May Mistakes

by Merry Farmer

  May Mistakes

  Merry Farmer

  MAY MISTAKES

  Copyright ©2018 by Merry Farmer

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your digital retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill (the miracle-worker)

  Embellishment by © Olgasha | Dreamstime.com

  ASIN: B07CK9SXVZ

  Paperback ISBN: 9781717706300

  Click here for a complete list of other works by Merry Farmer.

  If you’d like to be the first to learn about when the next books in the series come out and more, please sign up for my newsletter here: http://eepurl.com/RQ-KX

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Brynthwaite, Cumbria – March, 1880

  Basil Allenby loved his bookshop. For nearly two years, it had been his home and his world. He’d always secretly loved books, even when it was considered unfashionable and downright laughable for him to do so. He’d taken several with him to the Crimea decades ago, which had served him and his friends well when they all ended up languishing in field hospitals with flesh wounds and dysentery. They’d given him countless ideas for the wild life he’d led after returning home from the war. They’d helped him research the policies and issues he was responsible for overseeing in his position in the House of Lords. And they had been the inspiration for him to abandon his life as the Earl of Waltham to begin again as simply Mr. Basil Wall in remote Cumbria.

  His life as a lofty member of the nobility seemed as far away as the dry and dusty tomes on economic theory that sat abandoned on the bottom shelf of the smallest, most tucked-away places in his shop. He’d embraced his life as Brynthwaite’s quiet, awkward bookseller more passionately than he’d ever embraced parliamentary debate. It showed in the broad grin he wore as he unpacked the crate of new books that had just arrived from his distributor in Manchester.

  “Anything interesting?” his assistant, Andrew Noble, asked, peering over his shoulder at the heavy crate he’d carried up from the post office. Andrew had been discovered by a British army officer as a child in the South African bush. Rather than searching out his tribe and his family, the officer had brought him home, raising him as his own. The young man’s dark skin turned more than a few eyes in dozy Brynthwaite, but Basil saw the man for what he was—well-educated, quick to learn, and savvy with money.

  “Three new ones by Anthony Trollope,” Basil said, taking the smooth, leather-bound volumes from the crate as it sat on the shop’s central counter. “The Duke’s Children, Cousin Henry, and An Eye for an Eye.” Andrew hummed in acknowledgement. “The Dickens books I ordered.” He took them out and set them on the counter beside the crate. “That American novel that’s become so popular, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain. And—”

  He stopped, and his face burned suddenly hot at the next layer of books he uncovered. He hadn’t remembered ordering those titles, but there they were, staring up at him.

  “And?” Andrew moved closer, peering over his shoulder, then burst into laughter. “Someone’s got interesting taste in literature,” he laughed, slapping Basil on the back before returning to the ledgers he’d been balancing.

  Basil cleared his throat, taking one of the red-bound volumes from the crate. “I can’t imagine how these were included in the order.”

  He cleared his throat again, running his hands over the book. The Lustful Turk. He’d read it before. In Sebastopol, actually. It’d first been published in 1829, but had been in constant, underground demand since then. It was a fictional account of the escapades of an Englishwoman who had been captured and installed in a Turkish harem…in explicit detail. Basil’s blood pumped harder at the memory of what the pages had contained, and at all the ways he’d sought to act them out with the adventurous ladies of his acquaintance upon returning from the war.

  But as vivid as some of those memories were, and as fresh as they seemed as he leafed through the pages of The Lustful Turk, catching descriptive phrases and paragraphs, only one face sprung to mind as his imagination recreated a thousand nights of vice and pleasure—a young, beautiful face with bright, inquisitive eyes, a bow-shaped mouth, soft, brown hair, and rosy cheeks. Hers was the face that filled his dreams and made him feel far younger than his fifty years. He ached for her, body and soul, and had since the first moment he’d stumbled across her, shortly after opening his bookshop two years ago. He’d never known a longing so potent, a heartache so all-consuming, or a desire so distracting, mostly since he didn’t dare to do a single thing about it. There was no possible way he could give in to the siren song of his heart, or the all-powerful urges of his loins where the woman he loved so devotedly was concerned. She didn’t know who he was, all the secrets he kept from her. She didn’t know his history, which meant he could never reveal all the things he kept bottled in his heart. Because if there was one person in the whole world that didn’t deserve to be saddled with his disgrace and his failures, it was—

  The bell over the bookshop door jingled as it opened and the lithe, fresh form of Miss Elaine Bond swept inside.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Wall,” she said with a cheery smile and easy manner.

  Basil nearly jumped out of his skin, clutching the open book to his thundering heart and squashing a few pages. Already, too much blood had rushed to his cock—making him glad he stood behind a counter—and more joined it at the sight of Elaine. She wore a flowing dress of pale lavender over a long-sleeved shift of dark blue in the medieval style. Her waist was cinched with a silken cord in a way that made it plain for all to see that she wasn’t wearing a corset or any of the stiff, form-distorting crinolines that made up women’s fashion. To top off her appearance, she wore her hair down, her thick tresses reaching to the small of her back, topped with a simple garland of garden flowers.

  Basil stared, feeling himself heat as if he’d been tossed into a furnace. He was certain that if he slipped his arms around Elaine and held her close he’d be able to feel every curve of her body. He was certain he’d be able to taste the honey of her lips—as he’d longed to do for what felt like an eternity—if he slanted his mouth over hers. She radiated beauty and boldness, grace and pure, undiluted originality.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Bond,” Andrew prompted from the desk in the corner.

  Basil caught a teasing grin from the man before shifting back to Elaine. He cleared his throat. “Good afternoon, Miss Bond,” he greeted her, voice cracking.

  Elaine’s smile grew as she moved closer, a noticeable spring in her step. “What do you have there?
” she asked, nodding to the book Basil still clutched against his chest. She leaned on the counter, squinting at the title. “The Lustful Turk?” She snapped straight, delight and humor filling her eyes.

  “It’s nothing,” Basil said, clapping the book closed and tossing it back into the crate.

  But it was too late. Elaine had already lifted to her toes to peer at the rest of the crate’s contents. “Ooh! The Romance of Lust, by…Anonymous? What’s this all about?” She plucked the scandalous volume from the crate.

  Basil instantly snatched it from her hands. “It’s not the sort of book a young woman should be reading.” His face burned hotter than ever.

  “Nonsense,” she said in an off-handed manner. “You let me read everything.”

  “Not everything,” he corrected.

  “You’ve let me read everything I’ve wanted to for the last two years,” she went on, taking another volume from the crate. It must not have interested her, since she set it aside. “You let me read Fruits of Philosophy, which enraged Mr. Crimpley when he found out,” she said as though he’d let her have an extra slice of cake before supper.

  In fact, Fruits of Philosophy had created a firestorm all over the country with its frank information about methods of contraception. Elaine had no way of knowing how long and how forceful the lecture he’d had from Robert Crimpley had been after Elaine had boasted openly about the book he’d let her read in secret.

  “Hmm. Are you sure this one’s in English?” She pulled a book stamped with Indian designs from the crate. “Kama Sutra? What’s that?”

  Basil snatched it from her hands so quickly she yelped. “I’m sorry, you cannot read this. It’s out of the question,” he stammered, collecting all of the naughty books into his arms. What had the publisher been thinking, sending him so many salacious titles? He’d only heard rumors of Sir Richard Burton translating the infamous Sanskrit text, but to send the book in such a way that anyone, that Elaine could get hold of it? He wasn’t sure his sanity could handle Elaine Bond educating herself with carnal knowledge. He’d never be able to get a decent night’s sleep or walk comfortably again.

  “Come now, Mr. Bond,” she said crossing her arms and staring hard at him. Basil tried not to interpret her statement literally and obey it. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “We are,” he said, gathering the forbidden books into a pile.

  “And friends share books.”

  “Not these books,” he said, voice hoarse. “Never these books.” He turned and used the small stool behind the counter to set the pile of books on top of the highest bookshelf in the shop.

  When he stepped down and faced Elaine, still glad for the concealment of the counter, she wore a look of such offended pride that he almost gave in and changed his mind. “You do realize that the more you forbid me to do something, the more I wish to do it.”

  Basil swallowed, a shiver of temptation shooting down his spine. “Oh, yes. I know. All of Brynthwaite knows.” He couldn’t help but grin.

  She matched his sly look with a grin of her own. “You know that people blame you for giving me those essays about the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood and the Artistic Dress movement.”

  “I know,” he said, a hint of resignation in his voice. Then again, he wouldn’t change a thing about how Elaine dressed—or anything else about her—for the world.

  “And you’re the one who makes sure I’m the first one to read each new issue of the Women’s Suffrage Journal when it comes in every month.”

  “I am,” he answered, then matched her challenging stance by leaning across the counter toward her. “But even I have my limits.”

  She stared right back at him, a look of doubt and calculation in her eyes. Their faces were less than a foot away. He could close that distance in a heartbeat, brush his lips against hers, and steal the kiss he’d dreamed about for two, long years.

  She was the first to break the stand-off by rocking back and letting out a charming, feminine sigh. “Very well, Mr. Wall. I shall just have to find a way to test your limits.”

  Basil couldn’t keep his ironic laugh inside. She tested his limits on a daily basis. Sometimes on an hourly one. Things had settled enough for him to step around the counter and offer her his arm.

  “What’s that sound for?” she asked, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.

  “You don’t want to know.” He turned to Andrew before she could press him further. “We’ll be back in an hour or so, as usual.”

  “Enjoy,” Andrew called after them as they reached the door, amusement clear in his voice.

  As soon as they were outside in the cheery afternoon sunlight, heading along their usual walking route which would take them to the footpath rimming the lake before curving back into the heart of Brynthwaite, Elaine sighed.

  “You realize that not even you can keep me away from something that I want,” she said, darting a teasing, sideways look at him.

  “What lovely weather we’re having for March,” he replied, attempting to change the conversation.

  Elaine stifled a giggle. “All right, Mr. Wall. I shall not torment you by pursuing a matter you do not wish pursued.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I know you’re just as stubborn and determined as I am.”

  “I’m glad we got that sorted out.” His mouth twitched with mirth and his heart felt lighter than candy floss.

  “I shall just have to find some other way to read those books,” she said with a casual shrug.

  “Not if I have anything to do with it.”

  “Yes, we are having exceptionally fine weather for March,” she brushed on, copying his diversionary tactic to perfection. “My garden is simply brimming with crocuses and early jonquils.”

  Basil relaxed into a smile, breathing easy and glancing out over the stunning view of Lake Brynswater and the surrounding hills and countryside. This was why he’d fled London. This was the life of peace and tranquility he’d craved for so long without knowing it. And Elaine was the sunlight that made it all glow. Her quixotic, powerful, unconventional fellowship meant so much more than any of the string of lovers he’d had in his previous life.

  “Did you manage to clear the rubbish from the flower bed along the wall?” he asked, happy to hear about her agrarian exploits.

  “Well, June Lakes helped.”

  Basil shot her a surprised look. “With all the work her father and brothers need her to do?”

  Elaine’s brow scrunched into a brief, disapproving frown. “She needed to get away for a moment. She wasn’t able to stay long.”

  The way Miss Lakes’s family treated her—the only woman responsible for four grown men—was scandalous.

  “What about Mrs. Newsome? Has she been over to help at all?” Basil asked.

  They passed an elderly couple out for a walk along the lake as they were. The man frowned and tutted at Elaine under his breath. His wife took one, sweeping look of Elaine’s medieval dress and turned up her nose in disgust.

  Elaine either didn’t notice or ignored them. “Rose has been so busy since baby Alberta was born,” she sighed. “She tries to come over when she can, and I make a point to visit her as often as possible, but it’s difficult.”

  Basil hummed in understanding. “And what about Agatha Crimpley?”

  Elaine snorted. “Aggie would be my friend if her parents allowed it, but….”

  She didn’t need to finish. Basil knew all too well what she meant. His conclusions were confirmed by the cluster of fishermen tending their boats only a few yards out from the lake’s shoreline. They sneered and scoffed as Elaine walked past. The only thing preventing them from leering at her or making rude, suggestive gestures was the look of fire and venom that Basil shot their way. He’d had two years to make sure all and sundry knew that as unconventional and eccentric as Elaine was, she was also protected.

  But Elaine was something else that none of the stodgy, disapproving citizens of Brynthwaite knew, but that he had disc
overed long ago. In the wake of her father’s death, and in light of her eccentricity, Elaine Bond was lonely.

  “I can’t wait until father’s lilies start to bloom,” Elaine said with a wistful sigh. “Or his lilac bushes. He did so love those lilacs.”

  “They are stunning,” Basil agreed.

  “The house always seems so cheery and homey when it’s filled with spring flowers. I’ll have to put extra effort into cleaning it in the next few weeks to make everything ready.”

  Basil’s lips pulled into a wry grin. “Didn’t you say you were going to give the house a thorough cleaning last spring as well?”

  She sent him a guilty look as they reached the stairs that would take them from the lake shore to the center of town. “I did my best. I’d like to see you try to clean a cottage from top to bottom on your own.”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t be capable of it,” he laughed, remembering the army of servants that had always surrounded him, both at his London house and his family’s vast estate in Bedfordshire. He’d grown used to taking care of himself in the past two years, but all he had was a two-room flat above the bookshop, not a cottage. “You know I’d help you more if I could,” he added as a hasty afterthought.

  “I know,” she sighed. “Lord knows how the good people of Brynthwaite would squeal if the two of us were known to be alone together in father’s cottage.” She rolled her eyes dramatically.

  It was a coincidence that a pair of middle-aged women were passing as she made the gesture. They stared pointedly at him, as though she were his responsibility to keep in line.