Love Between the Pages: 8 Romances for Booklovers

by Bird, Peggy

  Finally, the doctor stood, and the young woman was aided to a sitting position. She placed her hand to her face for a moment—the ungloved hand with the ink-stained fingers shielding her eyes. Henry followed her every movement.

  The gentleman who had arrived with the doctor leaned over the stricken woman and whispered a question that Henry couldn’t make out. But he pieced it together when the young lady raised her eyes to him and the gentleman’s gaze followed. Henry had definitely been the topic of conversation.

  The man rose and came forward with a grim expression on his face. Henry’s body tensed in the defensive en garde position.

  “I understand you’re responsible for making my daughter faint. Granted, you’re a handsome devil, but still. I believe an apology is in order.”

  “She’ll get her apology as soon as she explains her duplicity to me. She’s been visiting me in another guise for several weeks now. She even made up a name for herself. I know her as Phoebe Wyatt. I had no idea she was a proper, highbred woman.”

  “You thought she was a lightskirt? Dear God.” The man ran his hand through his hair.

  “No, not a lightskirt, sir. Rather, a member of the working class. She told me she was a secretary to the elusive, reclusive, Mr. Elliott.”

  The man cleared his throat. “Ah, yes, Mr. Elliott.” He finally stuck out his hand and offered it to Henry. “That would be me. F.P. Elliott, at your service.”

  Henry accepted the offered hand as a matter of course. “I didn’t realize Miss Wyatt was your daughter. I was told you were an uncle of hers. Why is her last name, for this evening, anyway, Fitzpatrick, if she’s truly your daughter? Wouldn’t she be Rosemary Elliott? Forgive my confusion, but, as for you, why would someone who doesn’t leave his home suddenly decide a crowded ballroom is the place to be? You’ve been ignoring my wishes to meet for weeks now, and Miss Wyatt, or rather Miss Fitzpatrick, or Miss Elliott, kept making the excuse that you never left the house, since you hated crowds.”

  “Well, it was Rosemary’s big night, after all.” Mr. Elliott shook his head.

  Henry tore his gaze from the man and glanced over to Phoebe—no, Rosemary. Miss Fitzpatrick. Miss Elliott. It was his turn to shake his head. He no longer could figure out what to believe.

  At last, Rosemary got to her feet and moved alongside the two men.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Cooper, for trying to pass myself off as a secretary. I thought it would be more believable than being who I really am. I apologize.”

  The scent of Rosemary’s fragrance made its way to his nose, and his smile was automatic and genuine. He took her ungloved hand and laid a kiss on her ink-stained fingers.

  “It’s wonderful to finally meet the real you, whoever that may be. And I apologize for making you faint. I’ve never garnered such a response to being introduced before.”

  Rosemary’s mother hurried over to the small group and placed her hand on Mr. Elliott’s arm. “George, I think we should take Rosemary home now. It’s been quite an evening.”

  George?

  Rosemary and Mr. Elliott both turned to Mrs. Fitzpatrick with pained expressions on their faces.

  “You’re right, Mother. We should be getting on home. Good night, Mr. Cooper.”

  The trio hustled out of the room without a backward glance or a further explanation, leaving Henry alone with his thoughts, which were rioting out of control. Perhaps it was the remaining aroma of patchouli that muddled his senses. He thought Phoebe, or rather, Rosemary, had said her uncle’s name was Frank. Who the hell was George?

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Well, that was a close one,” Rosemary’s mother exclaimed as she settled herself into the carriage for the short ride home.

  “There was nothing remotely ‘close’ about it, Mother! We’ve been unmasked, all of us.” Rosemary almost screamed in frustration. Instead, she stomped her slippered foot against the floor of the carriage. The soft sound was not nearly as satisfying as a scream would have been.

  “Whatever do you mean? Well, yes, I agree your play-acting as a secretary will have to come to a halt. Mr. Cooper now realizes you are in the same social circles as he is. I think it might be a blessing in disguise, so to speak. You will no longer have to pretend to be someone you aren’t. You can now show up for your meetings in your usual fine clothing, which will entice the handsome Mr. Cooper. You’ll begin courting each other. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised at all to have him show up on our doorstep on the morrow.”

  Rosemary flung a sharp gaze at her mother, who was expounding nonsense. “My disguise will still be in play, Mother. Perhaps not as Phoebe Wyatt anymore, but I still can’t reveal that I am F.P. Elliott. Papa was doing an admirable job of imitating him until you came over and ruined things by calling him ‘George.’ Whatever am I to do now?” Rosemary dropped her head into her hands.

  Charlotte reached a hand out and ran it over Rosemary’s hair. “Cease with your melodrama, Rosemary. I know it’s what you write, but you don’t need to give in to it at every turn in real life. I believe you give your handsome Mr. Cooper too much credit. I didn’t see him react to my calling your father George. It probably slid right by him.”

  The corners of George Fitzpatrick’s mouth lifted into a smile. “He probably didn’t react to you calling me George because he was still trying to figure out why Rosemary’s last name was Fitzpatrick, when I called her my daughter and then introduced myself as the elusive Mr. Elliott. I fear we did create a lot of confusion for your Mr. Cooper tonight.”

  Rosemary lifted her head and stared at her parents. “Will you both please cease with such foolishness? He is not my Mr. Cooper. And I’ll thank you not to attempt to make him otherwise. It’s hard enough having to work with the man and to hide my true identity without the two of you throwing some of your abysmal matchmaking efforts into the mix. Especially you, Mother.”

  Her mother’s face became a mask of innocence. Rosemary stifled a groan.

  George took hold of his wife’s hand, and his expression grew solemn. “Now, Charlotte, Rosemary’s right in this case. Don’t go getting any of your ideas about how to marry her off. She’s already got a profession she’s in love with and making money at, despite what society thinks of educated women. Perhaps it’s for the best if she reveals herself entirely to Mr. Cooper as soon as possible. He will then release her from her contract, and they will be done with each other. She doesn’t need a man to provide for her. Especially if the man would prevent her from doing what she does best—create wonderful works of fiction.”

  “Maybe not to provide for her, George. But a good book won’t keep you warm at night, unless you rip the pages out and feed them to a fire.”

  “How dare you utter such a blaspheme, Mother! Tear a book apart? Bosh. What utter nonsense.” Rosemary stomped her foot on the carriage floor again, annoyed when the only sound emanating from her outburst was a gentle plop.

  Her mother leveled a gaze at Rosemary. “Bosh, is it? Well then, I suppose your comment that you have no interest in Mr. Cooper is also bosh. He made you faint, daughter. Need I say more? I’ll have to see about inviting the Cabots and their new friend Mr. Cooper over for dinner soon.”

  This time, Rosemary didn’t stifle her groan.

  She rolled her head back on the seat and closed her eyes. Immediately, Henry Cooper’s face popped into her head. Her stomach, which had been queasy since her fainting spell and subsequent smelling salts experience, now began to jump, like a frog from the riverbank into the water. He is not my Mr. Cooper, despite what Mother says.

  But he possibly could be.

  The thought came from nowhere and hit her between the eyes as if it were an arrow on a target board. When she’d leaned over his desk the other day in his office, she’d thought he was going to kiss her. He’d leaned forward as she’d leaned in closer. His breath had touched her cheek as his gaze homed in on her lips. She’d moistened them with her tongue in preparation for what she had been certain would be when the earth would til
t and life as she had experienced it up until then would cease to be.

  But instead of a kiss, she’d gotten the royal brush-off. He’d stood so quickly it had thrown her off-balance, and he’d hustled her out of the room before she’d been able to catch her breath. Had his actions been because he had the same response to her as she did to him? Did he notice how the air crackled whenever they were together? Tonight, when she’d come to consciousness again and he’d been at her side, even when hordes of people had surrounded them, it was as if they’d been the only ones in the room.

  Or were his actions the result of him being appalled by her brazen behavior when he had absolutely no interest in her? Was his lack of interest because he thought she was a mere secretary and beneath him in stature? Or did he just not care for her, regardless of who she was and what strata of society she occupied? If such were the case, exposing herself as not the secretary to the famous F.P. Elliott, but in actuality, F.P. himself, or herself, she guessed, wouldn’t matter to him. Perhaps her father was right, and she should divest herself of all duplicity and let Henry Cooper release her from any further obligations to his company. His was not the only publishing house in New York City. She could find another company, one that would take a single glance at the sales F.P. Elliott had racked up over the past few years and immediately offer a contract, without a proper meeting between the author and the publisher. Yes, it was time to erase the duplicity. One layer had been removed tonight. Now it was time to take care of the rest of it. So why did the thought of never seeing Henry Cooper again make her heart ache?

  • • •

  Dorcas sat in her usual corner in the garret, reading a book and twirling a strand of her reddish-blonde hair in her fingers while Rosemary attempted to work on her next scene. Every now and then, Dorcas would sigh or cough, pulling Rosemary from her story. Despite Rosemary’s repeated requests for quiet, Dorcas could not be stilled for long. Finally, she threw the book to the floor with a loud crash, startling Rosemary and making her upset her ink bottle.

  “Ooh, Dorcas, now see what you made me do!” Rosemary grabbed a towel from the dressing table and began to mop up the blue-purple mess before it stained her desk.

  Dorcas ran over to help and, in a few minutes, the runaway ink was cleared up. She glanced at the towel in dismay. “Well, I guess this goes to the rag pile now. I’m sorry, Rosemary.”

  “Why in the world would you drop your book? You know the rules by now. I must have absolute quiet in the mornings while I write.”

  “Because this is not a usual morning. You fainted last night upon being introduced to the divine Mr. Cooper, and I want to know why. Have you met him before? And why did he think you were someone else? Your family rushed you away from the ball so quickly, I couldn’t ask any questions. And I’m dying to know.”

  Rosemary smiled. Her friend loved melodrama, just as she did. Which was why she allowed Dorcas to read her books even before she delivered them to the publisher. Except now the melodrama had leapt off the pages and was being played out in real life.

  “I guess I do need to offer some kind of explanation. Yes, I do know Mr. Cooper. He’s taken over the publishing house from Mr. Page.”

  “Ooh, so he’s your new boss? How lucky can one girl get?”

  “But therein lies the trouble. He thinks F.P. Elliott is a man, just as Mr. Page did.”

  “So? If Mr. Page didn’t figure it out for the past three years, why do you think Mr. Cooper will?”

  “Because while Mr. Page was content to correspond with the authors by the post, Mr. Cooper is insisting on meeting each one in person. So I decided to stall him a bit by pretending to be Mr. Elliott’s secretary. I’ve had a few meetings with him over the past weeks, but he still is insisting on a face-to-face with the author. And now I’ve been exposed. He no longer will believe I’m a secretary.”

  “Well, this sounds as if the plot came from one of your stories. What name did you give yourself when you posed as a secretary?”

  “I was Phoebe Wyatt. I’ve always been partial to the name Phoebe.”

  “Well, there you go. Once your Harry Hawk story is finished, you can write about Phoebe’s perils. Maybe she can be a gunslinger in the Wild West, passing herself off as a man …”

  Rosemary raised an eyebrow at her friend. “I think you should leave the writing to me, Dorcas. You’re a better reader than a writer.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. My idea has some merit. Think about it. The Perils of Phoebe has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” Dorcas settled back into her corner. “So, do you think you’ll hear from Mr. Cooper anytime soon?”

  “I fully expect him to show up here this afternoon. He wasn’t given an explanation for my duplicity, and he needs to understand why I posed as Phoebe Wyatt.”

  “Just wait until he figures out you’re really the author he’s wanting to see. Talk about duplicity. He’s only beginning to unravel your secret life.”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m afraid of. But I hope I can keep my true identity from him until he realizes how valuable I am to his company.”

  Dorcas sighed. “Maybe he’ll fall in love with you. Then it won’t matter.”

  Rosemary arched a brow at her friend. “I don’t think that’s a possibility. But let’s change the subject. I’ll get no more writing done today since you’ve spilled my ink supply. Let’s talk about the cotillion instead. Did you meet any interesting men last night? Did you want to faint as well and make a fool of yourself, as I did, with anyone?”

  “Well, now that you mention it, after you left, I did meet someone. Although you were so frazzled, I doubt you’ll have any recollection of the new doctor in town, the one who gave you the smelling salts.”

  Rosemary settled back in her seat at her desk. “I remember the smelling salts, but not much more. So, do tell. Spill the beans instead of my ink. Is this new doctor a handsome man? Did he speak to you after I left?”

  Dorcas began to relate the events of the debutante ball after Rosemary had departed. Rosemary listened with half an ear to her friend, thankful to turn the conversation away from Henry Cooper. But her stomach knotted since she was well aware he’d show up at the house this afternoon, demanding the truth. Various explanations ran through her head while Dorcas rambled on. Obviously, making Henry fall in love with her––Dorcas’s solution—wasn’t going to work. Rosemary weighed the options left to her. She’d have to see where her afternoon’s conversation with Henry led before she decided on her next course of action. And she was certain there’d be a conversation.

  • • •

  Henry stood in front of the Fitzpatrick brownstone and rapped on the door. He had not been invited, true, but he was owed an explanation, and he was certain he would be admitted. A simple query to the Cabots had revealed where the Fitzpatrick residence was located, and Henry had wasted no time in finding his way. The butler answered the door, took his card, gave him a haughty glare, and left him to stand outside in the cold April air while he announced Henry’s presence.

  He blew on his hands to warm his fingers while he waited. He turned from the door and followed the movement of several carriages as they made their way down the cobbled street in front of the house. New York City was abuzz with people on their way to meetings and businesses. Even in the few minutes he was left standing on the doorstep, the traffic in front of the Fitzpatrick home increased.

  The fact Phoebe Wyatt and Rosemary Fitzpatrick, or Rosemary Elliott, were one and the same still astounded him. Why would she need to put up a façade in order to deal with him? He hoped today’s meeting would clear things up. If he was in fact admitted to the home, which was still uncertain. He hopped from one foot to another in an attempt to stay warm.

  Finally, the door reopened, and the butler escorted him inside, took his coat and hat, and placed him in the empty parlor.

  “Mrs. Fitzpatrick will be down shortly.” The butler’s words came out clipped and stilted. He turned in much the same manner as his speech and left Henry
alone. But not before giving him another haughty glare. Henry waited, thankful for the warmth the empty room offered, but thinking the butler had severely overstepped his bounds. The chill of his disdain for Henry threatened to take away any warmth the room offered.

  Henry paced the room as his nerves overtook him. Just who was Phoebe, or Rosemary, anyway? He had been developing feelings for the woman. Now he didn’t know who she was, on the most basic of levels. Was she the working-class secretary, or was she from high society? Would his opinion of her change if she were one or the other? Did any of it really matter, anyway? He was certain that, whatever her social standing, she would fit neatly in his arms, and her lips would be soft and sweet. He had no wish to see Mrs. Fitzpatrick today. He wanted to be alone with Phoebe. Or Rosemary.

  His musings were interrupted as Mrs. Fitzpatrick entered the room, followed by Phoebe. Or possibly Rosemary. Henry turned toward the women, hoping his disappointment with a chaperone wouldn’t be noticed. From the mere presence of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, he got the message that he was in the room with Rosemary, the young lady of society who required a chaperone everywhere she went. Phoebe Wyatt was no longer. She had only been an apparition. Henry blew out a breath softly, already missing the spirited Miss Wyatt.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Cooper.” Charlotte Fitzpatrick extended her hand to him. “You’re early, and we don’t have tea ready yet, but we were expecting you at some time today. You are owed an explanation about last evening. Please take a seat.”

  Henry bowed over her hand before he lowered himself into an upholstered chair and then flashed a glance at Phoebe. Rosemary. How long would it take him to remember to call her by her real name? She seemed nervous, and her tongue dashed out to moisten her lips. Just as she had done the other day in his office. The very lips he’d just been thinking about. His body stiffened at the sight, and he stifled a groan. He cleared his throat.

  “Thank you for seeing me with no advance notice, Mrs. Fitzpatrick, and Miss Wyatt. Or should I say Miss Fitzpatrick? Or is it Miss Elliott?”