by Turano, Jen
“We’ll take all of them,” Oliver said before Harriet could speak.
Apparently, Oliver had lost his mind, much like he’d lost his buttons, probably right along the Ladies’ Mile somewhere when he’d been chasing her down.
Sending Oliver what she hoped would be construed by the sales ladies surrounding her as a loving smile, Harriet then turned to Edie. “Would it be possible for me to speak with my . . . er . . . fiancé . . . alone?”
“But of course, Miss Peabody,” Edie said, nodding to the other ladies. “Girls, they need the room.”
Just like that, the room emptied, and picking up her skirt, Harriet marched over to stand in front of Oliver. Leaning down, she lowered her voice, not wanting to be overheard but knowing perfectly well that Edie and the rest of the ladies were probably pressing their ears up against the door.
“You were more than generous with the allowance you gave me to purchase clothing, but I have to tell you, I don’t think it was enough to cover all of this.” She straightened and waved a hand to the shoes, hats, and gowns littering the room. “I think we should choose three or four items from the bunch and call it a day.”
“Do you now?” Oliver sent her an odd smile before he rose from the chair and strode to the door. He reached for the knob, pulled the door open, and two of the sales ladies tumbled into the room, landing in a heap at his feet, while the rest of the ladies stood in the doorframe, attempting to look innocent.
Oliver didn’t bat an eye as he helped the ladies up and then smiled at them, causing a few of them to sigh and flutter their lashes. “We’ll take everything here, and I’ll thank you to put it on my account.” He turned to Harriet. “I’m off to wander around the store, but I’ll be back to pick you up in an hour.” With that, Oliver nodded to the ladies and left the room.
9
Two hours later, Harriet dipped a spoon into a rapidly melting mound of ice cream, plopped it into her mouth, and couldn’t quite stifle the moan of delight that slipped past her lips. Allowing herself a moment to savor the treat on her tongue, she finally swallowed and moved her spoon toward the bowl to get another bite. She paused when she realized Oliver wasn’t eating his ice cream, but was watching her instead.
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“It’s the most delicious treat I’ve ever had.”
Oliver frowned and leaned across the small table they were sharing at Davis and George’s ice cream parlor. “Haven’t you ever had ice cream?”
“Well, I have now.”
Something that looked remarkably like pity flickered through his eyes. “I’m sorry, Harriet. No one should have to wait until they’re over twenty to experience ice cream.”
She lifted her chin. “There’s no need to feel sorry for me, Oliver. Yes, I’ve lived a completely different life than you have, but I’ve never once bemoaned the fact I’ve missed out on ice cream. One cannot miss what one has never experienced.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “Fair enough.”
“That’s it? You’re not going to try and pull other unfortunate events from my past out of me?”
“Do you want to talk about unfortunate events?”
“Not particularly.”
“Wonderful. We should talk about the opera instead and when you’d like to go. I’m of the belief that Monday is the night to see opera, since that’s when the largest number of society members go, and then—if we were actually in the midst of the social season—we’d travel on to a ball, which I’m sure you’d enjoy tremendously.”
“If I were actually a society member, I’m sure I would enjoy a ball. However, I’m not, so instead of talking opera and balls, we should talk about what you were thinking, buying me so many clothes.”
He licked a drop of ice cream off his spoon. “I’d rather talk about the opera. Do you enjoy it?”
“Of course I enjoy opera, and yes, I have been fortunate enough to attend the opera numerous times. Miss Plum, one of the ladies who shares rooms with me, is often given tickets to different shows around the city.”
Oliver set his spoon down. “I thought you lived with your grandmother.”
“Why in the world . . . ? Ah . . . your driver.”
“Darren told me that when he saw you home yesterday, your grandmother was waiting for you on the stoop.”
“I didn’t tell Darren Mrs. Palmer was my grandmother. He simply assumed that, probably to alleviate the guilt he seemed to feel over dropping me off at what he felt was a questionable location.”
“So Mrs. Palmer isn’t your grandmother?”
“No, she owns the boardinghouse, and I do believe she jumped to a few unpleasant conclusions when she got a look at your fancy carriage.”
“Why do you believe that?”
“Because she literally ran over to the church I attend and told Reverend Gilmore. He arrived at my door soon after he spoke with her, and as I mentioned before, you may expect a visit from him sometime in the near future.”
“Is this Reverend Gilmore a relative of yours?”
“No, he’s simply a friend, but one who believes it’s his job to watch out for my well-being and reputation.” She trailed her spoon through the last remnants of her ice cream. “I’m not exactly certain how he plans on doing that, but you should be forewarned.”
“That’s a touch . . .” Oliver stopped talking and leaned forward until he was only inches away from her face. She could feel his breath tease her cheek, and that had her pulse hitching up a notch, but it slowed considerably when his brows drew together. “This Miss Plum you live with—she wouldn’t happen to be Miss Lucetta Plum, would she?”
“She is.”
His brows drew closer together. “You never told me you live with an actress.”
“You never asked. But just so we’re crystal clear, Lucetta is completely respectable.”
“She’s an actress, and I’ve heard otherwise.”
Temper began to sizzle through her body. “You should know better than to listen to gossip.”
“Has Miss Plum ever mentioned Mr. Silas Ruff?”
“Of course.”
“And yet you have the audacity to tell me she’s respectable?”
If anything, her temper boiled hotter. “I don’t know what this Mr. Ruff has told you, but Lucetta can’t abide the gentleman.”
“Really?”
“Indeed,” Harriet snapped before she went to take another bite of her ice cream and realized the bowl was empty. She looked at it longingly for a second and then folded her hands in her lap.
“Would you care for another?”
“Certainly not,” she said, wincing when she detected a clear trace of snippiness in her tone. She cleared her throat. “Although I did enjoy that tremendously. It was very kind of you to provide me with such a treat.”
“Kind is my middle name.”
“I don’t think I’d go that far.”
To her surprise, Oliver laughed. “Yes, well, perhaps you’re right. Since it appears we’re not meant to agree about actresses and their respectability, tell me, did you have fun shopping today?”
Deciding it would be less than gracious to continue being annoyed with the man, Harriet smiled. “I really can’t recall a day I’ve enjoyed more, although, I do feel horribly guilty about the money you spent on me.”
Oliver shrugged. “There’s no reason for you to feel guilty, especially since it was my idea in the first place.” He set his napkin on the table and pushed back his chair. “If you’re certain you don’t want more ice cream, shall we get on our way?”
Harriet bit her lip. “Do forgive me, Oliver. I’ve been keeping you from your work, haven’t I?” Struggling to get out of her chair, she found Oliver by her side a second later. He helped her up with one hand, while with the other he slid her chair effortlessly out of her way.
She refused to sigh as she got to her feet. There was something to be said about a fine-looking gentleman paying a lady special attention.
He
r knees turned weak when Oliver took hold of her arm, until she realized how completely ridiculously she was behaving. They had a business arrangement, nothing more, and she needed to remember that.
“There’s no reason for you to apologize for taking up my time,” Oliver said as he began steering her around the many tables and toward the door. “It’s been a lovely day, and I’ve enjoyed your company. It’s not often I’m given a chance to speak with a pretty lady and not have to fear her father will come charging at me with a marriage proposal in mind.”
“That’s because we’re already engaged,” she said with a grin, earning a grin from him in return.
That grin sent trepidation cascading over her. He was far too attractive when he grinned, and when he casually mentioned how pretty she was and how he enjoyed her company. It was going to be next to impossible to keep her feet firmly settled on the ground if he continued in such a way, and . . . She stumbled as a realization struck her hard.
She’d made a huge mistake.
She’d agreed to be at Oliver’s beck and call to earn the funds he’d offered, but not once had she considered that she just might become attracted to the man.
She needed to back out of their deal. She needed to . . . Her thoughts stopped midstream when she suddenly noticed that each and every patron in the parlor was looking at her. She sucked in a deep breath and didn’t—or rather couldn’t—release it until they walked out the door and reached the sidewalk.
“Is something wrong? You’re beginning to turn blue.”
Gulping in a breath of air, she knew that everything was wrong, but she certainly couldn’t explain that to Oliver. What would he think if he learned she found him attractive? Would he take it in stride, or might he not like it at all and stop talking to her, or . . . She gulped in another huge breath of air, blew it out with one loud huff, and finally remembered he’d asked her a question. “Everyone was watching us leave, and it made me . . .”
“Stop breathing?”
“I always forget to breathe when I get nervous.”
“I suppose you should be thankful then that you don’t appear to be the type to get nervous often, but I must tell you—you’ll have to get used to people watching you, because watch you they shall once they take note of you on my arm.”
The panic came from out of nowhere as she finally fully realized what she’d signed up for. It was quite ridiculous to think she’d be able to mingle with Oliver’s peers.
“I don’t think that’s going to be possible,” she finally managed to say.
“Then you’re going to have an uncomfortable few weeks, because people always watch me.”
She slowed her steps. “Do they really?”
“I’m a very wealthy man, Harriet—with that comes attention.”
“I loathe attention.”
“I’m not exactly thrilled with it all the time, but it’s the price demanded of a gentleman of my social and business status.” He smiled. “But uncomfortable notions aside, would you care to take a short stroll before we return to the carriage, or do you need to get back to your home?”
“Don’t you need to get back to business?”
“Strangely enough, I’m in no mood for business today.”
“Why do I have the feeling that’s a first for you?” Harriet asked before her attention was suddenly drawn to a small girl peddling flowers. “Good heavens, there’s little Clarice, but . . . where’s her mother?” Propelling Oliver into motion, she hurried over to Clarice. “Hello, darling.”
Clarice’s small face lit up, and she grinned at Harriet, showing a huge gap between her front teeth in the process. “Miss Peabody, what are you doing in such a fancy place and with . . .” Her nose wrinkled, and she stopped speaking as she gawked at Oliver.
“I had some shopping to do, but tell me, where is your mother?”
“She’s home with my baby brother. Donnie isn’t feeling well today, so Mama couldn’t leave him with Mrs. Golhem, the lady that takes care of us.” She puffed out her little chest. “I told her I was big enough to sell the flowers, and since we won’t have milk if . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she began scuffing her battered shoe in the dirt.
“I was just telling Mr. Addleshaw how I adore flowers,” she said, catching Oliver’s eye. “Doesn’t Clarice have some lovely flowers today?”
Oliver, to her extreme disappointment, looked at the basket of flowers Clarice was holding and frowned. “They look wilted, and I—”
She stomped on his foot.
“Ouch, you stomped on my foot.”
“And I’ll do the same to the other one if you don’t . . .” She nodded at Clarice, who wasn’t looking at either one of them but was staring at the puffs of dirt her scuffing was making.
Oliver blinked. “Oh, yes, quite right. You’d like me to buy you a flower.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his billfold. “How much.”
Clarice held up five fingers.
“You expect me to pay five dollars for a wilted flower?”
Harriet stomped on his other foot and gave his arm a forceful squeeze for good measure. “It’s cents, Oliver, five cents.” She dropped her hold on him and squatted down next to Clarice, opening her reticule as she did so. She took out five dollars, pressed them into Clarice’s little hand and gave the child a kiss on her forehead. “You take that back to your mama now, darling, and you can tell her you sold all of your lovely flowers.”
“It’s too much money,” Clarice whispered.
“No, it’s not,” Harriet said firmly, rising to her feet and taking all the wilted flowers out of Clarice’s basket. “Tell your mama I hope Donnie gets better soon.” She narrowed her eyes at Oliver, turned on her heel, and began marching down the sidewalk, hoping the man wouldn’t feel compelled to follow. Unfortunately, it quickly became clear he didn’t take kindly to being dismissed, because he caught up with her a few seconds later.
“You’re upset,” he said as he fell into step beside her.
“And you’re a genius.”
“That wasn’t well done of me, was it?”
Harriet stopped in her tracks. “No, it wasn’t. Clarice is just a child, Oliver, with a sick baby brother at home, whom I know her mother can’t take to a doctor because they can’t afford it. I find it vastly disturbing to learn you don’t have so much as an ounce of compassion for those less fortunate than you.”
“I’ve never really taken notice of street vendors before or contemplated their plight in life,” he admitted slowly.
Harriet gestured around. “Then open your eyes. Look at all of these people just trying to scrape by. See that woman over there selling apples? Her name’s Martha and she once gave me an apple when I was practically starving to death right after I found myself on my own. She takes care of an elderly relative, and all the money she has in the world is earned by selling apples or whatever else she can manage to beg from the fine restaurants that are going to throw out the produce that’s less than perfect.” She pointed to a man pushing a cart. “That’s Herman, and he sells sandwiches out of that cart—sandwiches, I might add, that are the best I’ve ever tasted.”
Oliver stepped closer to her. “You think I’m a snob.”
“You are a snob.”
Watching Oliver’s face darken, Harriet thought he was going to start yelling, but then, to her surprise, he took her by the arm and began to escort her from one street vendor to another.
Fifteen minutes later, with her arms filled with a variety of goods, from Martha’s apples, to Herman’s sandwiches, and even a few beaded bracelets a blind woman had been selling, Harriet was feeling a little more charitable toward the man. He’d obviously been very uncomfortable at first, interacting with the people hawking their wares, but then, once they’d reached Herman’s cart, something had changed. Herman had whipped him up a special sandwich, and after the first bite and a very loud groan of appreciation, Oliver took to chatting with the man, asking him everything from where he got his ingredients to
what type of traffic he saw on a daily basis. When Herman finally told them he needed to go find other customers, Oliver had given the man an outrageous tip and told him he’d be sure to tell all of his business associates, as well as family and friends, to come try Herman’s food.
Harriet’s opinion of Oliver had grown the longer she’d watched him with Herman, something that bothered her no small amount. She’d already come to the unwelcome realization that she was somewhat attracted to the man, but discovering he did have a compassionate side—even though that side had been buried deep within him—left her . . . bothered.
“You were right, Harriet. Herman does make a great sandwich,” Oliver said, steering her over to an empty bench and sitting down beside her. “I wonder if he’d be interested in opening up a shop.”
“Do you ever think of anything other than business?”
“Of course I do.”
Taking a bite of the apple they’d gotten from Martha, she tilted her head. “Like what?”
“Ahh . . . well . . .”
“Do you have any hobbies?”
“Hobbies?”
“What do you like to do when you’re not working—besides going to the opera, that is?”
“I like sailing. Does that count as a hobby?”
“Indeed it does, if you sail on a frequent basis.”
“Define frequent.”
“I don’t know—a few times a month, I suppose, when the weather permits?”
Oliver shook his head. “It’s not a hobby, then.”
“But you enjoy being out on the water?”
“I do, in fact I was thinking about joining the Yacht Club, but I haven’t had the time lately.”
