Chapter 11
The following afternoon, inside the sweet shop unimaginatively named “Sweet Shop,” Matthew studied the selections within the glass case. In the mood for some sugar, but without even a hint of lemon, he’d already perused the jars on the shelves and found nothing of interest. When the bell above the door jangled, he didn’t bother to look, his focus narrowing to some red hard candies.
“Good afternoon, Miss Trewlove,” the silver-haired lady behind the counter said with enthusiasm.
He couldn’t stop himself from turning then. Did the woman always wear a smile? Was she always glad to see people?
“Hello, Mrs. Flowers.” Her eyes warmed. “Mr. Sommersby.”
“Miss Trewlove.” Her yellow frock reminded him of the sun cascading over a field of clover. With so little effort, she seemed able to brighten the dullest day.
Moving up to the counter, she set a piece of paper on top of it. “These are the sweets I’d like to have on hand for Friday’s reading time.”
Mrs. Flowers—he now knew the woman’s name thanks to Miss Trewlove and regretted that he’d been remiss in introducing himself. It was such a small thing to call someone by name, but he’d seen an immediate change in the clerk as though she’d been greeted by royalty—took the paper and read it over. “Ooh, strawberry bonbons. They’ll delight the little tykes.”
“I thought they might.”
“They’ll make a mess with them, though.”
“I’ll have damp linens on hand for cleaning sticky fingers.”
“But if they get your books dirty—”
“I’d rather they look at them with dirty fingers than not look at them at all.”
He couldn’t imagine his own mother having that attitude. As a lad, he’d been bathed and placed in fresh clothes anytime he came in from outside or just before he was presented to her in the afternoon, so she could ask him how he’d occupied his time. He suspected Miss Trewlove would give her children more than half an hour a day, that she wouldn’t have to ask how they’d spent their day because she would be involved in their play, their studies, their lives. She would embrace them, never causing them to doubt they were loved.
“Then I’ll have this order filled and delivered to you before noon on Friday. Is there anything else I can get for you?”
“Think I’ll just have a look.” She eased over until she was standing near enough that he could smell the fragrance of oranges. “Have you a sweet tooth, Mr. Sommersby?”
“On occasion. I’m not really certain what I’m in the mood for, however.”
“I favor toffee myself.”
“Hmm. I haven’t had that since I was lad. I’ll take a dozen toffees, Mrs. Flowers.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I’ll have the same,” Miss Trewlove said.
“Put them on my tab, Mrs. Flowers.”
“Please don’t. You’re going to start rumors flying about.”
Rumors that perhaps he had an interest in her. Based on the way Mrs. Flowers was watching them, he doubted a penny purchase was going to make any difference. She was going to tattle one way or the other. As he’d long been fodder for gossip, he wasn’t bothered by the notion of a bit more, especially when it would be harmless nattering. “It’s a small way to thank you for welcoming me into the area. Besides, when you have your coming out, you’re going to discover nothing prevents the spread of sensationalized tales. You might as well embrace it.”
After he paid for the purchases, he handed her the sack and followed her out onto the pavement. She immediately popped a toffee into her mouth. He watched the twisting of her lips as she stroked her tongue over the hard candy. He didn’t know if anything had ever been more sensual than the movements he couldn’t see, could only imagine as he envisioned her sucking, stroking, working her tongue over another hard surface. Christ, he needed to regain control of his errant thoughts.
She stood there as though reluctant to leave him as much as he was to bid her farewell. “Have you plans for your last evening before your Season officially begins?”
A bit of wickedness sparked in her eyes. “I hear the Fire King will be performing in Whitechapel. I intend to go see him. I’m rather certain there will be room in the hansom if you’ve a mind to spend your night enjoying street entertainments.”
“Did you grow up in Whitechapel?” he asked her several hours later as they strolled along the crowded street where people jostled each other to get a view of the tumblers or the jugglers or the men walking about on stilts.
“No, but near here.”
Matthew had been to fetes, fairs, carnivals, even a circus. What he was observing now reminded him of a carnival, but it was in the city, in the streets, rather than in the country, on a lawn with lots of space around it. He suspected a good many of these people hadn’t the means to take the railway out into the country, and so the performers had brought their talents here and created a festival with a joyous atmosphere.
But in spite of all the frivolity and the attention-seekers, his gaze kept drifting over to Miss Trewlove, her enthusiasm and excitement intoxicating. She appreciated her surroundings in a way few did. She understood the need for the poor to escape into fantasy, the need for the performers to be valued. She took in everything with the same intensity that he imagined she took in the pages of a novel, wondrously transported into another realm. She didn’t judge, found no fault. She merely immersed herself in the ambiance.
He couldn’t imagine any woman of his acquaintance walking boldly among those who appeared they’d not bathed in a while or whose clothing was frayed and tattered while smiling at them, greeting them as though they were long-lost friends.
“Do you know these people?” he finally asked.
“I’ve never seen them before, but they aren’t so different from all the people I do know. Struggling to make ends meet, doing the best they can with what they have, hoping for something better for their children, enjoying a night without cares.” Earlier, she’d entwined her arm around his to ensure they weren’t separated, and now she gave it a squeeze. “Don’t you love how much fun everyone is having?”
He loved how much fun she seemed to be having, completely free of cares, giving no thought to what she might be facing tomorrow night. As the wife of a lord, she would host affairs, and he couldn’t imagine that anything under her command would be staid or dull. She would find a way to make everything interesting and exciting.
“Oh, look, there he is! Come on!” She grabbed his hand, and while they both wore gloves, it seemed far more intimate a joining than her arm intertwined with his.
He found himself closing his much larger hand around her smaller one. So tiny. He was beginning to understand why her family was taking such extreme measures to see her well situated—whether within the nobility or not. They felt a need to protect her, to ensure no harm ever came to her. Yet, he wasn’t certain she was deserving of their worry. Here she was wending her way between people, causing others to step aside as though the Queen were barreling through them. No one took offense, no one reacted in anger. She had the ability to be soothing even as she made people feel guilty for being a barrier to her destination.
With a great deal of poise and confidence, she worked her way to the front, tugging him along behind her. It was packed here, people scrunched up together, stretching their necks, striving to get a better view of what was happening within the circle they’d created. He slid in behind her, putting his arms around her, much as he had when they’d flown the kite, but there was no spindle to hold so he simply folded his hands over her stomach. He had little doubt that if she objected, she’d have elbowed him in the gut or stomped on his foot. Instead, she merely settled against him as though she belonged there.
And damn if he didn’t feel that she did.
Turning her head slightly, she fairly yelled in order to be heard above the cacophony. “Isn’t he marvelous?”
Finally, he turned his attention to the reason they’d undertak
en this adventure. The gentleman strutting around the empty space that had been made available to him was well over six feet, possibly falling just shy of six and half. He was broad, muscle upon muscle visible because he wore naught but breeches and boots. His dark skin glistened in the light of the flaming torch he held.
“Behold!” he called out in a booming voice. “The wonder that was once dragons!”
He took a sip from the pewter tankard he held, strode around the edge of the makeshift circle, before taking up position in its center. He held up the torch, puckered his mouth slightly as though to whistle, spewed liquid, and when he drew the torch away, a stream of fire arced upward into the darkness above. When the fire vanished, he spread his arms wide and smiled broadly. “Are you entertained?”
The crowd was deafening with their cheers, and once again, he strode around the perimeter, before moving to the center and giving those watching another display of his control over fire. Once. Twice. Three times.
Matthew could fairly feel Miss Trewlove shimmering with excitement in his arms, and he rather wished he’d been the one responsible for her trembling, her exhilaration. Yet he couldn’t deny the Fire King deserved the adulation showered on him, as his minions gathered up the coins tossed at his feet.
He handed his torch and tankard off to someone and gave a sweeping bow before raising his arms high. “Thank you, my friends. Please be gracious enough to move on and allow others in before the next performance in fifteen minutes.”
Matthew lowered his mouth to the delicate shell of her ear, so he wouldn’t have to shout. “I suppose we should be moving on.”
“Not yet.”
Glancing in the direction she was looking, he realized the Fire King was striding purposely in a direct path toward her. As though anticipating his arrival, she moved out of Matthew’s arms, which caused him to have an instant dislike for the man.
“Hello, Fancy.” Leaning down, he bussed a quick kiss over her cheek—which she’d turned up to him—and it took everything within Matthew not to punch the bloke’s perfect nose.
“The last time I saw you, you were swallowing fire.”
“Got bored with that. Decided breathing it was more exciting.”
“How do you do it?”
“Tricks of the trade, my sweet.”
My sweet? A bloodied nose was becoming more a probability.
Fancy—damn it, if this man could address her as such, Matthew could certainly think of her with less formality—turned slightly. “Fire King, meet Mr. Sommersby.”
“Mister?” The Fire King—what a ridiculous name—repeated. “Thought you were destined for a duke, my girl.”
My girl? A bloodied nose and a blackened eye, perhaps, were in order. And did every person in Christendom know she was on the hunt for a lord?
“We’re not married,” she said. “We’re simply friends enjoying a night of entertainment.”
“Your brothers don’t know about him, I suspect.”
“No, and you’re not going to tell them.”
“When would I have the opportunity? I haven’t seen them in ages.” He gave Matthew a long once-over. “Take care of her, mate.”
Then he was striding off with his torch and tankard bearer striving to catch up.
“You didn’t mention you knew him.” Matthew modulated his tone, striving not to sound jealous.
“I met him shortly after he began performing. The Fire King. What young girl wouldn’t be captivated? He has quite a following.”
“I imagine he does.”
She angled her head slightly. “You sound jealous.”
“Don’t be absurd.” He was being absurd enough for both of them.
She slipped her arm around his. “Shall we see what other entertainments await us?”
Growing up, Fancy had always enjoyed the nights when the streets transformed into a festival. Some of these people made their living performing while others brought out their talents only on those occasions when they could share the attention. She suspected it wasn’t an easy life, but then very little in the rookeries was.
But on nights like this it was so lively, so energetic. And she certainly enjoyed sharing it with Mr. Sommersby. He seemed at once enthralled and wary, as though expecting to be attacked at any moment. Although she knew all she had to do was say, “I’m Fancy Trewlove,” and any bad characters would skitter away. Such was her brothers’ reputation and power in this area of London. While Mick, Aiden, and Finn were no longer a part of the rookeries, like Beast now, they had at one time ruled them. Anyone with any sense at all avoided getting on the wrong side of a Trewlove. It always ended badly, and not for the Trewloves.
She very much liked having her arm wrapped around Mr. Sommersby’s. She liked even more the way he would shift his body slightly to protect her if it appeared that anyone with too much drink in him might stagger into her. His movements were subtle, but she noted them all the same. Although it seemed she noted the smallest of things about him. His alertness and the way his head swiveled as though he were constantly watching for any sign of danger. His hands fisting as she’d spoken with the Fire King as though he were jealous. The subtle way he removed coins from his pocket and handed one at a time off to the barefoot children they passed. So many coins, leading her to believe it was a habit he engaged in when he wandered through the poorer sections of London. He’d known what to expect here, and he’d come prepared.
It was chaotic in this area tonight. Food carts. Drink carts. Shell games. A sword swallower. A few small tents rested along the walls. Inside were all manner of things to be seen for a penny. A female contortionist advertised as being a human puzzle box. “It’s impossible to tell where she starts and where she ends!” the barker shouted.
But Fancy was drawn to the rotund man with the balding pate shouting about debauchery and wickedness. “Come one, come all to decadence in all its glory!” Then he caught her eye and began waving her over with exaggerated sweeps of his arm. “Come, lady. Come and behold what your eyes have never seen!”
“What do you suppose that’s about?” Fancy asked Mr. Sommersby.
“If it’s something you’ve never seen then it’s probably something you shouldn’t see.”
His words only served to ignite her curiosity more. “I’m going to have a look.”
“Miss Trewlove, I’m not certain that’s wise.”
“It’s not as though I’m swallowing fire. You can come with me if you like.”
Boldly, she approached the gent and handed him a penny. With a flourish he held back the tent flap, and she was a bit relieved when Mr. Sommersby followed her inside the confining space. A lit lantern rested beside a stereoscope on a small table. She glanced around. “Do you believe that’s it?”
“Appears so. I’ll have a look—”
“No, I’m going first.” Taking a deep breath, she picked up the stereoscope and peered through the two glass circles at the image that seemed almost real enough to touch. She was very much aware of Mr. Sommersby’s chest brushing up against her shoulder blade, and that touch was no doubt responsible for the heat cascading through her—not the disappointing photograph at which she was looking.
“Well?” His voice was a rasp near her ear, his warm breath skimming along her cheek.
“It’s a woman . . . lounging on a settee . . . in her unmentionables.” Except they were barely on. The swell of one breast was clearly visible, her nipple hidden, although it appeared the cloth was in danger of slipping away completely.
“My turn.”
“Absolutely not.” She jerked the contraption away from her eyes and hugged it to her midsection. “You don’t need to view a woman in her disarray.”
He’d not moved, was still incredibly close. “I’ve seen women in their unmentionables, Miss Trewlove. In fact, I have taken great pleasure in removing said unmentionables.”
His voice had gone deeper, lower, to a depth where secrets were best shared, and she quite suddenly found it difficult to bre
athe, imagining his finger gliding along lace and slipping silk down, down, down until nothing was covered. She was trembling with desire as the images bombarded her. “It’s not fair.”
“Pardon?”
She glanced back at him, not having to look far, realizing his mouth was now incredibly close to hers. The heat, the desire, the yearning increased. It was wrong, so wrong, not at all proper. “Where’s the photograph of a man in his smalls?”
His eyes grew large. “You want to see a man in his smalls?”
“Why not? The barker claimed I’d see what I’d never beheld. I’ve seen myself in my unmentionables, standing before the cheval glass.” When his eyes darkened, and his gaze intensified as though he was now having the improper thoughts that his earlier words had elicited within her, she suddenly had a need to torture him as much as he had her. “In fact, I have seen myself in nothing at all.”
He went still, so very still, as though he might shatter if he moved. His eyes smoldered to such a degree, she thought she might very well ignite. She wasn’t particularly learned when it came to men but had no doubt that she was witnessing the birth of desire. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Miss Trewlove.”
“Am I?”
Slowly, he lowered his head, not to her mouth as she’d expected, but to her neck, just below her ear where the skin was more sensitive than she’d ever realized. He kissed, nipped, stroked his tongue over the delicate flesh, and the incredible sensations traveled clear down to her toes. When he took her lobe between his teeth, she nearly cried out from the pleasure of it. Her knees weakened. The stereoscope slipped from her hands and fell to the ground. She didn’t care, didn’t care about anything other than the journey of his mouth along the underside of her jaw. All the din and commotion outside fell away. All she heard was his breathing and low moans.
When he pulled away, she nearly begged him to come back. “You’re the one playing a dangerous game.” She did wish she hadn’t sounded breathless, had given the impression of being more in control.
The Earl Takes a Fancy Page 12
