Reginald almost managed a smile, but his eyes were still wary as he watched her. “His birth does not matter to you? You would claim a thief and a street magician for family even if he may not be related?”
Marian shrugged and turned back to the fascinating display in the window. “I understand they led hard lives after their parents died. I don’t think Michael is really bad, he just has a different set of values than we do. And if Gavin claims him as brother, that is enough for me. I’ve never had the privilege of cousins before. I’m rather enjoying the sensation. They are my protection against your avalanche of relations.”
“I trust no one in my family has been hurtful to you?” Reginald’s thumb moved back and forth across her wrist as he continued to hold her hand.
“No, they have been lovely. Your sister-in-law is a delight, and I am dying to meet your nephew, and all the others have been more than proper. I do adore your brother. I wish I had been there when you returned home after the duke’s ball. The way Lord Witham tells the story raises terrible images. I cannot believe Michael could have created such chaos so quickly. Were some of the ladies really undressed? Your brother does not say so, but there is this gleam in his eye ...”
Reginald finally grinned and squeezed her fingers. “I shall never tell, and you are above all naughty to ask. Suffice it to say that Michael will be paying for that episode for a long time to come.” The grin slipped away. “That is not why I brought you here today.”
Marian turned her gaze up to him. “I’ve been waiting for you to tell me. Am I supposed to beguile you out of whatever it is that is bothering you?”
He winced. “No, witch, I would rather not be twisted between your manipulative little hands. I’ll take your honesty any day. I only wish I’d had the courage to give you the same from the start. Now we are so thoroughly embroiled I see little way out, and I fear you will despise me for the rest of our days.”
Startled, Marian removed her hand from his, only to place it on his arm instead. “Are you feeling quite well? I thought we had come to some understanding over these last weeks. I like you too well to ever despise you. Surely you know that.” She paled a little and removed her hand. “Unless you have found someone else, someone you can truly love. Is that why you wish out?”
With a muttered curse, Reginald grabbed her waist and hauled her toward the door. “That might be easier for all concerned, but no. It is not I who wishes out of this arrangement. You are the one who will be sorry. I have debated every possible way of not telling you, hoping you will never know, hoping if nothing else I can make you so enamored of me that you will not care, but I cannot do that to you. I’ve come to love you too damned much to deceive you like that. You will have to know the truth before it is too late for you to cry off.”
Head spinning with the impossibility of that one little phrase, Marian ignored all the surrounding words and allowed herself to be shoved through the door of the emporium.
The boy behind the counter looked up from waiting on a customer to give them a respectful nod of greeting. Jacobs hurried out at the sound of the door, then shrugged and returned to his office. Marian thought it rather odd that he did not wait on them, but she was too confused by Reginald and his behavior to question anyone else’s.
With his hand at the small of her back, he steered her toward the rear of the store. Marian began to resist. “Where are we going?” she whispered. “We can’t go back there.”
“We can do anything we like in here.” Reginald grabbed up a crystal paperweight and lobbed it at a marble statue. His throw nicked the crystal, sending it bouncing against the Turkish carpet, while nearly toppling the statue. Marian held her breath, waiting for it to fall, waiting for someone to scream at this desecration. The boy raised an inquiring eyebrow, his customer slinked out the door and away from the madman, but no one protested Reginald’s reckless destruction.
“Reginald, what are you doing?” Aghast, Marian watched as her betrothed helped himself to a selection of leather bound books from behind the counter. She clasped them to her when he dumped them in her arms, fearful he would throw them like the paperweight if she gave them back.
Once her hands were otherwise occupied, he set himself to decorating her with every exquisite jewel his eye caught on in the display case. He placed a glittering tiara on her hair, adorned her ears with diamond bobs, wrapped golden necklaces around her throat, and clasped a jeweled band around her wrist. Marian struggled with the precious volumes in her hands, returning them to the shelves before he made her into a walking display of valuables.
“Reginald, stop this at once!” she commanded with a hiss when he enveloped her in a cloth of gold cloak that looked vaguely familiar.
“Why should I?” he asked disinterestedly. “They belong to me.” He adjusted the cloak. “Or your cousin, in the case of this item. He has generously allowed me to sell his possessions on consignment, so I needn’t come up with the cash to buy them all. My commission will keep us very comfortably for many years if I am successful in selling them.”
It was the way he said it more than his words that made Marian stop and listen to what he was really trying to say. She fingered the costly bracelet on her wrist and looked with interest at the fascinating variety of titles on the shelf in front of her. Her gaze drifted to the miniature in the window, and with a swirl of her golden cloak, she stalked behind the counter and through the doorway she had thought only for the shopkeeper.
The room beyond was a fascinating assortment of books and maps and antiquities too delicate to be left unattended in the main display area. An open staircase led to another story, and glancing over her shoulder at Reginald’s blank expression, she daringly started up it as if she owned the place. He offered no objection.
The cloak swirled around her as she ascended the stairs and entered what was evidently a large work space. Old wood covered this floor rather than valuable carpet. Shelving littered with odd bits of hardware and tools, legs off old tables and chairs, heads of crumbling statues, and any number of oddities collecting dust filled the walls. Beneath a gabled window on one end of the room sat a table cluttered with myriad bits and pieces of metal and fabric and glass— and her cousin Michael.
He glanced up, startled, at her entrance. He seemed to be working on a replica of the exterior of Arinmede Manor, but Marian gave him little notice. She stalked to the far end of the work area where she had spied a door with a glass transom.
Michael watched without expression as Reginald raced up the stairs after his cousin, following her with a dangerous look in his eyes as he crossed the room. Only after they disappeared into the far room and slammed the door did he grin and return to his work.
Marian swung around, swirling her cloak with a dramatic ripple as Reginald followed her into his office. With a theatrical gesture, she unfastened the cloak and let it fall to the floor. She stepped over it, dropping a bracelet on its gleaming folds. Unfastening necklaces and earbobs and bracelets and letting them fall as they would, she approached her betrothed.
Gold and jewels littered her path. Reginald remained frozen where he was, unheeding of the fortune in valuables scattering across the floor, his gaze focused entirely on the woman in the center of these treasures. His eyes narrowed as Marian reached him and placed both hands on his chest.
“Are you going to make love to me now?” she whispered huskily.
His body responded as she meant it to, but Reginald was made of sterner stuff. He held himself stiff and unresponsive, not touching her. “You don’t understand yet, do you?” He swung his arm. “This is my office. This is my shop. I own this place. This is how I earn my living. I, my dear, am a shopkeeper.”
“And I, my bumble-headed ninnyhammer, will be a shopkeeper’s wife.” Marian slid her hands over his shirt, beneath his habitually unfastened waistcoat. She really was quite fascinated with the feel of him beneath the fine cloth, and the scent of him. Reginald had a fascinating sce
nt of male flesh and a lime fragrance and occasionally the musty odor of old books. She could recognize him in the dark just from his scent, she was certain.
His hands slid reluctantly to her waist, attempting to hold her away. “Is a bumble-headed ninnyhammer better than a braying jackass?” he asked, just for the record.
“Not better, just more endearing.”
She leaned into him, and Reginald didn’t stop her. She felt good cuddled against his chest, her head tucked under his chin. He warmed his arms by wrapping them around her back.
“You aren’t paying attention, my love,” he reminded her. “If society finds out what I do, we will be ruined. We will be scorned by family and friends, cut from all entertainments, mocked by all around us. This is what I would bring you to if we married. I’m not a wealthy man, Marian. You must consider what you are doing before you make that fatal step. You are the daughter of a marquess. You can do much better than me.”
She sighed and played with a button on his shirt. “You buy and sell books and things?” She felt him nod. “I buy and sell books and things, too. So does Gavin. I much rather buy than sell, but one has to live. I don’t see any difference.”
His hands stroked her back. “You and Gavin sell the occasional oddity when you need funds. You don’t make a habit of acquiring things to sell for profit. There is a distinct difference, my dear.”
“I could make a habit of it,” she said thoughtfully. “It could be very challenging. Just the other day I heard Lady Agatha wish for an old lorgnette she once owned. I saw one that would be just perfect for her in a Covent Garden stall. I could buy it from that vendor and sell it to Lady Agatha for easily twice as much as I bought it. I think it would be rather amusing.”
Reginald ran his hand into her hair and dug his fingers deeply into her thick coiffure. He tilted her head back until she met his eyes. “I love you even if you are insane. You will not go down to Covent Garden to buy Lady Agatha a lorgnette. Is that clearly understood?”
“Even if I do love you enough to be classified insane, I will not let you bully me, Mr. Montague. If I wish to sell Lady Agatha a lorgnette, I shall. And no amount of kissing will make me change my mind.”
“No amount?” His eyes gleamed as he studied her.
“No amount,” she answered firmly.
He lowered his head and found her deliciously full lips. “If I kiss you enough, will you love me more?” he murmured against them.
“Insanely,” she agreed as his mouth closed over hers.
* * * *
In the work area beyond, Michael whistled a happy tune and polished a piece of glass for a tiny mullioned window. He lifted an eyebrow at the sound of a piece of furniture in the office bumping against a wall.
The old sofa in there was none too comfortable. He’d give them another window or two before intruding. After all, he had no desire to end up back on the streets again. These London streets were damned damp even at the best of times.
And illusion held little comfort when compared to the genuine emotion he saw between those two lovers. He rather imagined his little cousin was a true original, one who didn’t mind being a shopkeeper’s wife. He wouldn’t mind finding a woman like that for himself one day, a real woman, not an illusion.
But in the meantime, he found it extremely amusing to sit back and watch this pairing of the noble marquess’s daughter with a man who made his own living. He rather liked to think that he was partially responsible for the sounds of love emanating from that room right now—he and the ruby necklace, anyway.
Whistling, he snapped his fingers and produced a tiny gem to install in the miniature desk drawer waiting for its place in the manor. Ruby red sparkled in the sunlight from the window, and the magician grinned.
Now that Montague possessed the genuine article, he wouldn’t miss this piece of glass.
About the Author
With several million books in print and New York Times and USA Today's bestseller lists under her belt, former CPA Patricia Rice is one of romance's hottest authors. Her emotionally-charged contemporary and historical romances have won numerous awards, including the Romantic Times Reviewers Choice and Career Achievement Awards. In addition to receiving the Bookrak Bestselling Paperback award, her books have also been honored as Romance Writers of America RITA® finalists in the historical, Regency and contemporary categories.
A firm believer in happily-ever-after, Patricia Rice is married to her high school sweetheart and has two children. A native of Kentucky and New York, a past resident of North Carolina, she currently resides in St. Louis, Missouri, and now does accounting only for herself. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, the Authors Guild, and Novelists, Inc.
Visit Patricia Rice's website at http://www.patriciarice.com/ for more information about her and her books.
Publishing Information
Copyright © 1994 by Patricia Rice
Originally published by Signet (ISBN 0451182359)
Electronically published in 2009 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
http://www.RegencyReads.com
Electronic sales: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
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