The Earl Takes a Fancy

by Lorraine Heath

  She glanced up at the young woman whose face was flushed with her efforts and her bosom in danger of breaking free of her black bodice’s restraints. “Hello, Becky.”

  “Wot ye be havin’ this evenin’?”

  “What has Hannah prepared?”

  “A lovely shepherd’s pie ’n’ mutton stew.”

  “I’ll have the pie and half a pint of light beer.”

  “Yes, miss. And ye, sir?”

  “I’ll have the pie as well, along with a pint of Guinness.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll be back in a tick.”

  Fancy watched as Becky hurried off, grabbing empty tankards and glasses as she went, nodding toward those asking for another pint or beverage. The woman was like a juggler, tossing far too many balls in the air, yet effectively keeping each one from landing on the ground.

  “Miss Trewlove.”

  The quietly spoken name, drawn-out almost like it was a bit of confection to be savored, caused her attention to swing back to her table companion. “You say that as though you didn’t know who I was.”

  “I didn’t. I assume you’re related to Mick Trewlove.”

  She couldn’t stop her pride in her brother’s accomplishments from beaming forth. “I’m his younger sister. And you’re not to blame. We never introduced ourselves. I’m Fancy Trewlove.”

  “The Fancy Book Emporium.” He mulled it over. “The name of your shop is lacking an apostrophe and an S.”

  Trust a man to point out the obvious or seek to correct what needed no correction. “Their omission was intentional. It’s a play on my name you see. A bit of fun. You’ve yet to tell me who you are.”

  A hesitation as though he weren’t quite sure of himself. “Matthew Sommersby. Two Ms.”

  She held out her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Matthew Sommersby, two Ms.”

  The smile he bestowed upon her fairly stole her breath. She’d seen hints of it, a twitch here, a small curl of a corner there, but when he spread his lips into a full smile that revealed perfect straight teeth, when his eyes sparkled as though he was truly pleased, she found herself astounded by the seeming swiftness with which he’d been transformed from a man of such seriousness to one who projected an image more welcoming, more inviting, more sensual, more . . . everything.

  “A pleasure, Miss Trewlove.” His palm, hinting at the slightest roughness like the finest grains of sand on a beach beneath her soles, came to rest against hers. For some reason she envisioned him kissing the tips of her fingers. He possessed an elegance and refinement that reminded her of courtly gestures. But he merely released his hold, then opened and closed his hand as though wanting to hoard the sensation he’d experienced while touching her.

  “I assume you live in the area,” she said.

  “The next street over. 86 Ettie Lane. I can see the back of your shop from my upstairs window.”

  Which meant he had a view of her bedchamber, or at least the light from it before she closed the draperies. She doubted he could actually see inside to make note of the furnishings, although she might be visible walking about. “Mick named the street after our mother. Have you lived there long?”

  “A little over a fortnight now.”

  “How are you finding it?”

  “To my liking thus far.”

  “My brother has worked hard to make the area welcom—”

  “Here you are, loves,” Becky said, setting the pewter tankards on the table. “Drink up ’n’ enjoy. Food’ll be here shortly.”

  After the girl wandered off, Fancy continued, “Welcoming, I was going to say.” She lifted her tankard. “Cheers.”

  While he lifted his pint, she took a sip, enjoying the crisp flavor. Gillie served only the best. Watching as he turned back the cover on his recent purchase, she removed the miniature book from her pocket, taking satisfaction from his gaze darting over to capture her movements, unsure why she wanted to bask in his attention. Perhaps because she’d never garnered a man’s full interest before. It was no secret in the area where she’d grown up that her family considered her destined for greater things, so most of the boys had kept their distance, none of them wanting to face her irritatingly intimidating brothers.

  “What are you reading?” he asked.

  “Aesop’s Fables.”

  “Have you a favorite?”

  “The Ant and the Grasshopper, I think. It applies to my family. They’ve always worked hard, seldom taken time for play. Have you one you favor, one to which you can relate, perhaps?”

  “The Fox and the Crow. Be wary of flatterers, or something to that effect.”

  She could have sworn a tinge of bitterness laced his voice and wondered at the cause. Yet she didn’t know him well enough to ask for the reasons behind his selection. Although his choice of fable was certainly one she should take to heart when she began making the social rounds. Although as she understood it, the entire Season revolved around flattery. “Have you any advice on how to differentiate between flattery and honest compliments?”

  “Unfortunately, no.”

  Chapter 3

  Not that Matthew Sommersby wasn’t presently tempted to let loose with a foray into flattery that would have his dinner companion blushing with pleasure. It had been a good long while since he’d been drawn to a woman.

  He wasn’t certain he’d ever met anyone as small of stature as she was who still managed to project such a large presence. The Queen perhaps. The moment he’d walked into the shop, Miss Trewlove had caught his attention without artifice or fawning or inuendo. She’d merely welcomed him with a warm smile and a sultry voice that had caused him to recheck his surroundings to ensure he’d entered a bookshop and not a brothel. His mind had filled with images of that voice lowered into a rasp as she whispered wicked suggestions in his ear. He had no idea why he’d reacted to her as he had. Most certainly she was a beautiful woman with her high cheekbones, delicate square jaw, and inviting brown eyes, but her attraction had more to do with her confidence and bearing.

  He shouldn’t have been surprised, at least not once he realized she was a Trewlove. In spite of their humble origins, they were making their mark on Society—Mick Trewlove especially with his tearing down of what had been left to rot and replacing it with buildings in which merchants and residents could take pride. It was one of the reasons Matthew had decided to lease a terrace house here. It was modern and clean, while the area itself provided a good many amenities.

  “Why a bookshop?” he asked.

  The smile she bestowed upon him seemed to encompass every aspect of her, to reveal her very soul. “The simple answer is that I love stories, but there’s more to it than that. My siblings are all quite a bit older than I am. My mother sent them to a nearby ragged school. It cost her nothing as the schools are free, funded by the generosity of others. Lessons were only given in the morning, and they were only allowed to attend until they were eleven, so all that was over by the time I came around. But they learned to read, you see, and after that there was no stopping them.”

  The fire in her voice, her expression, held him captivated. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt passionate about anything.

  “They continued to educate themselves. Informally. They pooled their earnings together and paid a guinea a year to a lending library. They could only borrow one book at a time, and they took turns deciding who would choose the book to be borrowed, but it opened up worlds to them—and to me. My fondest memories are of each of them reading to me, when I was quite small. It was magical. So, I wanted to open a bookshop in order to surround myself with the stories that my brothers and sister had loved enough to share with me. When I see the spines lined up on a shelf, it makes me happy. I’m happier still when someone takes a book home with them. Tales of adventure or romance or mystery bring undeniable and unending joy. Biographies, history, geography expand our knowledge of what surrounds us. Even if I don’t necessarily agree with all the sentiments expressed, I find value in every word written,
every word read. That’s the reason I have a bookshop.”

  As though she’d not just upended his world with her impassioned diatribe, she settled back and took a long, slow sip of her beer. When she was done, she licked her lips before lifting her gaze back to his, and he couldn’t help but believe he’d never been so enthralled by a person in his entire life, nor would he ever again be so. Her love of books was genuine, she was genuine.

  “Did you attend the ragged schools?” Knowing the moniker had come about because so many of the children who attended wore rags, he hated the thought of her in worn and tattered frocks, possibly without shoes. Although he was aware people grew up in poverty, he’d never before carried on a conversation with one who had. He routinely made donations to one charity or another but didn’t have an active role in doing good works. He was suddenly feeling quite ashamed that his lack of action might have resulted in a harsher life for her or others.

  “Oh no. By the time I was old enough to be schooled, my siblings were all working, and they again pooled their coins, this time to ensure I went to a private school and later to a finishing school. In both cases, the students’ parents were merchants, bankers, tradesmen, or some other occupation that saw them with a decent income, but still I wasn’t fully embraced. Unfortunately, the circumstances of my birth carry a stigma.” She didn’t elaborate regarding the circumstances, but then she didn’t need to. It was common knowledge that the Trewloves wore their bastardy like a badge of honor. “I found my years at school quite lonely, not that I ever told my siblings that. I don’t know why I confessed it to you or rambled on about it. I do hope you’ll forgive my dip into self-pity.”

  “It was hardly self-pity, Miss Trewlove.” He didn’t want to envision her sitting alone during meals, standing at the edge of a garden, not invited into a game of tag. Although perhaps whatever she’d endured had motivated her to invite him to join her tonight. He was beginning to feel grateful she had. She was without guile and he found it refreshing.

  Embarrassed to have shared such intimate and personal memories and thoughts with a stranger, Fancy nodded toward the book he’d placed on the table. “I’d promised you could read if you took the chair.”

  “So you did.”

  Striving to make sense of the words in her book was proving to be an exercise in futility. Generally, she had no trouble at all blocking out any distractions when she became lost in a book, but her attention wasn’t usually snagged by a gentleman whose stories she wished to learn—for surely, he had stories to tell. He looked to be on the younger side of thirty. Where had he come from before landing here? How did he earn wages?

  With her return, Becky set a bowl of shepherd’s pie, a piece of linen, and a spoon in front of each of them before rushing off to see to other customers. Mr. Sommersby set his book aside and, in unison, they draped their linen napkins across their laps. He gathered up some pie, and she fought against watching his mouth close over the spoon, but it was a battle she lost, imagining those lips closing over hers. Whatever was wrong with her to allow such naughty thoughts to travel through her mind? Averting her gaze, she concentrated on her own meal.

  “Difficult to read whilst eating,” he said quietly.

  She usually managed it quite well, especially in her youth, much to her mum’s dismay since it wasn’t the way that proper ladies were to occupy their time at the table. With conversation, they were to involve themselves in other people’s lives, listen attentively, gleaning bits of information in order to gain an understanding of the person, build an image of his or her character. With Mr. Sommersby she was failing miserably, which didn’t bode well for her entrée into Society and judging the man who might ask for her hand.

  “I’m a bit surprised,” he continued, “Mick Trewlove’s sister would take her meal here and not dine with him in his lodgings at the hotel.”

  Her brother had an office where he conducted business and a suite of private rooms on the top floor. Mr. Sommersby would have become aware of those facts when he let his residence, since he’d have had to visit the office to sign his lease agreement. “I wasn’t in the mood to be put through my paces,” she answered honestly.

  He arched a dark brow in question.

  “Wednesday next, I’ll be formally introduced into Society at a ball that my sister, Gillie—the Duchess of Thornley—is hosting in my honor.”

  All her family members were a bit nervous, not quite sure whether people would attend out of curiosity about the commoner who had caught the attention of one of the most powerful dukes in Britain or if no one would show at all, signaling the ton’s displeasure that the Duke of Thornley had married beneath him.

  Noting the speculation in his gaze, she continued, “As for how I have a sister who is a duchess—”

  “I doubt a soul in London exists who hasn’t heard tales regarding the Trewloves and their various marriages among the nobility.”

  Mick had married Lady Aslyn, daughter to the deceased Earl of Eames and ward of the Duke of Hedley—Mick’s father, as it turned out, not that the man had ever publicly acknowledged Mick as his son, although they had developed a close relationship of late and were often seen together. Finn had taken to wife Lady Lavinia while Aiden had wed Selena, a widowed duchess. Then, of course, there was Gillie with her duke. Her siblings’ marriages should have given them all the social acceptance they craved, but it seemed the aristocracy was reticent when it came to welcoming newcomers into their midst.

  “I suppose there is some truth in that. They are all the talk from what I understand. They’ve set rather high standards and expectations for me, even before they began collecting aristocratic spouses. So, when I have dinner with Mick, he and his wife, bless them, are insistent we follow proper etiquette while dining—selecting the correct utensil from among the ridiculous number set out on the table—and discuss only topics appropriate for dining with the nobs. When I marry a lord, my life will become naught but nights of formal dining and quiet discussions about boring subjects.” She looked around her. “I doubt there will be robust laughter or claps on the back or such astonishing joy at reaching the end of a hard day and having a bit of time to relax with friends. So I came here tonight to avoid having to face any faults with my behavior and to enjoy the revelry surrounding me.”

  “Then why seek to a marry a lord?” His tone was flat, tinged with a bit of disapproval, as though he had the right to be offended by her plans.

  She wasn’t keen to have him sitting in judgment of her. “My family expects it. I grew up expecting it. To be honest, there are few ways for a woman to better herself except through marriage. Business ownership or hard work might gain her more success than a man but it doesn’t garner the same amount of respect. It’s rather irritating really, but that is the way of the world. You can’t disagree with my assessment, surely.”

  “I don’t suppose I gave it a great deal of thought, one way or another. It depends on the lengths you’ll go to in order to acquire what you want.”

  “All the lengths that are necessary. Would you not do the same?”

  “I’m not certain I would.”

  “Then I assume you are fortunate, and life has offered you few challenges.”

  “You would assume incorrectly.” As though embarrassed by his words, he dropped his gaze to his bowl and began stabbing the fluffy potatoes on top into the meat filling.

  God. How was it that they’d become so short with each other? A change in subject was needed. “If I may be so bold, you don’t sound as though you come from the streets. I’d wager you’ve had some education.”

  “My father insisted.”

  “You strike me as being a solicitor. Or a banker, perhaps.” Someone with a position of authority and influence. It was simply the way he held himself, the confidence that rolled off him in waves.

  “Nothing quite so interesting, I assure you.”

  His tone indicated that line of conversation was at an end, but she wasn’t yet ready to let it go. “Now you’ve
piqued my curiosity, Mr. Sommersby. How do you earn your way?”

  He studied her for a long moment, as though torn between telling her to go to the devil or answering with honesty. Finally, he said, “I am a gentleman with means.”

  Which told her nothing at all. Had an inheritance fallen into his hands? Had he achieved success at business, investment, with the horses, or gambling? “How do you spend your day?”

  “Doing whatever I please.”

  “Yet you claimed not to be fortunate.”

  “Everything comes with a price, Miss Trewlove.”

  What price had he paid? Not that it was any of her business, not that she was rude enough to inquire. She’d already skirted the edge of good manners. Yet, she couldn’t deny being curious about him. It was odd how he drew her interest when no other man had—not in this way at least.

  She’d found numerous men attractive certainly but had never had her heart fluttering because of the beauty of one of them. She’d never wanted to delve into every aspect of one of their lives, didn’t know why she wanted to know all the details of his. Perhaps it was simply that she’d begun preparing herself for analyzing the men she would meet next week as potential husbands, and her mind had decided to practice her skills in order to hone them. Or perhaps he piqued her interest simply because he seemed so determined not to be known.

  While they’d been conversing, they’d managed to finish off their meal. Becky hurried over. “Will there be anythin’ else, loves?”

  “Nothing for me,” Fancy said.

  “Nor for me,” he responded.

  “Is ’e with ye, Miss Trewlove?”

  She glanced over to see his brow deeply furrowed, and confusion mirrored in his eyes. It was time to repay his earlier generosity in offering her the table. “Yes.”

  Becky smiled brightly. “Meal is on the house, then.”

  “No,” he said quickly, brusquely. “I’ll pay for my meal.”

  “But yer with Miss Trewlove ’n’ Trewloves don’t pay in a Trewlove establishment.”