”
seventeen
“There’s someone here to see you, sir.”
Rafe lifted his head to the street sweeper’s voice. The papers on his desk made even less sense than usual, now that he’d surrendered that scrap. Apparently even a filament of faith, or hope, or whatever dangerous substance he’d unleashed, was enough to make him sleep like a babe and think as cork-brained as one, too. “Me?”
The boy colored up. “Yes, sir. It’s that lady who tipped me so well when I took her your letter. I know the doors ain’t meant to be unlocked yet, but—”
Rafe’s hips caught the edge of the desk as he rose. The ink pot rattled violently on its tray. “No, you did very well,” he said, already passing the boy on his way out the door.
Balfour’s was orderly and empty, waiting for the staff to arrive and begin a new week of sales. Probably for the best that there was no audience to see Rafe: he had already raked his hand through his hair without thinking, disrupting the pomade he’d used to try and tame it into place, and he was peering around every corner as though he expected a miracle or a pot of gold. He halted abruptly.
Miracle, indeed. Or perhaps an angel.
The backmost corner of the store was sectioned off by a small partition. There was a single window on the far wall, and disorganized shelves of cosmetics to the right and left—a whim of Thomas’s that hadn’t taken off. Sophie stood in the room’s center, one glove removed and crumpled on the table before her, her bared fingers preparing to sample a pot of rouge.
“You don’t need it.”
She looked up. Her features betrayed nothing, but he saw, in profile, her chest freeze. A moment later, it rose and fell on a breath. Golden morning light haloed her form, dust motes dancing like divine things in the space between them. She was beautiful, absolute.
“I don’t require you to tell me that,” she said, swiping her forefinger through the creamy substance. “Ladies like cosmetics for their own edification.” She tilted her chin and dabbed the color on her lips.
Rafe swallowed. Sunlight pierced the sliver of space where her lips parted, bathed the smooth planes of her skin, the feel of which put Venetian velvet to shame—he knew this, he had touched that cheek, kissed that mouth, dreamt of doing both and more, before and since.
She abandoned the little pot and rubbed her lips together. “Move that screen, would you?” She nodded at the folding partition in disuse.
His mouth opened and closed.
“Well then.” She strode past him and heaved the thing open herself—quite successfully.
“Christ, woman.” He took it from her hands and expanded it to full length, leaving only a fraction of space open between this room and the rest of the store. They were somehow more alone than before. Was that her purpose? A thrill chased through his blood.
“If you intend to sell cosmetics to ladies, Mr. Balfour,” she said, staring him squarely in the eye, “you must first understand we prefer privacy to shop them.”
God. So it wasn’t her purpose, but it still charmed the hell out of him. He smiled; she frowned.
“The glass cut jars are very nice, as are the brushes. But your powders are atrocious.”
His feet took him a step closer. “Is that so?”
The pleat between her brows deepened. “You need to stock ground bismuth. It makes the skin glisten, like pearls. Anything less than that, and ladies will prefer to shop at the apothecary’s.”
“Is that what you wear on your skin?” His gaze slipped over her prominent cheekbones and he drank in the scent of her, a flavor he’d been chasing for what felt like years, now: almonds and sugar.
She took a stiff backward step. “I am here to discuss Barnard.”
He read the seriousness in her eyes and stayed where he was. “Of course.”
“I know I told you we ought to be past the point of arranging favors. I also realize I have done nothing to maintain my end of the bargain—”
As if he gave a whit about that. “Sophie, I’m not concerned ab—”
