Lackington’s Bookshop
London
There were three activities in which Lady Rosalind Devine considered herself quite the expert.
One: She had a keen eye for fashion and eagerly shared her talent with any young lady in need, often turning veritably invisible wallflowers into quiet beauties with crowded dance cards.
Two: She possessed undeniable skill at matchmaking, her efforts often undetected by the blissful couple.
And three: She could eavesdrop with the practiced ease of a master spy.
That is, if there wasn’t a giant buffoon standing in her way.
Before today, Rosalind had never given much thought to throttling another person, but the idea was becoming more appealing each passing second.
The object of her frustration happened to be the gentleman—and Rosalind highly suspected he was nothing of the sort—on the other side of the bookcase who kept blocking her view with his impossibly broad shoulders.
However was she to spy on the couple behind him if he kept moving about?
She was already standing on the fourth rung of the bookshelf ladder, teetering precariously in her slippery soled half boots in order to see past the man. Just how tall was he?
If she climbed any higher, she would certainly lose her balance. Heights made her dizzy and frightened, and she needn’t be terribly high up at all for it to affect her. She had only ever been compelled to climb a tree once in her life . . . and it had nearly ended horribly.
Closing her eyes briefly, she took a deep, measured breath to steady her nerves—not to mention her temper. The stale, but strangely appealing, smell of paper and ink pervaded her senses.
Surely the man on the other side of the bookcase didn’t intend to be deliberately disobliging, she assured herself. And besides, Rosalind wasn’t one of those females who indulged in exaggerations. Well . . . not very often. Usually. Sometimes? All right, quite frequently, actually.
She nodded, convinced now that his shadowing movements were purely coincidental. It was absurd to believe otherwise, she assured herself. He stood there nonetheless, vexing her.
With a viselike grip on the sides of the ladder, she stretched as far as she dared in order to peer over the tops of a row of books on the next shelf over . . . and blast it if the infernal man didn’t move and obstruct her view again!
Was he doing it intentionally? How could he know she was spying?
He couldn’t possibly know. Besides, for all he knew she could be merely perusing any of the books stacked next to bursting.
But then why was it that every single time she moved her head, he inched over to obstruct her view? Perhaps he was doing it on purpose. And perhaps she ought to put her suspicions to a test. Right now.
Cautiously, she stepped down from the ladder, minding the hem of her pale green day dress. The ladder creaked and snapped with her movements, sounding overly loud in the quiet bookshop. Reaching solid ground, she looked casually up and down the aisle, satisfied no one was watching her.
After scooting the ladder down about five feet, Rosalind carefully ascended the rungs once again, stopping at the fourth—she dared not go much higher.
For the whole of five seconds she had an unobstructed view of Lord Beecham and Miss Honeywell . . . until a tall, dark shadow came to block her range of vision once again.
An angry puff of air blew past her lips, momentarily suspending an errant lock of coal-black hair that dangled above her right eye. Perhaps she ought to give in to her primal urge, dive her hands through the stacks of books and grab him by his loosely tied cravat. After all, he wouldn’t have any time to react.
She held on to the sordid fantasy for only a moment longer, then shook her head. No, no, books would get knocked down in the process and would undoubtedly create quite a clamor. And the likelihood that she was strong enough to do the job was slim. His neck appeared rather sturdy. And truthfully, she really didn’t fancy spending the rest of her life rotting away in Bedlam for a brief moment of madness. Ah, but the idea was ever so tempting—
“Bloated toads they all are!”
Jolting in surprise, Rosalind nearly toppled to the floor. Hugging the sides of the ladder now, she gulped down a scream, a mere squeak escaping her lips instead. The bothersome man on the other side of the towering shelf seemed to jerk in reaction as well. Their gazes met and held between the books for a second—long enough for her to discern that his eyes were an impossible shade of sparkling gray.
She’d only ever known one other person with such a uniquely colored gaze, but it couldn’t be . . .
Breaking the shared glance, she forced herself to ease her grip on the ladder. Surely she’d find bruises blossoming on the insides of her arms later.
Shaking slightly, she forced herself to look down. The flaxen-haired Miss Lucy Meriwether stood directly below, fists on slim hips, looking quite put out.
“What is it?” Rosalind asked.
Lucy stared at her mutely, light-blue eyes narrowed, lips pursed. “The wager,” she whispered. “To think of such a thing!”
Rosalind blinked down at Lucy, wondering if the dear girl had lost her mind. For she certainly felt as if she had. It had happened so fast, but Rosalind couldn’t seem to shake the memory of those devastating eyes staring back at her. Perhaps he was still glaring at her even now?
Little by little, she turned her head to verify, toying with the idea that she just might reach through and poke him in the eye if he was still there.
But he was gone. Her shoulders instantly relaxed. Was the tension thrumming through her body from the exasperating man, or was it from being nearly jolted off the ladder by Lucy’s sudden exclamation? It must be the latter. Rosalind fancied herself like a stone when it came to most men. All but one failed to move her to feel anything other than polite regard. And he would never come to London.
Lucy gave a sigh of frustration. “How can you be so calm? Those insufferable nabobs have made a wager with you as the prize. It’s created quite a stir already.”
“Oh, pish,” Rosalind muttered, finally able to focus on what her friend was talking about. “I find it slightly comical and completely absurd.”
Indeed. Upon news of her brother’s approaching wedding trip, madness had swept over the gambling men of London. Apparently with the daunting duke away, the bachelors of the ton decided to play, placing secret wagers projecting themselves the future brother-in-law to the duke.
“It will amount to nothing, I assure you,” Rosalind replied. “Last year they wagered daily on my color of dress. As soon as I found out about it, I made sure to come and go several times a day, changing my clothes each time. After half of one day, they lost track, fought over the validity of the reported hues, and had no choice but to relinquish their game. Utter foolishness.”
“Well, seeing as your family is hosting a ball this evening, perhaps we ought to lament on the sorry state of the available bachelors attending,” Lucy said impatiently. “Or at least I’ll discuss it. You seem to be busy flirting with the man in the next aisle.”
Rosalind straightened. “Indeed, I was not.”
“You were,” Lucy accused jovially. “I think you must fancy him.”
“I do not,” Rosalind whispered. “I don’t even know who was there.”
Lucy giggled. “Anyway I’m only teasing. Lord knows no one is good enough for you.”
“That is not true,” Rosalind said in her own defense. “I’m only waiting.”
“For . . . ?” Lucy prompted.
“Well, for my match, obviously.”
“And how do you suppose to find him? You’ve occupied yourself each and every season since your debut doling out fashion advice to newcomers in need and finding them love matches. What if your match is standing right before you but you fail to notice?”
“Then I shall be alone.”
Lucy gave a delicate snort. “A daughter of a duke. Wealthy, respectable, and unmarried? They’ll think you’re mad.”
“Perhaps they’ll think I’m romantic and melancholy,” Rosalind said, forcing a grin, her tone deceptively light.
Lucy raised a golden brow at her remark and began searching in her reticule for something. “Ah, here it is.” She unfolded a wrinkled sheet of paper and grimaced. “It is a list I made of the available bachelors this season. Very thin, I’m afraid.” She clucked her tongue. “What am I going to do? My grandmother said I’m old goods, and Father said I’ve already started to wrinkle around the eyes. Lara claims her husband has a cousin named Eustace, but I’m not sure I like that name. I’ve known two Eustaces and they were both rather . . . well, unclean. Mama said that Lord Kenton will be looking for a bride after his mourning period is over, but that’ll be a year hence, and by then I’ll be even more old and wrinkled and—”
As it was an ongoing, rather tedious subject, Rosalind quelled the urge to groan. Lucy was two and twenty—not ancient by any means, but the women in her family had all married by their nineteenth birthday. It wasn’t that Lucy hadn’t any proposals; she simply refused them all. According to the Meriwethers, the finicky Lucy might as well don a lace cap and start leading apes. A hasty prediction, Rosalind believed, but perhaps not inaccurate. None of the numerous bachelors Rosalind had suggested had met Lucy’s approval, so Rosalind had learned to simply listen to all of Lucy’s worries with a patient ear and plenty of reassurances.
Before long, Lucy started to scan her list again, murmuring to herself. Rosalind glanced to the bookshelf. With the irksome man gone, she would now have an unobstructed view of Lord Beecham and the young lady. She trailed her fingertips over various leather spines, pretending to peruse the titles.
How wonderful it would be to witness the fruits of her labor, to see these two besotted people finally embrace their fascination with one another.
“However am I to find a proper husband amongst them?” Lucy complained quietly from below.
“The ‘bloated toads,’ you mean?” Rosalind asked out of the side of her mouth, her eager eyes fastening on Lord Beecham as he reached up to take down a book for Miss Honeywell.
“I even danced with Old Lord Utley twice at the Montagues’ little garden party yesterday,” Lucy nearly groaned. “I fear I’m growing so desperate, if he’d managed to get down on his one good knee and ask me to marry him, I just might have accepted.”
“The new Lady Utley would not approve,” Rosalind muttered, unable to help herself.
“Oh, Lord. I had no idea. He remarried?”
“Two days ago. Surely you read the announcement in the paper?”
Shaking her head, Lucy threw up her arms in disgust. “Leave it to me to waste an entire evening dancing with a married old man.”
“Shh,” Rosalind implored, trying not to laugh.
“Go ahead and giggle at my expense,” Lucy continued, whispering. “I only wish my brother were a duke. Then I could afford to be picky and enjoy all the attention that comes with it.”
“Don’t be absurd. I cannot abide all their misplaced servility and false adoration. ’Tis not a sincere man amongst them . . .” Her voice trailed off as a man passed in front of the couple. For a second she thought the tall, broad-shouldered man had returned to further vex her, but this particular man kept walking and wasn’t nearly as tall.
“Oh . . . my. Who is that?”
“Who?” Rosalind asked, turning to look down at Lucy. “Who? Where?” Something about her friend’s nearly worshipful tone had Rosalind following Lucy’s gaze down the narrow aisle they were standing in.
At the end, near the enormous circular desk where patrons paid for their books, stood the rude man from before. Rosalind would know the broad expanse of that particular back anywhere. Well, really, she ought to, as she had been trying to see over and around it for the last half hour.
Light spilled from the tall, gleaming shop windows, streaking gold through his tousled deep mahogany locks. His expertly cut black frock coat stretched across his back, pulling tight slightly as he bent to speak to a rosy-cheeked shopgirl.
Whatever he said made the girl giggle, her entire face sparkling with glowing admiration. He dipped his head and turned, his new direction allowing Rosalind to view him from the front for the first time.
Her mouth dropped open.
A rare, lingering grin curved one side of his mouth upward. His jaw was strong; defined, yet strangely elegant. Under dark, straight eyebrows, his eyes were deeply set, and they seemed to smolder with a brooding quality that made it seem as though he regularly stunned the women in his life into awed silence with just one glance.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and tan, he stood out easily amongst the other men shuffling about the bookshop—an eagle amid a covey of partridges.
Rosalind knew this man. He was their closest neighbor at the ducal seat in Yorkshire and her eldest brother’s closest friend. And she had loved every stubborn inch of this man with every breath in her body ever since the day before her nineteenth birthday.
And he was here, right here. She couldn’t quite believe her eyes.
Seven London seasons—seven long years of dutifully traipsing down to the marriage mart all the while leaving the man she loved behind in high country. And now he was here. Why?
Her gaze swept downward. His cravat was slightly crooked, quite like he had slipped his fingers in the top of the knot to ease its hold on his neck. She supposed he wasn’t accustomed to dressing thusly.
Nicholas Kincaid was a reclusive country gentleman. His usual dress was composed of loose white shirts rolled up to his elbows and snug breeches tucked into tall, scuffed boots. But even in those simple clothes he exuded coiled strength and nearly overwhelming virility. Of course, on the occasions he had come to dine with her family at the castle, he had dressed in a more formal manner, but nothing like this.
His new direction put Rosalind (and Lucy, too, but by this time she had quite forgotten other people existed) in his view for a brief moment. Those dazzling eyes of his connected with hers.
A hot sting jabbed low in her belly. Her heartbeat faltered and her limbs felt weak. Dry. Her lips felt dry. She ran her tongue over them, belatedly realizing that her mouth must have been agape for quite some time.
Smile, you idiot. You know him and he knows you. Wiggle your fingers or give a small nod of acknowledgement.
But before her fogged mind cleared enough for her to react, Nicholas’s gaze turned a cold, gunmetal gray. Rounding a support column, he strode out of view.
Her shoulders sagged.
If he barely spoke to you in the country, why would seeing you in the city be any different?
His indifferent manner toward her (coupled with an almost permanent scowl—which in Rosalind’s opinion looked more like he was always thinking about something rather than a true frown) had never deterred her from liking him.
Over the years she’d learned that Nicholas was gentle and protective, intelligent and strong, curiously secretive and handsome as sin. His only flaw was that he habitually kept his distance from her; sometimes she likened him to an impenetrable wall.
Certainly it would be easy enough to believe that he simply wasn’t fond of her, but Rosalind was a perceptive young lady, and she did not miss the spark in his eyes when he spoke to her or the way his touch lingered when he handed her a book she had (purposely) dropped at his feet.
His behavior confused her, and because she was uncertain of his true feelings, pride kept her from blurting her admission of love.
From below, Lucy gave the skirt of Rosalind’s dress a twitch. “Rosalind? Are you all right?”
Rosalind blinked and stuttered, “Yes, yes, I’m fine.”
Lucy nodded knowingly. “Flustered you, did he?”
“No, no. Not at all,” Rosalind rushed out. “It’s just that I didn’t expect to see him . . . here. In London.”
Her friend’s expression turned hopeful. “You know him, then?”
“Vaguely,” Rosalind lied.
A memory sparked in her mind. Once, in her youthful vanity, she had asked Gabriel if she could have Nicholas for a husband—as if he’d been a particularly fetching bonnet she’d seen on a fashion page. Her brother had laughed and tugged her braid, telling her “he would never do that to his friend.”
She almost groaned aloud at the embarrassing memory. Brothers could be so cheeky.
“So you don’t know him very well?” Lucy persisted, redirecting her thoughts.
Rosalind exhaled and wobbled her head in a funny, not quite a nod, not quite a shake, manner.
“Right,” Lucy answered slowly, drawing out the word. “Well, when you’re done finding Miss Honeywell a match, I’d like you to make me one. With him.” She sighed, staring blankly at the spot where he had last stood. “All that’s left to do is find out who he is. Lud, I hope he’s hunting for a bride.”
“You wouldn’t want him,” Rosalind said, discomfited at the note of defensiveness in her own tone.
“Well, I can’t imagine any woman not wanting such a fine specimen for a husband. That’s it, isn’t it?” Lucy gasped. “He’s married?”
“No,” Rosalind muttered, feeling a bit adrift. “He’s not married. He’s a . . . he’s a farmer.” Her insides burned with shame for misleading Lucy.
“A farmer?” Lucy muttered in disbelief. “Here, in London for the season? Business perhaps?”
Rosalind nodded, her own curiosity wrecking havoc on her concentration.
“A farmer, as in a yeoman farmer?” Lucy whispered her question. “Or farmer as in a landowner? A gentleman farmer?”
Rosalind gave a small nod. “Gentry.” With a twinge of guilt she withheld the rumor that he had a distant aristocratic relation. She had overheard Gabriel mentioning that fact late one night while at the billiard table at Wolverest. The men hadn’t known she’d been in the hall, her ear pressed against the closed door.
“Is he a man of substantial funds, then?” Lucy asked, giving a frustrated sigh when Rosalind failed to answer her.
Just what was Nicholas Kincaid doing here?
Gabriel would know. A surge of anticipation quickened Rosalind’s pulse. She wouldn’t have to wait long to ask her brother. Gabriel had requested her presence in his study for a brief discussion before their guests started to arrive this evening. She suspected she was due another lecture about her meddling—er, matchmaking.
Although it ought to be praise. Lonely Mr. Thwaites and the spinster Miss Crofton were now the happy Mr. and Mrs. Thwaites as of just last season. And by the looks of things, Miss Honeywell here would find herself a viscountess very soon. Rosalind itched to take another peek in their direction.
“My Lady. Miss Meriwether,” a gentleman intoned from behind them.
Rosalind turned to see Lord Stokes stepping past the other end of the aisle. A veteran of the marriage mart, the redheaded viscount was rather reserved, but friendly. An acquaintance of Gabriel’s, he often attended all the Devines’ parties.
He tipped his hat, smiling at them in turn. His gaze lingered a touch longer on Lucy, which hardly went unnoticed by Rosalind.
“Well,” Rosalind whispered in her most beseeching tone. “Whatever are you doing here talking to me, dear Lucy, when there is a highly available bachelor right here in this very establishment? I daresay, he is completely smitten with you.”
“You think so? I rather thought he only had eyes for you.”
“Don’t be silly,” Rosalind replied lightly.
“Well . . . perhaps,” Lucy answered, sounding unsure.
“Why don’t you go and speak with him, then?”
Lucy blinked in surprise. “I shouldn’t know what to say.”
“We are at a bookshop, for heaven’s sake. Ask him a question about a book.”
“What book?”
“Any book. It doesn’t matter.”
Hesitating, Lucy tapped her finger against her teeth.
“Go on,” Rosalind urged, jerking her chin in the direction Stokes had gone. “If I were you, I should think I’d sidle up next to him and start fretting about not being able to reach a book. It’s bound to work.”
Lucy gasped, her eyes wide and her smile alight with enthusiasm. “A test of his gallantry,” she replied in a loud whisper. “Brilliant!”
Rosalind nodded in encouragement. “Why don’t you give it a try?”
“Yes. Yes, I’ll do just that. Superior idea!”
As Lucy sped off down the aisle—busy with thoughts of snagging Lord Stokes—Rosalind turned her attention back to peeking through the bookshelf in order to gauge Miss Honeywell’s progress.
“Oh, dear,” Rosalind whispered, her shoulders falling in disappointment. It appeared they had gone separate ways.
Rosalind carefully slid a particularly meaty tome two inches further down the shelf in order to get a better view. Lord Beecham had rounded the corner and was clearly exiting in a rush. What had happened? Completely enthralled with just what exactly had occurred between the couple, she forgot her position on the ladder. She arched her feet and now stood on the tips of her toes.
Her head now in the shelf along with a dusty book, Rosalind nudged the thick tome further out of her way with the side of her forehead. Had they argued? And Miss Honeywell . . . where had she gone? She gazed up and down the aisle as far as she could see. Was she upset as well? Oh, dear, what had happened?
If Rosalind had been paying any attention at all to just how far she was leaning to the side, she would have surely caught herself by grabbing hold of the sides of the ladder. Instead, her toes slid on the rung.
She didn’t have time to scream. With nothing underneath for purchase, she toppled backwards, her knees bending. Gloved fingers grasped for the ladder but failed. Her entire body hardened, preparing for a jarring impact with the hard floor.
Her backside never found it.
Two strong hands caught her swiftly underneath the arms, her back slamming into the unforgiving wall of a man’s solid chest. While the air in her lungs seemed to be locked on a frozen scream, his warm, even breath feathered the top of her head. It felt as if time had been suspended.
The backs of her calves rested on the fourth rung, and her feet had pushed a row of books through to the other side. He held her thus, in this ridiculous position, before she realized he was waiting for her to pull her legs out and stand on the floor.
A scorching blush inflamed her entire body. How ungainly, how graceless.
Trembling, she pulled her legs through one by one, while he held her steady. With both of her feet firmly on the floor, he hesitated, his hands firm and reassuring against her back. She exhaled shakily before he finally let go.
Pressing her lips together, Rosalind wavered, reluctant to turn around and thank him for saving her from numerous broken bones. Perhaps he would just walk away and she could pretend this had never happened?
No. That would never do. Good manners decreed she thank him. Straightening, she turned and found herself staring at the middle of his chest. She cleared her throat. “Dear man, I must extend my sincerest . . .” She tilted her head back and met disapproving gray eyes.
“Nicholas,” she barely choked out.
“My lady,” he murmured with a slight dip of his head.
“I . . . I—”
“—should watch what the devil you’re doing?” he reproved, one brow arched. “I certainly hope this isn’t a habit of yours—to behave so recklessly.”
“Er, not usually,” she managed to mumble.
Oh, what a witty girl, she thought, nearly rolling her eyes at herself.
He opened his mouth as if to say something, then paused, his eyes narrowing on her as he apparently weighed the words on the tip of his tongue.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He bent his head even closer, apparently so that no one else could overhear. Warmth spread from her head to her boots, and she felt her body tremble slightly. He was looking so intensely into her eyes that she blindly gripped the nearest shelf to brace herself for whatever it was he was about to say.
I love you, Rosalind. I worship you, Rosalind. I followed you all the way to London just to tell you that you are my sun, my stars, my moonlit . . .
“Apple tree.”
Rosalind blinked. “What?”
“Do you remember that day in the apple tree? I shall never forget it.” His voice was low, his slight Scot’s burr seeming to thrum through her. Having his silvery stare centered on her so unexpectedly and after so long fairly turned Rosalind’s mind to mush.
“It was the first time I saw you.” He shook his head slowly, his intense look never softening. “I spotted you sitting in one of your brother’s apple trees in the walled orchard. I had no idea what you were doing up there. It took me a half a moment to realize you were spying on a man and woman enjoying a picnic luncheon on the lawn.”
Oh, yes. Rosalind remembered that day. And she had arranged that picnic, too. In fact, she’d picked the menu herself and packed the basket as well. She had been helping a footman woo a scullery maid for weeks. The girl had finally relented, agreeing to an outing. Within the weeks that had followed, the happy couple had married.
But contrary to what Nicholas believed, she had not been spying on the lovers. She had been spying on Nicholas. He had just finished helping their groundskeeper burn a diseased tree on the border of their properties. Believing he’d been alone, Nicholas had slipped off his shirt and washed up over a tub of rainwater near the wall of the orchard. Fascinated, her eyes had lingered upon the flat plane of his stomach and muscled chest, the light trail of hair that circled his navel and disappeared in the band of his breeches. His skin had looked like the color of tea with two drops of cream—and just as warm and inviting. When he’d straightened, shaking the water out of his hair, she had thought he’d caught her eye. She had lurched back . . .
“You tipped backwards and would have come crashing down, but by some miracle you hung on to the tree limb by the backs of your knees.” He shifted his weight. Lord, he smelled wonderful and warm. Light cologne and utterly masculine. “And there you swayed back and forth. The only thing that ended up falling to the ground was your bonnet.”
Her skirts had flipped over her head, too. A flush of heat fanned through her upon realizing that Nicholas must have seen her unmentionables that day. She was just glad he didn’t reveal that particular fact.
His eyes sparkled mischievously, but only briefly. It still managed to trip up her heart. Perhaps he was remembering that flipped skirt after all.
She inhaled slowly, shakily, and rallied her composure.
“So this is”—he looked off in the distance briefly, then swung those eyes back to her—“at least the second time you’ve fallen off or out of something.” The corners of his mouth turned downward in a teasing manner that made her feel like she was a debutante again. “One would think you would have learned your lesson.”
“To not climb trees,” she answered cheekily.
He sighed, giving a nod to the next row. “Perhaps if you weren’t so preoccupied spying on people,” he said, a muscle twitching in his jaw, “and paid attention to yourself, you wouldn’t have fallen off the ladder.”
All of a sudden, her mind seemed to awaken out of a blanket of fog. Her eyes narrowed on him. “You were deliberately blocking my view,” she accused in a sharp whisper, taking a step closer to him.
“And you are ever the wee snoop, I see,” he whispered back, his warm breath dusting her cheek as he, too, took a step closer to her.
Her mouth opened on a silent gasp. “How dare you make such assumptions,” she whispered as loudly as one could and have it still be considered a whisper.
A wicked gleam lit his gray eyes. “Is it quite beneath you, then? Women of society don’t meddle in people’s lives?”
Her mind, refined and knowledgeable in the art of giving someone a fantastic retort, went startlingly blank. Not only was he accusing her of spying, which of course was exactly what she’d been doing, but they were also standing so close to each other now that a deep thrumming began to vibrate through her. Did he feel it, too?
Giving herself a mental shake, she reminded herself that he was chiding her as if she was some vexing creature—a little sister, perhaps. Frustration simmered inside at the thought.
She might be someone’s little sister, but she wasn’t his. And she certainly didn’t want him to view her that way—not when she was undoubtedly a woman full grown, not when her feelings for him were so strong, so lasting. Her love was not a transient thing, an infatuation.
It occurred to her then that he was waiting for her to say something. Refusing to take a step back, she held her ground and blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “If you must know, I was trying to get a book down.” She lifted a shoulder daintily, her face a mask of nonchalance.
“That’s all?”
“And I couldn’t quite reach it.”
One brow raised in apparent disbelief. “Indeed?”
“Indeed.”
“All right then, which one?”
“What?” she hedged.
“Which book?”
Her eyes flew to the shelf.
One long, blunt-tipped finger gently tapped her chin. “No peeking.”
A shaky sigh escaped her—as did the title of the book she wanted. Of course, as the book was imaginary, that was to be expected.
“Now, lass, tell me which book it was that you couldn’t reach,” his eyes dipped to her mouth briefly, “and I’ll get it for you. Easy enough.”
She swallowed, and then without looking, she reached upward and pointed in the general direction of the shelf she had been poking her head through. “It was on the top shelf.”
With his serious gaze still upon her, he reached high above her head. His chest so close, the stiff lapels of his coat almost brushed her cheek. His scent surrounded her, warm and clean, and making her want nothing more than to bury her face in the soft folds of his cravat.
“There’s only one book up there,” he said, his eyes lifting away to look past her.
“Then, that’s the one,” she chirped, banishing her absurd face-in-the-cravat fantasy.
“If that be your wish, lass.”
“It be,” she said, then cleared her throat. “I mean, yes. Yes, it is.”
Voices whispered nearby. He took a step away from her, seeming to finally acknowledge that they might be creating gossip fodder.
He pulled back further still, and suddenly the thick book she had nudged with her forehead earlier was thrust in her face. “This book?” he asked suspiciously.
“Indeed.” She took it with two hands, nearly losing the thing when her wrist twisted from its weight. He caught it before it slipped through her fingers and landed on his feet.
“Thank you,” she said, grateful that she affected a somewhat lofty tone.
He bent his head toward her, his eyes intent on the book. Long, slightly calloused fingers reached toward her bodice but stopped short to trace the embossed title stretching across the cover.
She hoped her barely audible gasp went unnoticed by him.
He chuckled low and deep in his chest. “A Detailed History on the Production and Use of Cannons and Muskets.” He straightened to his full height, a rare smile playing with the corner of his mouth. “I would never suppose that a woman of your sort would be all that interested in the tools of war.”
My sort? Whatever did he mean by that? “Well then,” she said pertly, “perhaps a man of your sort ought to cease making unfounded assumptions.”
He tipped his head in a conceding gesture, a curious warmth in his gaze.
She fought the nearly overwhelming urge to ask him what he was thinking. “If y-you’ll excuse me, I have a book to purchase.” What a coward she was turning out to be.
He stepped aside, extending his arm to allow her the way.
Chin lifted, shoulders back, Rosalind passed him and strode toward the front desk, willing herself to keep her pace steady and unaffected.
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed that he wasn’t that far behind, about three feet back to her left. However, just when she believed he was going to follow her, he turned and strode toward the exit.
The pretty shopgirl from before approached the door at the same time, her arms full of novels. Tipping his hat to her, he smiled as he opened the door for her.
Rosalind let her giant book slam on the counter.
He smiled? He hardly ever smiled.
“My lady? Is something amiss?” A very concerned-looking Mr. Thwaites peered at Rosalind from behind tiny, round spectacles.
“No, Mr. Thwaites,” she said flatly. “I am perfectly content this morning.”
He visibly relaxed, though he appeared not to believe her. “Good to hear. Good to hear, my lady.” He gestured to the book. “Will you be purchasing the book?”
Rosalind pushed it toward him with a sigh.
“Shall I list this on your credit, my lady?”
She nodded absentmindedly, her eyes drifting back to the door. After Mr. Thwaites finished recording her transaction, she mumbled her thanks, politely inquired after Mrs. Thwaites, then yanked the book into her arms before shuffling to the door.
She sighed, hefting the book in her grasp. Glaring down at it, she had the fleeting thought that should she meet Nicholas Kincaid on the street, she’d very gladly wallop him with it.
What a smashing day it was turning out to be. She had become the object of an idiotic wager that was nothing more than a flagrant waste of time, she had an appointment with her brother that most likely included dire warnings about meddling, she’d made a fool of herself in front of the man she loved—who’d admonished her as if she’d been but a child, and now she found herself saddled with a two-stone book that she had to carry all the way home and would most definitely never read.
As she neared the windows of the shop, a splattering of raindrops dotted the glass. Outside, her maid, Alice, appeared to be choking their umbrella. In another second, the thing fell apart in her hands. The girl looked up to see Rosalind through the window and lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug.
Wonderful. The day couldn’t possibly get any worse.