Книга - A Lord For The Wallflower Widow

A Lord For The Wallflower Widow
Ann Lethbridge


Untouched and alone…Can the Lord awaken her senses?Part of The Widows of Westram: When widow Lady Carrie meets charming gadabout Lord Avery Gilmore, she is shocked by her intense reaction to him. She’s never before longed for wifely pleasures, and it takes all of her courage to propose that he show her them! He might be taken aback by her request, but as Carrie learns firsthand, this lord will take the challenge very seriously…







Untouched and alone…could he awaken her senses?

Part of The Widows of Westram

When widow Lady Carrie meets charming gadabout Lord Avery Gilmore, she is shocked by her intense reaction to him.

She’s never before longed for wifely pleasures, and it takes all of her courage to propose that he show her them! He might be taken aback by her request, but as Carrie learns firsthand, this lord will take the challenge very seriously...

The Widows of Westram miniseries

Book 1—A Lord for the Wallflower Widow

Look out for the next story, coming soon!



“Ann Lethbridge’s talent for penning deliciously naughty and smart love stories shines... A zippy, delightful read.”

—RT Book Reviews on Rescued by the Earl’s Vows

“A charming, highly romantic story filled with engaging characters.”

—RT Book Reviews on An Innocent Maid for the Duke


In her youth, award-winning author ANN LETHBRIDGE reimagined the Regency romances she read—and now she loves writing her own. Now living in Canada, Ann visits Britain every year, where family members understand—or so they say—her need to poke around every antiquity within a hundred miles. Learn more about Ann or contact her at annlethbridge.com (http://www.annlethbridge.com). She loves hearing from readers.


Also by Ann Lethbridge (#u199ae4cf-f451-57f2-92dd-d710d7f6183e)

Secrets of the Marriage Bed

An Innocent Maid for the Duke

Rescued by the Earl’s Vows

Rakes in Disgrace miniseries

The Gamekeeper’s Lady

More Than a Mistress

Deliciously Debauched by the Rake

More Than a Lover

The Widows of Westram miniseries

A Lord for the Wallflower Widow

And look out for the next book coming soon

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


A Lord for the Wallflower Widow

Ann Lethbridge






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


ISBN: 978-1-474-07420-9

A LORD FOR THE WALLFLOWER WIDOW

© 2018 Michèle Ann Young

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is dedicated to Lilly,

a very special young lady who recently came into

our lives. Lilly, you may never read Grannie’s stories,

but provided you grow up a strong, sensible woman

like your mother you will make me very proud.


Contents

Cover (#u69e0096e-4523-5489-9b30-daa63082085a)

Back Cover Text (#ue41bc755-7b66-58f9-aa4a-ca070daf455d)

About the Author (#u98830d90-4da0-5e44-8802-7bdfd267145f)

Booklist (#ucd08977f-cf00-5c08-a522-9fac165a7341)

Title Page (#u9a6b3469-996a-553f-82b2-dc4ff0cebc90)

Copyright (#u9b2aa55e-3927-5897-ab61-f171168c0a6e)

Dedication (#u147b58d3-e9a7-5206-a672-ebcbb0cade89)

Prologue (#ua50bba6a-1268-56f7-a871-9a83cb0541e2)

Chapter One (#u9a00aa53-25de-5373-99b1-8aaf321869ce)

Chapter Two (#u4257fb08-3c4a-5f8d-ac3d-248676c8abd7)

Chapter Three (#u831fffef-56ac-55a0-8719-1126b78712bc)

Chapter Four (#u36553c42-d886-5716-8942-f133c5da9bc5)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue (#u199ae4cf-f451-57f2-92dd-d710d7f6183e)

April 1812

Redford Greystoke, Earl of Westram, forced himself not to look away from the three black-clad, heavily veiled ladies arraigned before his desk. It broke his heart to see them. Beneath those veils hid three beautiful young women. Two were his sisters, the other his sister-in-law. All of them widowed on the same day, at the same hour. Their husbands had been absolute idiots. Their loss left him numb.

From being an earl with a brother as heir and a spare hopefully in the offing, he’d become the last male member of his family with three destitute women to support. The very reason for their presence here and the reason for the animosity filling the air.

‘You will remain under my roof,’ Red repeated firmly. ‘There is no more to be said on the matter.’

‘Redford.’ Lady Marguerite, his sister older than him by two years, had taken the role of spokesperson. She spoke quietly enough, but nevertheless with underlying heat. ‘You cannot tell us where we shall reside.’

The trouble with widows was that they thought of themselves as independent women.

‘I can, if I am to foot the bill.’ Damn. Now he sounded like a truculent schoolboy. ‘Let us be clear, ladies. I do not have the funds to set you up in your own establishments, whether I might wish to do so or not. You will reside with me in Gloucestershire until your period of mourning is over. At which time, I will be more than happy to open the London town house from where we will set out to mingle with our fellow peers.’

Lady Petra, his other sister, glared at him. Despite the veil hiding her face, he knew exactly the look directed his way when she was crossed. Petra was a master of glares. ‘If you think I could ever marry anyone else...’ A handkerchief in a black gloved hand disappeared beneath her veil. She sniffled.

He mentally cursed. ‘No one is forcing you to do anything. If next year you do not wish to attend the Season, or go to balls, you may stay at home.’ But knowing women as he did, he had no doubt they’d be bored within a few months of isolation in the country and begging to attend a ball or Almack’s.

His sister-in-law, Carrie, the woman he hoped like the very devil was carrying his brother’s heir, put an arm around Petra’s drooping shoulder. ‘It is all right, lass,’ she said softly.

He liked Carrie Greystoke. A great deal. She was a practical no-nonsense woman, though she must have had a momentary loss of reason when she’d agreed to wed his harum-scarum brother. Fortunately, since her husband’s death, she had been a rock of good sense in the eddying currents of grief and shock.

Sometimes he thought she was almost too calm. The kind of calm that he suspected hid quiet desperation. He forced the thought aside. All three women were baulking at his proposal and he needed to marshal all his faculties if he was to prevail.

‘Pluck up your courage, Petra,’ Marguerite said. ‘No need for tears because a bunch of idiots went off and got themselves killed.’

Marguerite had also wept on his shoulder when the news had been delivered. The fact that she now had her emotions under control was a very good thing. He hoped.

Petra, who had lost not only her husband and lover but her very best friend in the world, buried her head on Carrie’s shoulder and sobbed.

Red wanted to bury his head in his hands and weep, too. For a few short weeks, he’d thought he was finally able to see his way clear of the debt left him by his father. Until the earth crumbled from beneath his feet, leaving this gaping abyss. He still didn’t know what had sent these women’s husbands off to join Wellington’s army. Some sort of wager was the only explanation he’d been able to glean from their friends. Whatever it was, it had been the most nonsensical ridiculous prank—He cut the thought off. There was nothing he could do about the past. The future was his concern now.

The thing that had shocked him the most was the extent of Jonathan’s debts. They had eaten up every penny and more of the wealth brought into the family by his marriage to Carrie. Red still could not believe he had not known that his brother had dipped so deeply in the River Tick.

And what his father had been about, letting Red’s two sisters marry men without prospects, he could not imagine. Except that his father had been overindulgent where his daughters were concerned, giving them whatever their hearts desired. Which was why they were being so dashed difficult now.

‘I think it would be best if you would let us at least try to manage on our own,’ Carrie said, over his sobbing sister’s head. ‘We won’t be a burden on you, Westram. I promise you that.’

If Carrie supported his sisters’ mad scheme, then he was lost. Sensible and down to earth and as stubborn as they came, she would never give in. Perhaps it would be best if they learned first-hand that they were like babes in the woods when it came to the real world. Then they would listen to reason. His reason.

He threw his hands in the air. ‘As you wish. I will give you the period of your mourning to try this experiment. I can afford very little in the way of allowances.’ He shot Carrie a look of apology. ‘I am so sorry, but all the money you brought to the marriage has gone to pay Jonathan’s debts.’ Jonathan had also charmed her father into handing over what should have been her widow’s portion to invest in what his brother had called a sure thing on the ’Change. If her father had talked to Red beforehand, he would have disabused him of the notion. And maybe Jonathan would still be alive today. ‘I would replace what my brother misappropriated, if I had it. I do not. Perhaps in time...’ He tailed off, sick at heart. His sisters were no better off. He was appalled that their husbands had left their affairs in such disarray. He sighed. ‘I will give you the use of Westram Cottage in Kent provided you can keep yourselves on that property within your allowances.’ He glared at them. It was the only way he could maintain his dignity. ‘I will be checking.’

They’d be back knocking on his door within a month.

Marguerite rose. Carrie did likewise, helping his younger sister to her feet. As always, he was taken aback by the woman’s height compared to that of his sisters. His family tended to be on the short side.

‘Thank you, Red,’ Marguerite said, her voice warmer than it had been since this discussion had started. ‘You will not regret it.’

Oh, yes, he would. Of that he had no doubt.

The ladies filed out.

Red poured himself a brandy and swallowed it in one gulp.


Chapter One (#u199ae4cf-f451-57f2-92dd-d710d7f6183e)

April 1813

Carrie Greystoke carefully dusted each shelf, as she had done every morning since the little shop had opened three days before. She replaced what she considered the shop’s pièce de résistance, a sumptuous leghorn bonnet decorated with handmade flowers and cherry-coloured ribbons, in the window and took up her position behind the counter. Hope however, was beginning to fade.

In the three days since the doors of First Stare Millinery had opened not one customer had entered the little shop. If she didn’t sell something soon, they would likely have to admit defeat. The thought of going to the landlord to admit her error in thinking she and her sisters-in-law could sell the product of the hard work they had put into the bonnets these last few months was humiliating.

Mr Thrumby, a friend of her dead father’s, had taken a chance in renting her the shop. For her father’s sake. Perhaps if it had been located on Bond Street rather than the less fashionable Cork Street... But then it would have been far too expensive. As it was, they’d had to pool all of their meagre resources to pay the first month’s rent on this narrow little establishment. Shelves lined one wall, displaying bonnets on little stands. The glass-topped counter behind which she stood had been an extravagance, but was an absolute necessity to display the painted fans, lacy gloves and embroidered slippers also made by her sisters-in-law.

* * *

After an hour, she slumped on to the stool. Perhaps she should rearrange the window again? What on earth was she to tell Petra and Marguerite? They would be so disappointed when she returned home in two days’ time with nothing to show for their efforts.

A shadow fell over the window display.

Carrie straightened and pinned a smile on her lips.

The shadow passed on. Her heart sank.

‘I be back, missus.’

Jeb, their young ruddy-faced lad of all work at Westram Cottage, had brought her up to town the day before the shop opened. It was he who had built the shelves and carried in the counter she had purchased in a down-at-heel shop in the Seven Dials. He’d also helped her furnish the room she used as lodgings at the back of the shop, since it was too far for her to travel home to Kent each evening.

Marguerite had not been happy about this last arrangement, but had given in when Carrie agreed to come home to Kent with Jeb as her escort every Saturday night in order to attend church with them in the morning. They planned that she would return on Monday afternoons with new stock for the shop.

Not that they would be needing any new stock. They still had all the old stock left.

‘Did you deliver all of the flyers to the addresses I gave you, Jeb?’

‘Yes, mum.’

The flyers had been another costly idea they could ill afford, but she had to get the word out about their offerings somehow. An advertisement in the newspaper would have reached more people, but was horribly expensive.

Unfortunately, she had no way of knowing if the flyers had got into the right hands. Perhaps she should go and stand at the entrance to Hyde Park and hand them out herself to passers-by. Not just any passers-by, but ladies of quality with good fashion sense.

It might work.

She would go about five this afternoon. Fortunately, she was still largely unknown to society as she had not been introduced to very many people of the ton before her hasty marriage to Jonathan. In addition, their wedding had been a tiny family affair, because her father had been at death’s door. Why Jonathan had even singled her out... She squashed the thought and the accompanying pang.

Face it, Carrie. He’d chosen her because he’d been looking for a way out of his money troubles. Somehow Father must have learned of this circumstance and, worried about her future once he passed away, had made Jonathan an offer he couldn’t refuse. Carrie had known none of this when she’d arrived in London before the Season began. Jonathan had been pointed out to her by her aunt when she went on her first carriage ride in London. He’d bowed to her and she’d agreed with her aunt that he really was a most handsome gentleman. The next day he’d arrived at her door on a morning call and a few days later had proposed.

Everyone had said it was love at first sight. She’d been a complete fool to believe such nonsense.

In hindsight, it was as plain as the nose on her very plain face—he’d only married her to get himself out of debt. If she had known, she would never have agreed. Not even to please her dying father, who had been thrilled to see his daughter become one of the nobs. She certainly hadn’t expected her bridegroom to take to his heels the morning after the ceremony. No doubt he couldn’t stand the thought of living with his plain, middle-class, gruff wife. That had hurt dreadfully. Worse yet, he’d not even done her the courtesy of coming to her bed on their wedding night.

That particular rejection had hurt to the core of her soul. And still did, when she listened to her sisters-in-law giggle about the joys of the marriage bed during the long winter evenings at Westram Cottage when they’d been working on fabricating the hats and bonnets they now hoped to sell. Not that she’d ever told them the truth about her wedding night.

‘Put what is left on the counter, Jeb, please. It is time for you to return to the cottage. I am sure the other ladies have all manner of things for you to do.’

Jeb scratched at his unshaven chin. The poor fellow had been required to bed down with the horse in a stables some distance from the shop, since there was no place for him to rest his head here.

‘Are you sure, mum? I don’t like leaving you here alone. A bed of iniquity Lunnon is. Me ma said so.’

‘I will be perfectly fine. The locks you have added to the doors and the bars on the windows will keep me quite safe. And Mr Thrumby’s man is more than a match for any intruder.’ Mr Thrumby’s man guarded the back entrance at night.

Jeb’s expression remained doubtful, but she kept hers firm and unyielding.

‘As you wish, Mrs Greystoke.’ His formal use of her married name was his way of administering an admonition. But it was worse than that. It was a lie. She never really had been Mrs Greystoke. Not properly. Little did anyone know the use of her married name made her resentment of her husband burn like acid.

She forced her mind back to more mundane topics. ‘I will see you back here on Saturday afternoon.’

He touched his forelock and left.

Now she really was on her own.

She slid open the top drawer of the counter, removed three of the lacy embroidered handkerchiefs and put them in the front window. Handkerchiefs were not as expensive as bonnets. A cheaper purchase might lure someone in. She shifted the bonnet to present a more intriguing angle and returned to her stool.

One sale. Then she would be sure she was on the right path.

* * *

Lord Avery Gilmore, younger son of the Duke of Belmane, stepped out into the street and blinked in the light of mid-morning. The porter of the gaming hell where he’d spent the last many hours slammed the door behind him. Avery grinned. His night had been reasonably successful. His pockets were plump enough to ensure not only that there would be food on his sister’s table for a few more days, there would plenty left over for coal for his fireplace and a bottle of really fine brandy.

He never came home empty handed. After his father had thrown him out of the family for refusing to marry the woman Papa had chosen, he’d had years of living by his wits on several continents to hone his skills at the gambling tables. Last night and into this morning had been more successful than usual. Perhaps Lady Luck had turned her smile his way.

Which was a good thing. All these years of living abroad, he’d become adept at supporting himself, but having learned of his sister’s struggles from his older brother, he now felt financially responsible her, too. At least until her husband could earn enough to support his family as a barrister, which would hopefully be soon, since he had recently been called to the bar and accepted for a pupillage in chambers.

Finally, after last night, Avery could truthfully tell Laura not to worry about money, at least for a while.

Blithely, he strode for his lodgings, but halted at the sight of a very pretty bonnet in a window polished to a mirror-like shine. A cleanliness one didn’t often find in the backstreets leading off Bond Street. He crossed the street to take a closer look, avoiding the dollops of horse manure and the vagabond lounging in a doorway. Fellows like that would cut your purse in the blink of an eye if you weren’t careful.

Avery knew all about cutpurses and their ilk. The owner of the Ragged Staff, the establishment he’d just left, had accused him of being a fraudster, because he had so easily seen through the house’s ploy to trick him out of his winnings. For a moment, it had looked as if he might have to fight his way out of the hell, but for the interference of some of the other customers, who were only too happy to see someone win for a change.

Pigeons for the plucking they might be, green as grass, too, but they were also gentlemen.

Avery wavered a little on his feet as he stared at the bonnet displayed in the window. He shook his head to clear it. Too much cheap brandy, though he was nowhere close to foxed. His unsteadiness was more from lack of sleep, though he had no doubt he would have the devil of a headache later. He squinted at the hat. The violets and primroses decorating the crown were not real, as he’d thought at first, but silk. He didn’t want the hat, but he did want a posy to offer to Mrs Luttrell later. The poor little pet pined for such marks of attention. Would silk flowers raise her spirits?

The confection blurred. Dash it. He was a little more in the bag than he had thought. He really needed to go home to bed. But he also needed a gift...

Silk flowers lasted longer.

No doubt they would also cost a great deal more. Still, Mimi Luttrell would be more compliant with such a mark of attention. And for once he had blunt in his pocket.

He entered the narrow shop.

A tall, remarkably tall, young woman rose to her feet behind the counter. Her face was not pretty exactly, but handsome, with fine grey eyes and a mouth that begged to be kissed even as she frowned. Why was she frowning?

Gad, she really was tall. Not quite his height, but close to it.

‘Good day, sir,’ she said, her voice pleasantly deep. ‘How may I be of service?’

He stared at her in surprise. Outwardly, she looked like a shop girl in her dun-coloured gown and prim cap, but she sounded like a lady, for all that there was a trace of the north in her accent.

Plush full lips pursed in disapproval. ‘Is something wrong?’

He dragged his gaze from her mouth to her face. Brought his mind back to the task at hand. He gave her his most charming smile. ‘Nothing wrong at all. I simply had not expected to find such a lovely lady brightening my morning.’

The frown reappeared. ‘It is after midday, sir, and this is a ladies’ millinery shop. Perhaps you mistake where you are?’

He swayed on his feet, surprised by her lack of response to his smile. He had smiled, he was sure of it. ‘I beg your pardon, but I certainly do know where I am. Your shop has a remarkable array of very fine bonnets.’ That compliment ought to cheer her up. ‘And you, I notice, have remarkably beautiful eyes.’

Astonishment filled her face. ‘Sir—’

Clearly, he was not up to snuff this morning, or else the lady was not of a flirtatious bent. ‘How much for the violets, madam?’

The floor shifted uneasily beneath his feet and he propped a hip against the counter.

Warily she backed up, her expression puzzled. ‘Violets?’

‘Yes, violets. In the window.’

‘There are no—Oh, you mean the ones on the bonnet. They are not for sale.’

Everything was for sale for the right price. ‘I’ll give you sixpence.’

Her eyes widened. A hint of desperation lurked in their depths. Grey depths. Grey depths, encircled by a smoky line around the edge.

He waited for her acceptance.

She shook her head. ‘I am afraid it would ruin the look of the bonnet.’

He blinked. Had she really turned him down? Well, there was a surprise.

‘You can soon make a new trimming.’ He waved at the other bonnets. ‘Put one of those in the window in the meantime.’ He peered at one festooned with rosebuds. ‘This is just as pretty as the one in the window.’ A wave of dizziness hit him and he rested one hand on the counter for support, hoping she wouldn’t notice.

A hand sporting a wedding ring flattened on the counter as if to steady it against his weight. He felt a surge of disappointment at the sight of that ring. Really? No. He was just disappointed that she wouldn’t sell him the posy.

‘All right. I’ll give you a shilling.’

Now who was desperate? And why? He could just as easily buy a posy from a flower girl. There was one on every corner. Except that something told him that this silk posy would be received with a great deal more pleasure. And he never ignored his well-honed instincts of a veteran gambler. Yes, he relied on his skill and never played foolish games of chance, but there was also that certain something that told him when to bet high and when to hold back. And right now, it had a feeling about those flowers.

Another frown shot his way. ‘I will not take advantage of a man obviously in his cups. There are plenty of fresh violets for sale on the street at this time of year.’ She made a shooing gesture with her arms.

Why the devil was she being so intractable? ‘Fresh?’ he scoffed. ‘I’ll be lucky if they last until this afternoon.’ He leaned forward, giving her his best friendly smile. ‘I need to make a good impression. Those flowers are better than real ones.’

She eyed him askance. ‘If you want to make a good impression, you will need to sober up first, I should think.’

‘Rather direct and to the point for a shop girl, aren’t you?’

She coloured faintly. ‘If there is nothing else...’

‘I am not leaving until you sell me those flowers.’

‘Then you must buy the bonnet.’

Aha! So that was the game she was playing. ‘I can’t imagine you get many customers stuck away here on this side street. Isn’t it better to have a shilling in your hand than no sale at all?’

She closed her eyes briefly. He felt uncomfortable as desperation won out over what had been a very ethical response to his demand. Sadly, he’d been right. Everything did have a price.

‘Very well. I will sell you the violets.’ She came around the counter. He moved back to allow her to pass in the narrow confines of the shop. Once more he was struck by her height and now got a look at what could only be described as a sumptuous figure. As she leaned over to remove the hat from the window, he ogled the swell of her derrière, its curves beautifully outlined by the dark fabric of her narrow skirts. Surprisingly, for all the fabric’s drab colour, it was of the finest quality of cotton.

Which was strange for a shop girl.

He squeezed back against the shelves as she returned to the counter with her prize.

She took down another bonnet to place in the window, not the one he had suggested, he noted, but a summer hat with gauzy yellow ribbons and a cluster of cherries adorning the upturned brim.

Once she was satisfied, she returned and removed the violets from the bonnet and wrapped them in tissue paper. ‘I hope your lady is suitably impressed.’ She held out her hand. ‘One shilling, please.’

The dryness in her voice struck him on the raw. Clearly, she thought the gift paltry. He glanced down at the wares on display in the glass case. ‘How much is that handkerchief? The one embroidered with violets.’

‘Thruppence.’ She smiled for the first time since he had walked into the shop. It changed her whole face from plain to lovely. Not pretty, exactly. But...lovely. He blinked.

She pulled the drawer towards her, withdrew the delicate square from the case and laid it on the counter.

Another wave of exhaustion washed through him. He forced his spine straight. Besides, he’d already spent quite enough. Silk violets for a shilling? He must be more foxed than he’d thought.

‘I’ll take it, Mrs...’

Again, a wash of colour rose up her face. ‘Greystoke.’

Greystoke. The name sounded familiar. Propped against the counter, he watched her fumble in the drawer. She pulled out a calling card which she wrapped inside the tissue paper along with the handkerchief. ‘In case you should know of anyone who might be interested in one of our bonnets. They are of the finest workmanship. Perhaps your wife...’ She smiled encouragingly.

Once more he found himself staring at her in a bemused fashion. ‘I am not married.’

She glanced at the neatly wrapped package. ‘I see.’

‘Those are for a special lady of my acquaintance.’ Hell, why had he felt the need to say such a thing? The recipient of his purchases was none of her business. ‘A very special lady.’

‘Of course.’ Her voice held not a scrap of interest. She tied the package with a ribbon.

He bowed and hand over his calling card. ‘It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs Greystoke.’

Out in the street he glanced through the window to see Mrs Greystoke rearranging her display of handkerchiefs and watching him from the corner of her eye. Making sure he departed post-haste, no doubt.

He clapped his hat on his head and marched off.

A spray of silk violets for a shilling. He hoped like hell Mimi Luttrell appreciated the sacrifice.

But he would tell her about the bonnets. Because Mrs Greystoke was right. Even in his inebriated state, he could tell they were of the finest quality.

* * *

Whatever hopes Carrie had harboured that Lord Avery’s purchase would result in a swarm of ladies interested in hats had died over the following two days. He hadn’t bought a hat, he’d merely pillaged its decoration. The hat, sans violets, now resided on the highest shelf, there to languish until her return to Kent.

There it remained, a constant reminder of his wheedling smile and beautiful brown eyes rimmed with the longest eyelashes she had ever seen. Disastrously beautiful brown eyes with gold flecks scattered like sunbeams across them. Not to mention how he towered over her, which so few men did. Dash it all, she did not want to think about Lord Avery, the younger son of a duke, she’d realised later, having properly read his calling card. A wealthy young man she should have tried to convince to buy a dozen embroidered handkerchiefs instead getting flustered and wrapping up one. She’d made a proper mull of it, as her father would have said.

The idea of returning to the ladies at Westram with nothing but the grand sum of one shilling and thruppence and a ruined bonnet had given her nightmares. Her handbills had not brought in a single customer and she dared not use any of these meagre funds to print more. All in all, the shop in which she had placed such high hopes was a failure.

They would be able to afford one more week’s rent from what little funds they had saved over the winter before she had to close the doors. It was so frustrating. If the ladies of the ton saw these bonnets, their original design, their craftsmanship, she had no doubt they would snap them up. But how was she to accomplish it?

For the third time that morning she rearranged the items beneath the glass counter top, putting lacy gloves beside the chicken-skin fan Marguerite had painted with a pastoral scene. The bell above the door tinkled. She straightened. Her jaw dropped. ‘Lord Avery?’

He bowed. ‘Mrs Greystoke.’

She glanced behind him. There was no sign of the very special lady he had mentioned. ‘How may I help you?’

‘I have need of another of your fripperies.’ He scanned the hats.

Blankly she stared at him. ‘This is a millinery shop, my lord. You bought the one and only violet nosegay in the shop and I have no intention of demolishing any more of my stock for a whim. However, I would be more than pleased to sell you a hat in its entirety. What you do with it afterwards would be your prerogative.’

Oh, dear, that was not the way to treat a customer. Especially the younger son of a duke. But really!

‘It is hardly demolished.’ He gave her that heart-stopping crooked smile that had flustered her the first time he’d gazed at her. He looked even more handsome this morning than he had the other day. His lovely brown eyes were clear and bright, his jacket unrumpled, his dark brown hair carefully ordered. And that smile... It was doing devastating things to her insides. ‘And besides,’ he continued, ‘a hat is far too personal item for a gentleman to purchase. In my experience, a lady needs to try on several bonnets before she can decide on one. Do you let your husband buy your hats?’

‘My husband is dead.’ She clamped her jaw shut. Now why had she told him that? And in such a blunt manner, too. He might think she was interested in him and before she knew it he’d be taking advantage. That was the sort of thing men did. It had been drummed into her at Mrs Thacker’s Academy for the Daughters of Gentlemen.

His expression changed to one of sympathy. ‘I am sorry.’

Why should he be sorry? She meant nothing to him. But he was right about him buying his lady a hat. Most women did prefer to choose their own. There was something very intimate about the purchase of a hat and it was decidedly perspicacious of him to realise that particular fact. Clearly the man knew women.

A suggestion was in order. She gave him a tight little smile, wishing she knew how to be a little more charming. ‘Perhaps you could bring her with you and let her choose.’

He gave a low chuckle, a deep rich sound that seemed to stir things up low in her belly. ‘Perhaps one day. In the meantime...’

‘Well, I doubt any lady would be pleased to receive the same gift, even if it is in a different colour and form.’

His brow clouded. ‘No. You are right.’

‘What about a pair of gloves?’ She brought out a pair and set them on the counter.

‘Too practical.’

‘An embroidered pair of slippers.’ She laid several before him.

‘Too mundane.’

‘Not these. The workmanship is the finest you will see anywhere.’

He shook his head. ‘I would prefer something more...’

‘Romantic?’ She smiled sweetly.

‘Unique.’

‘What about a fan?’ She spread two hand-painted silk fans, showing off the delicate paintings, one of a ballroom scene and the other of the countryside.

He picked one up, opening and closing it and inspecting the painted sticks. ‘Very nice. Are they imported from the East?’

‘No, my sister-in-law makes them.’

‘She is a talented woman.’

Carrie smiled. She loved to hear her sisters-in-law complimented. She’d been an only child and the idea of having sisters thrilled her.

He stood there, staring at her mouth as if he had never seen a woman smile before. Her body flushed warm. Goodness, but the man was a flirt.

‘Your special lady will love using it,’ she said firmly. ‘It is sure to be admired by all her acquaintances.’

He gave her a sharp look. ‘And put me in her good graces?’

She nodded encouragingly. ‘Of course.’

‘How much?’

‘Half a crown.’

His lips thinned. ‘That’s a little steep, don’t you think?’

‘Is the lady not worth it, my lord?’ She flicked it open. ‘Nevertheless, because you are a repeat customer, I am willing to sell it to you for two shillings.’ That was sixpence more than the price she and the others had agreed upon, but the man’s need seemed urgent. And her own needs were pressing in.

‘Very well. Two shillings it is. Though I feel I am getting the worst of this bargain.’

It was not good for a customer to feel that way. ‘You will not see another fan like this one anywhere, I assure you.’

‘I see another right there.’ He pointed to a third fan.

She spread it open. On this one, the leaf was a pale blue silk and showed a scene of the ocean at sunset. ‘It is not at all the same.’

He grinned. ‘You have me there, Mrs Greystoke. Very well, I will take this fan for two shillings.’

He dug out his money pouch. ‘I hope you will recommend my shop to your lady,’ she said as calmly as possible despite the rapid beating of her heart. Was it him making it beat so fast? Or merely the idea of finally making a sale? She wrapped the fan in tissue. ‘When she is next in need of a hat.’

‘I most certainly will. Indeed, I will mention your shop to every one of my acquaintances.’

He bowed and left with the little package tucked under his arm.

Carrie could not help admiring his lithe male figure as he disappeared through her shop door. He was so masculine. Despite his elegant tailoring, he looked athletic and fit. He’d no doubt be an excellent lover. She blushed at the unbidden thought. It was his flirting that had made such a wicked thought about a man she scarcely knew occur to her.

She was a woman, wasn’t she? And her thoughts were her own. As long as they remained merely thoughts, she was doing nobody any harm.

What would it be like to have such a handsome gentleman paying attention to one?

Lord Avery would no doubt be a master of the art of flirtation. And she had never been the object of a gentleman’s attentions. Not even her husband’s.

A sigh escaped her. She was such a fool. No doubt Lord Avery would never even think of her again, let alone mention her little shop to anyone.

She looked in the tin cash box. The grand sum of three shillings and thruppence stared back at her.

The Westram ladies were going to be so disappointed.


Chapter Two (#u199ae4cf-f451-57f2-92dd-d710d7f6183e)

‘What do you think?’ Mimi Luttrell batted her lashes at Avery, her pale blue eyes soulful, her lips pouting provocatively.

He stifled the urge to yawn. Mimi would run a mile if he so much as hinted at anything sensual between them. She had agreed to this little outing in his company because her husband preferred the hunting field to escorting her to shops and balls. She wanted to feel appreciated, that was all. And perhaps wake her errant husband up to the fact that she was a desirable woman.

It was strange how differently the English husband regarded the position of cicisbeo to those on the Continent. In Italy a man would see it as a compliment that his wife garnered the attention of a young attractive gentleman. He would even participate in funding said gentleman, provided the affaire was conducted according to the rules. In England, such financial arrangements were despised by noblemen who liked to guard their wives, pulling up their drawbridges as if they were castles.

It had certainly worked that way with Lady Passmore, the first lady whom Avery had endeavoured to charm on his recent return from the Continent. Her neglectful husband had hot-footed it all the way back from Scotland to stake his claim on his wife and hadn’t been far from her side ever since.

To Avery’s surprise, the whole thing had also been financially rewarding, both in terms of her eternal gratitude expressed in her effusive thank-you note accompanied by a parting memento he’d sold for a goodly sum and with the commissions from the merchants where he had taken her to shop, the latter being the same sort of arrangement he had entered into in Italy where he’d been living until recently.

There, in Venice, he’d fallen into the role of cicisbeo quite by chance, having at first been attracted to the lady in question, only to discover there were financial benefits to be reaped from what could only be described as a platonic relationship, and all with the approval of the lady’s husband.

Here in London, he was walking a much finer line between husband and wife, but Lady Passmore had been so delighted with the results of her innocent flirtation with Avery that she’d advised Mimi to contact him about a similar ‘arrangement’ to see if it worked on her dilettante husband, too.

And he was happy to oblige, as long as Mimi shopped in the places he recommended and did not expect him to come to her bed, since socially that would put him beyond the pale.

‘I prefer the blue.’ He’d picked out the fabric because he had known that it suited her perfectly.

Mimi frowned at herself draped in the material in the looking glass. ‘Why?’

He gazed at her silently.

She glanced over at him and gave a trill of laughter. ‘Really, Ave, darling. Please explain.’ Again, she fluttered her lashes.

Unfortunately, Mimi’s girlish tricks were a little too cloying for his taste. He much preferred the stern looks he encountered in a certain millinery shop. And the very rare smile he was able to coax from its owner.

Madame Grace, the dressmaker, pursed her lips as if trying to hold back words.

Avery had no trouble interpreting that look of disapproval. Madame Grace knew that this lady was married to someone else. The dressmaker likely thought he was a libertine, if not something worse, but that was because she did not understand that his goal was to bring the lady’s errant husband home to her side, not drive a wedge between the couple. If Mimi’s husband did not show up in a day or two, the man didn’t deserve his wife. But he would since he did not yet have his heir and his spare. He certainly would not want another man poaching on his turf, at least until that duty was completed. And knowing the minds of men, it would be a long time before her husband strayed again.

While Madame Grace might pout about giving him his cut of what Mimi spent in her shop, she knew where her best interests lay. Why should he not be paid for the extra business he brought her way?

Not that these arrangements brought him a huge income. They merely helped augment his winnings at the table.

Avery leaned back in his chair in the fitting room at the back of Grace’s shop and smiled lazily at the woman staring at her image. ‘Because that blue shade brings out the colour of your eyes, my dear, and the lustre of your skin. The rose colour you have there does not complement, rather it shouts your best features down.’

Her lips formed an O of surprise. Again, she peered into the mirror and turned this way and that. ‘How clever you are, Ave.’ She turned to the dressmaker. ‘Let me see the first one again?’

Madame Grace swathed her in the pale blue fabric, pleating it artfully so it displayed well.

Mimi nodded slowly. ‘I see what you mean. I’ll take it.’

Behind her, the dressmaker heaved a sigh of relief and Avery knew exactly how she felt. Sometimes ladies spent hours looking in the mirror and bought nothing. But Madame Grace should know better than to worry about one of Avery’s ladies. They never left her establishment without placing an order.

Oddly, he used to enjoy accompanying a woman shopping, but more recently it had simply become a chore. He gave Mimi a broad grin of approval. ‘Where do you want to go next, Puss? Slippers?’

Ladies loved their shoes and the cobbler made a healthy profit that he was more than happy to share with Avery.

Mimi stroked the pale blue fabric. ‘Which bonnet would I wear with this?’

He stilled. An array of exquisite bonnets popped into his mind. But he did not have an arrangement with Mrs Greystoke. Indeed, he’d been doing his best to ignore the fact that he had ever met the woman, because he found her far too intriguing. A distraction. Yet, despite his best efforts, he kept thinking about her smile.

Why hadn’t he offered her the same arrangement he had with other merchants? Was he concerned about what she would think about him? Why would he even care?

‘Ave?’

Mimi’s peevish tone brought him back from the recollection of a tall stern-faced woman to the dressmaker’s shop. He gritted his teeth. He hated it when Mimi called him Ave. It was presumptuous and demeaning, but she was his sister’s bread and butter and as such her irritating little foibles had to be tolerated.

‘Yes, Sweetling?’

‘I don’t have a bonnet that will go with this fabric.’ She touched the rose fabric, now discarded on the counter. ‘I do have one with pink ribbons.’

The lady did love pink. He recalled that particular hat with an inner shudder. It was hideous. Not in the first stare of fashion either. ‘You wish to drive out in a brand new carriage dress wearing a bonnet you must have worn at least five times?’

Mimi winced. ‘You think people would notice?’

‘Other ladies would certainly notice. The gentlemen would not give a fig, I suppose.’

She grimaced. ‘But the ladies will mention it to the gentlemen and they will rib George about not providing for his wife. I won’t have them belittling George.’

Mimi was really fond of her husband in the strange way of the ton.

‘A bonnet it is then,’ he said. ‘I know just the place.’ He winced inwardly. He really was going to do this, then? Take her to visit Mrs Greystoke? Where he wouldn’t make a penny in commission. He must have porridge for brains. Except he wasn’t thinking with his brain if the surge of warmth in his veins at the thought of seeing her again was anything to go by. ‘Afterwards, we will see new half-boots to complete the ensemble.’ And put a few coins in his purse.

Mimi put her arm through his. ‘Perfect.’

Trailed by Mimi’s maid, they strolled down Bond Street, looking in shop windows until they passed a milliner’s shop. Mimi pointed at a jaunty hat with a huge feather. ‘What do you think of that one?’

‘It really isn’t you.’

‘It is all the crack. It might look better on.’

‘We can come back if we don’t find anything else.’

For a moment, he thought she would refuse, but she shrugged. ‘Very well.’

When he turned off Bond Street, she frowned. ‘Really, Avery? Where are we going?’

‘Not far. This shop has the best hats for really decent prices and if you purchase one, you won’t see another hat like it anywhere.’

Her face lit up.

Finding something unique but not outrageously priced was always the trick. There was nothing worse than arriving at a ball or a drum and discovering another lady in the exact same gown or riding Rotten Row and meeting a lady wearing the same carriage dress or hat.

Ladies set great store by such things. Whereas most men were happy wearing black coats and buff pantaloons with the occasional idiosyncrasy of a fanciful waistcoat.

He opened the door to Mrs Greystone’s establishment and ushered Mimi in.

As far as he could tell not a single bonnet had been sold since his last visit two days ago.

‘Good morning,’ she said, eyeing him askance.

‘Good morning,’ Mimi said.

A strange look passed across Mrs Greystoke’s face as she took in his companion. An expression she quickly masked with a bright smile.

‘This is Mrs Luttrell,’ Lord Avery said.

Mrs Greystoke dipped a curtsy. ‘How may I be of service, madam.’

‘I need a hat.’

Amusement danced in Mrs Greystoke’s dove-grey eyes. ‘Then you have come to the right place.’

Avery felt a surge of gladness that he had brought Mimi here. He’d recognised the shadows in Mrs Greystoke’s eyes the last time he was here. Desperation. He just hadn’t wanted to acknowledge he didn’t like it. He had enough responsibilities as it was.

Nevertheless, the idea that she was desperate had weighed on his shoulders. And he was glad he had the means to do something about it, even if it did leave him a bit short of funds.

Mimi pulled forth the scrap of blue fabric Madame Grace had cut off the bolt. ‘This is the fabric for a new carriage dress. What do you suggest?’

Avery wedged himself in a corner by the counter and let the two women have at it. His part would come later, when a decision was to be made. In the meantime, he could not help but compare the two women. Mimi, a sweet English rose at first glance, but with all the experience of a married woman, and Mrs Greystoke, not exactly pretty, but striking and strangely innocent.

Greystoke. Now why did he keep thinking that name sounded familiar?

* * *

Lord Avery’s special lady was older than Carrie had expected and apparently a widow to boot, but pretty as a picture, nonetheless. The sort of woman she would have expected to attract him, if she was honest. Carrie helped the lady remove her hat and brought down three bonnets that she thought would suit the lady’s face and complement the fabric.

A maid eased in through the door. Mrs Luttrell frowned. ‘Boggs, I am sorry, but you need to wait outside. There really isn’t room in here for another person.’

The maid, who was all of eighteen, looked worried. ‘Yes, mum.’ Her accent came from the north. She started to back out.

The sound of someone from her home county gave Carrie an odd feeling in her stomach. A bit of the same feeling of homesickness she’d experienced when she’d first arrived in London to go to school at around the same age as the maid. She’d been sent to a young ladies’ academy to acquire a bit of polish, as her father put it.

‘Your maid can wait in the back room,’ Carrie said. ‘This is not the best of streets for a young girl to linger on.’

‘Thank you, mum,’ the maid said with a look of relief.

Mrs Luttrell gave Carrie a sharp look. ‘That is very kind of you, Mrs Greystoke. I can certainly vouch for Boggs’s honesty.’

‘Indeed.’ Carrie smiled kindly at the girl. ‘Perhaps you could make us all a cup of tea while you are waiting.’

The girl beamed. ‘That I can, mum.’ She glanced at her mistress. ‘That is, if you agree, madam.’

‘It is a wonderful idea.’ Mrs Luttrell picked up a bonnet Carrie hadn’t suggested. ‘What about this one?’

Carrie tried not to frown at the choice. ‘If you wish to try it on, you may, but I think you will find it hides your face and, with a pretty face like yours it would be a shame.’

‘Do you think so?’ She turned to Lord Avery. ‘What do you think, Ave?’

He gave her an indulgent smile and for a moment Carrie wondered what it would be like to have a man smile at her in that warm lazy way.

‘I think Mrs Greystoke knows what she is about, Pet,’ he said. ‘Trust in her judgement.’

Mrs Luttrell put the bonnet aside and picked up one of Carrie’s suggestions. ‘May I try this one first.’

Carrie helped her put it on. She tied a neat bow and directed Mrs Luttrell’s attention to the looking glass.

Mrs Luttrell viewed herself from various angles with pursed lips.

Carrie held her breath. This was it. This was her chance to get this shop found by ladies of the beaumonde. Oh, she could tell that Mrs Luttrell was not a diamond of the first water, or a member of any of the first families of the ton, but she wore her clothes well and other ladies would admire her, if she wore the right hat.

After a couple of minutes, Mrs Luttrell turned to Lord Avery. ‘What do you think, Ave.’

‘I think you should try them all, before making up your mind. I like that one very much, but another might suit better.’

How very odd. Most men hated shopping.

So the lady tried on all three. When she reached the last one, Lord Avery straightened. ‘I like them all,’ he said. ‘The last two looked equally good on you, Mimi. Whichever one you pick you cannot go wrong.’

Carrie did not agree with him. She preferred the one Mrs Luttrell had chosen to put on last. ‘The one you have on now suits you particularly well,’ she said, not wishing to argue with his lordship, but wanting the lady to make the right choice.

Lord Avery picked up his cup and sipped at his tea. He’d put a great deal of sugar in it, Carrie had noticed.

Mrs Luttrell turned this way and that and then also took a sip of tea. ‘I am sure I cannot decide between this one and that one.’ She pointed to the first one she had tried on.

‘Take them both,’ Lord Avery suggested.

Carrie stared at him. Surely, he was jesting?

Mrs Luttrell frowned.

Dash it! She was going to refuse them both now. ‘Truly, the one you have on suits you best, madam. It is perfect for this time of year. I am sure you will be doing a great deal of driving out now the weather is changing for the better.’

‘You are right,’ the lady said.

Carrie breathed a sigh of relief.

‘But if I am doing a great deal of driving out...’ she turned towards Lord Avery and batted her lashes ‘...then I will need more than one bonnet.’

Lord Avery nodded. ‘I should say so.’

‘Then I will take them both.’

Carrie snapped her mouth shut. Showing her surprise was not the way to do business. ‘Let me wrap them for you, while you finish your tea.’

In short order, she had both bonnets wrapped in tissue paper and in their boxes, while Mrs Luttrell drank her tea and chatted with her companion.

Carrie waited for them to finish their conversation. ‘Where would you like me to send the bill, Mrs Luttrell?’

She hated the idea that she was not to be paid right away for the purchase, but it was the way the beau monde did their business. Hopefully, Lord Avery could afford such extravagance.

‘Send it to my husband,’ Mrs Luttrell said and handed over her card.

Shocked, Carrie could only stare at her for a second or two.

Mrs Luttrell didn’t seem to notice her surprise, but Lord Avery had a naughty twinkle in his eye. The wretch. He knew Carrie was shocked all the way to her toes. Her back had gone stiff and her smile had frozen solid on her lips.

Glancing at the address, she put it in a drawer for safe keeping. As soon as they were gone she would write up the bill and have it sent round to Carlin Place. She could only hope that Mr Luttrell approved of his wife’s purchases while in the company of another man.

More to the point, what did that make Lord Avery? Her lover? How very shocking. And disappointing...

‘Oh, look, Ave, darling, there is another of those pretty fans. It is similar to the one you bought for me.’

‘Each one is unique,’ Carrie said, aware her voice was terser than she would have liked. Was she really such a prude? It wouldn’t be the first time she had heard of a man taking an interest in another man’s wife. She had just thought it happened behind closed doors, not flaunted in the faces of respectable people.

‘I have received a great many compliments on it, you know.’ Mrs Luttrell stared down into the cabinet. ‘Now I can tell everyone who asks where it was bought.’ She gave Carrie a sharp look. ‘As long as there are no more exactly the same as mine.’

‘I will guarantee there is not, Mrs Luttrell,’ Carrie said. ‘Or I will gladly refund your money.’

The woman nodded in approval. ‘Boggs,’ she called out.

The maid materialised from behind the curtain. ‘Yes, mum.’

‘Pick up the boxes. We are leaving.’

‘It is all right, Mimi, dearest,’ Lord Avery said. ‘They are two bulky for Boggs. I’ll carry them.’ He bowed to Carrie. ‘Thank you, Mrs Greystoke. I wish you good day.’

Mrs Luttrell waved a hand. ‘Yes. Thank you. You can be sure I shall let everyone know where I purchased my hats.’ She frowned. ‘Though it would be better if you had a more fashionable address.’

They left the shop, making it feel suddenly very empty. Carrie herself felt empty. Surely it was nothing to do with the knowledge she’d gained about Lord Avery? It must be to do with the excitement she’d experienced in making her first real sale.

Now she had good news to take home. It was such a relief.

* * *

‘How did we do?’ Petra’s voice rose to a squeak.

Carrie removed her bonnet and gloves in the hall. It must be so hard for the other two waiting at home, wondering if all their hard work had been appreciated. ‘Not too badly for our first week.’ Much to Carrie’s astonishment. ‘We have covered next week’s rent with a little left over for supplies.’

It was almost four in the afternoon, her back ached from the long drive home and yet she could not help feeling proud.

Marguerite popped her head around the drawing room door. ‘I thought I heard the cart. Petra, for heaven’s sake let her pass. Carrie, come and sit down and have a cup of tea. You must be worn to the bone.’

She was, but she was also exhilarated by their success.

She hung up her spencer, then joined her sisters-in-law in the drawing room. She sank into the most comfortable chair in the room beside the hearth. Bless them, they had saved it for her. She loved having sisters.

Petra brought her a cup of tea and somehow managed to hold back her questions until Carrie had taken a sip.

‘Well?’ Petra exploded.

‘We sold two bonnets, a fan, a handkerchief and a posy.

Petra frowned. ‘Only two bonnets.’

‘Two bonnets are better than none,’ Marguerite said, in prosaic tones. Clearly, she was also disappointed. Some of Carrie’s excitement dissipated.

She forced herself to sound cheerful. ‘I am sure the lady who purchased them will tell her friends and then we will have trouble keeping up with the demand.’

‘It is a wonderful start,’ Petra said, clearly trying to hide her doubts. She gazed at the tea tray. ‘Are those shortbread biscuits, Marguerite. Isn’t that a bit extravagant?’

Her older sister looked embarrassed. ‘I only made a few. We need a treat now and then. And see, I was right. We have good news to celebrate.’

Petra pointed to the hat box. ‘What is in there.’

‘A hat. I removed the decoration for a gentleman who wanted it for a posy.’

‘A posy? How very odd,’ Petra said, giving her a sharp look.

Carrie felt the heat rise to her cheeks. Why would talking about Lord Avery make her blush? ‘I thought so, too. Actually, I think he was intoxicated.’ She’d seen her father and uncle in their cups often enough to recognise when a man was more than a trifle warm. She put up a hand at their shocked expression. ‘He was never impolite, simply a little slurred in his speech.’ As well as wavering on his feet. ‘He said he wanted it for a special lady. At that point, I had sold nothing. Better to sell a bit of trim than nothing at all.’

‘Very wise, I should say,’ Marguerite said. She opened the box and drew out the hat. ‘It is easy enough to replace the...’ She raised an eyebrow in question.

‘Violets,’ Carrie said. Violets for a special lady indeed. Mrs Luttrell was a very pretty woman. Dainty and delicate, not unlike Carrie’s sisters-in-law. The sort of woman Carrie had always envied. And while Carrie could not approve of Mrs Luttrell’s closeness with Lord Avery, she could certainly understand why she would attract a handsome lord. Perhaps it was difficult for a woman to ignore such a charming man’s attentions and hard for him to ignore such a pretty lady if she was lonely.

Carrie, being plain and gruff and unattractive, would never catch the eye of a man like Lord Avery. She would be far better to focus her thoughts on making a go of this venture instead of indulging in stupid flights of fancy about a handsome gentleman. Such dreams would only lead to further humiliation.

‘Which hats did you sell?’ Petra asked.

‘The chip straw and the blue shako,’ Carrie said. ‘Unfortunately, the shop is a little bit further from Bond Street than I realised. There is not much passing traffic. It is going to take a while to build our clientele.’

‘But you think it will build?’ Petra asked.

‘I hope so.’

The ladies fell silent, thinking about the consequences of failure, no doubt.

‘What we need is something really different,’ Carrie said, thinking about the lovely Mrs Luttrell again and how she’d seized upon the idea that no one would ever carry the same fan as the one Lord Avery had given her.

‘What sort of something?’ Marguerite asked.

‘Lots of places sell bonnets, though ours are unique and beautifully styled,’ Carrie hastened to add. ‘But we need an item ladies cannot purchase elsewhere.’

‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’ Marguerite looked thoroughly puzzled.

Petra looked intrigued.

‘Perhaps something a little risqué,’ Carrie said, her face immediately fiery.

‘Risqué?’ Marguerite pursed her lips in disapproval. ‘We don’t want to attract the wrong sort of customer.’

They already had. Carrie bit her tongue to stop the words from forming.

‘Don’t be prudish, Marguerite.’ Petra said. ‘We don’t care who buys the hats, do we? If we can’t make a go of this, we’ll all be shipped back to London to live with Westram. And all he wants to do is marry us off. The thought of another marriage...’ She shuddered.

Carrie frowned. She’d always thought Petra’s reaction to marrying again quite odd when her first marriage had been so happy. Perhaps when one found true love, one could never face the prospect of another man.

Still, they had all agreed that none of them wanted to marry again.

So they needed to make a success of their shop. Carrie swallowed. ‘I was thinking perhaps of something for the boudoir. Something feminine and alluring.’ Something a gentleman like Lord Avery might want to buy for a special lady. ‘Something a wife might buy to rekindle her marriage?’

The other ladies’ eyes widened.

‘That sounds...wicked,’ Marguerite said, looking worried. ‘I am not sure Westram would approve.’

‘He won’t know unless someone tells him,’ Petra said sharply.

Marguerite stiffened at the less-than-subtle implication that she would go to their brother and tell tales.

‘Well, let us put our heads together and see what we can come up with,’ Carrie said quickly. ‘We will do nothing unless we all agree.’

‘You know,’ Petra said, turning to Marguerite, ‘Carrie knows far more about running a shop than we do. We should follow her advice.’

‘You are right,’ Marguerite said. ‘Carrie, you must do whatever you think is best to make the shop a success. We will help you all we can.’

Their vote of confidence made her heart swell with pride. ‘It is a joint venture, ladies. Together we can do anything.’

They toasted each other with their teacups.

Leaning back, Carrie sipped at her tea. She had no doubt that, between them, they could come up with something unique that would appeal to the likes of Mrs Luttrell.

‘How is the garden coming along?’ she asked Petra. The cottage had both a kitchen garden at the back and a large front garden full of roses. Petra had agreed to take on the task of providing vegetables and herbs for their table. She actually liked grubbing around in the dirt.

‘Really well,’ Petra said. ‘It is too bad we have so little ground. I could do so much more.’

‘I don’t think you would have time,’ Marguerite said. ‘You already work your fingers to the bone on the hats.’

Carrie handed Marguerite the cash box. ‘I sent the bill for the bonnets to the lady’s husband.’

Marguerite looked inside. ‘You will need some of this for change. The rest can go towards our household bills.’ She rose to her feet. ‘It is time to start on cooking dinner. After that we will see what we can come up with to bring more custom to the shop.’

‘I’ve been working on hats all day,’ Petra said. ‘I need some fresh air. I’ll go and do a bit of weeding.’

It seemed wrong that these ladies who had grown up with every privilege should be required to work so hard now and all because her husband had led their husbands astray. Or at least she thought he must have. She could not think of any other reason they had left with him to join Wellington’s army.

She was determined to do her share to make up for it. ‘I will fix the hat,’ Carrie said picking up the hat box. ‘After all, it is my fault it is spoiled.’

‘We have two more finished for you to take back with you,’ Petra said. She frowned. ‘And I’ll make a couple of extra posies in case that gentleman should return.’

Carrie’s tummy gave a funny little hop. It had been doing that every time she as much as thought of Lord Avery. ‘I doubt if he will,’ she said and followed Petra from the room.


Chapter Three (#u199ae4cf-f451-57f2-92dd-d710d7f6183e)

Avery opened the door for Lady Fontly to pass into the milliner’s shop. It had been two weeks since his last visit. He had forced himself to stay away, though he had encouraged Mimi to recommend the shop if anyone should admire her new hat.

As he entered, he was taken aback by the changes.

Rose-filled vases graced every open space not occupied by a bonnet or a lacy cap. There were two women in the narrow space between the door and the counter, a lady and her maid, being helped by Mrs Greystoke, and there were giggles coming from behind the curtain leading to the shopkeeper’s private quarters. Maids having cups of tea, he assumed.

He turned to his companion. ‘I apologise, Elizabeth, I did not expect it to be this busy.’

Lady Fontly, green-eyed and auburn-haired, beamed. ‘How clever of you, Avery. I heard whispers about this place, but was unable to discover its location.’

He kept his expression blank. Whispers? About Mrs Greystoke? ‘Then it is my pleasure to bring you here.’

The customer at the counter turned at the sound of his voice.

‘Lord Avery?’ Mrs Baxter-Smythe’s eyebrows shot up and Avery inwardly groaned. ‘And Lady Fontly,’ she said with a sly smile. ‘How very...surprising to meet you both here.’ The widow cast him an arch look and her innuendo was perfectly clear.

Mrs Baxter-Smythe had made more than one attempt to begin a flirtation with him, but she was a widow. Avery had no truck with widows. They usually had brothers or fathers or distant cousins, who would see their role as protectors of virtue. And no matter how merry the widow, they were unlikely to pass up the chance to marry off a single relative to the son of a duke.

Avery bowed. ‘Likewise, I am sure, Mrs Baxter-Smythe.’

The widow turned her gaze on his companion. ‘I understand Lord Fontly is out of town at the moment?’

Elizabeth’s cheekbones coloured. ‘He has gone to the races in Newmarket.’ She sounded a little too defensive.

‘How you must miss him,’ Mrs Baxter-Smythe cooed. ‘And you only recently married.’

‘Lord Fontly has a horse entered in a race,’ Avery put in cheerfully. ‘Not something even a newly wed husband should miss.’

Elizabeth recovered her composure. ‘And he recommended Lord Avery take me shopping, since it is something he hates to do.’

Avery gave her arm a little squeeze of approval. Elizabeth had been hurt by her husband’s departure so soon after their marriage, so he had suggested that a new hat might be just the thing to make her feel better.

He became aware of a pair of grave grey eyes watching the interchange between him and the ladies. It was the sort of considering look one might get from a tutor who realised you were not going to live up to your potential. Her eyes held curiosity along with a dawning understanding.

What did she understand? That he served as an escort when a lady’s husband was absent? Did she think it was more than that? Let her think what she wished. Everyone else did. And naturally his special ladies never discussed him with others. They were married, after all.

‘It seems everyone has discovered this place,’ Mrs Baxter-Smythe said. ‘Does Mrs Greystoke not carry the most beautiful hats you have ever seen?’

‘I have not yet had a chance to look.’ Elizabeth glanced around. ‘But I must say at first sight they appear to be most attractive.’

‘Each and every one is stunning,’ the widow said. ‘And do ask her about the other unique items she has for sale.’ She pinned her eyes on Avery. ‘I am having an open house next Monday. Afternoon tea. I would love to see you there.’ She moved her focus to Elizabeth. ‘If you are free, I would love you to come also, Lady Fontly.’ The afterthought was a deliberate snub.

Mrs Baxter-Smythe was a denizen of the ton. For Elizabeth not to accept would put her on the fringes of society. Flirting with him was one thing, but declining to attend one of Mrs Baxter-Smythe’s at homes was quite another.’

‘I shall be delighted to escort you,’ Avery said, smiling at Elizabeth, who dipped a little curtsy. ‘If Lord Fontly is not back in time.’

‘Oh, but of course,’ the widow said. ‘Your husband is welcome also, should he be home, if he does not think it a terrible bore.’ She gave them a sickly sweet smile, squeezed past him and Elizabeth and left the shop with her maid trailing behind her.

A young woman he recognised as the wife of a prominent banker appeared from behind the curtain. Her eyes were dancing and her cheeks were bright pink.

A shop assistant appeared right behind her with a tissue-wrapped package.

At the counter, Mrs Greystoke smiled calmly and wrote up a bill.

Avery frowned. Why on earth would anyone go behind a curtain to try on a hat?

Mrs Greystoke gave Elizabeth a cool smile. ‘How may I help you, madam? Is there something you would like to try on?’

‘Elizabeth, may I introduce Mrs Greystoke, the owner of this establishment. Lady Fontly is looking for a bonnet.’

Lizzie pursed her lips. ‘I am looking for a something summery. Something to wear on a picnic.’ The picnic she’d planned for her husband’s return. Avery had suggested it as a way to engage the twit’s attention. The man had to be an idiot if he left such a pretty wife at a loose end during the Season.

‘What about this one?’ Mrs Greystoke lifted down a becoming wide-brimmed straw bonnet trimmed with strawberry leaves, flowers and berries. ‘It is our latest arrival. It will see a lady through the hottest part of the summer and is ideal for both town and country.’ She tilted one side of the brim upwards. ‘It can be worn one of two ways and comes with three different colours of ribbon.’

Liz hesitated. ‘It is lovely.’

Why the hesitation? ‘Try it on,’ he urged.

Mrs Greystoke tilted her head on one side and looked at her shrewdly. ‘Or perhaps you were seeking something a little more intimate?’

Elizabeth blushed.

Lady Fontley was not as sophisticated as some of the other ladies he had taken under his wing, those like Mimi Luttrell whose husband had arrived home more than a week ago and made it plain his wife no longer needed an escort, much to Mimi’s satisfaction.

He took Elizabeth’s hand and raised it to his lips. ‘What is it, Pet?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘I thought we wanted something that would make your husband look at you anew? Is the bonnet not to your liking?’

‘It is beautiful, but—’

‘I think Lady Fontly would like to inspect our other wares.’ Mrs Greystoke gestured to the counter.

The last time Avery had looked at the items on display there had been neatly ordered fans and gloves and handkerchiefs. Now there were froths of lace and silk.

‘Tansy, fetch his lordship a cup of tea,’ Mrs Greystoke said. ‘Unless you would prefer something stronger?’

Another change. An assistant. He found he did not like it for some reason he could not name.

‘Nothing for me, thank you.’

Mrs Greystoke went back behind her counter and brought forth a flimsy robe of scarlet, edged in lace. ‘This is a very popular style of robe de chambre, my lady.’

When she spread the garment out on the counter and put her hand between the layers of fabric, Avery almost swallowed his tongue. The robe was so sheer as to be almost invisible and there were strategically placed openings that were revealed as the lace trim fell to one side.

What the devil was Mrs Greystoke doing, showing garments like that to a respectable woman? All right, so Elizabeth had accepted his offer of escort in a fit of pique when her husband left town to go on yet another spree with his friends for the fourth time in a month. The poor dear was feeling neglected, but she was still a modestly brought up girl—

‘What do you think, Lord Avery. Will Roger like it?’ she whispered in his ear.

A man would have to be dying, or at the very least dead from the waist down, not to like the idea of the curvy Lady Fontly in such a shockingly revealing negligee. Unfortunately, all Avery could think about was seeing Mrs Greystoke in the gown. She was so lusciously tall, it would look far better on her than the petite Lady Fontly.

‘Yes,’ he said a little more tersely than he intended. ‘It is deliciously wicked,’ he added a little more warmly.

‘Would you like to try it on, Lady Fontly?’ Mrs Greystoke asked.

‘May I?’ Lizzie asked.

Mrs Greystoke smiled. ‘You can use my private quarters at the rear of the shop. Tansy will be happy to help you.’ She looked back at him. ‘Gentlemen are not permitted.’

Liz looked relieved. ‘Do you have it in any other colours?’

‘We do. One for every day of the week.’

Liz giggled. ‘Good lord. Really?’

Mrs Greystoke inclined her head. ‘Really.’

Avery inhaled a breath. His forte was helping ladies choose outer garments that showed them off to advantage. Things such as this were best left to the women themselves. Or their husbands. He didn’t want to be facing pistols at dawn over such a trifle. ‘The colour you have there would suit you very well,’ he said, smiling. ‘Try it on. You can always try a different colour if you decide you do not like it.’

Elizabeth took the whisper of fabric and lace and followed the shop assistant into the back of the shop.

‘And how are you, Lord Avery?’ Mrs Greystoke asked.

Since there was now no one else in the shop he gave her his best charming smile. ‘A little surprised, I must say.’

‘At our new venture?’

Our? Who were the others? She had said her husband was dead. ‘Yes. I thought you were a milliner.’

‘Oh, we discovered a demand for something no one else was offering. We thought it a suitable addition to our inventory, since most of our customers are ladies.’ She gave him a considering look and lowered her voice. ‘How is Mrs Luttrell?’

‘She is well, so far as I am aware.’

A crease appeared in her forehead as she considered the implications of his remark. He had the decided urge to kiss that little frown. To taste it with his tongue. To smooth it away with his thumb.

‘If you should see her,’ Mrs Greystoke continued, ‘give her my thanks for sending her friends along. If there is ever anything I can do for her, I would be most happy to return the favour.’

Good old Mimi. She had kept her word, then. Was that the reason he had hesitated about returning here? Because he feared she might have not done so and that he would discover Mrs Greystoke more desperate than before?

‘I will let her know, but I believe she is away at the moment. At a country house party in Sussex.’

‘Oh, I see.’

What did she see? Ah. Did she think he was doing something underhanded with Lady Fontly in the other lady’s absence? ‘Yes. We parted on the most agreeable terms.’ He emphasised the word ‘parted’.

Her frown deepened and the disapproval in her expression said she had drawn some conclusions she did not like. He quelled a faint sense of hurt and the urge to explain. It was none of her business how he chose to support members of his family.

A moment later, Elizabeth emerged with a neatly wrapped package in her hand. She looked ready to explode with excitement. ‘I love it.’

‘Did you wish to purchase a hat also?’ Mrs Greystoke asked.

‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

They agreed on the summer bonnet Mrs Greystoke had already recommended and when she wrote up the bills, she wrote one to Lord Fontly. The other she wrote to Lady Fontly. ‘In case you wish to keep it as a surprise,’ she explained.

Or in case she wanted to wear it for Avery, he thought, feeling a little bitter at her misjudgement, despite knowing how it looked.

Mrs Greystoke handed him the hatbox. ‘Enjoy your purchase.’

When she said those last words, she was looking at him. Oh, yes, she really thought him some sort of Lothario.

Fortunately, Elizabeth did not notice her misunderstanding.

Annoyed at Mrs Greystoke and feeling slightly ashamed of himself, he left the shop.

* * *

The next morning as Carrie swept the front step and the narrow path in front of her window, she could not help wishing the shop had a better location. Mr Thrumby had warned her more than once to keep her door locked and bolted at night and not to linger in the street during the day. Fortunately for her, he and his wife occupied the upstairs rooms, the stairs to which were reached by way of a hallway that passed her back door. He kept a porter on duty at that back entrance, both day and night, so there was always someone nearby who would come at her call.

Hearing the sharp tap of footsteps on the pavement, she lifted her gaze from her broom to glance up the street. A familiar figure strolled towards her. Lord Avery. Behind him a door slammed. The gambling hell Mr Thrumby had warned her about no doubt. There could be nowhere else he was coming from at this time in the morning.

Why did men gamble away their fortunes in such places? It was so utterly irresponsible. They ruined themselves and they ruined their families. They also gambled away their lives for the sake of some foolish bet. As her husband had. Furiously, she brushed at the paving slabs, as if she could sweep away the memory of her wedding night along with the news of his death in some terrible battle in Spain a few weeks later. She wanted no truck with any man who gambled.

As if she could sweep away Lord Avery along with the memories. Even if he was the most handsome, most charming fellow she had ever met.

He removed his hat and bowed. ‘Good day, Mrs Greystoke.’

Blast. She had meant to whisk herself inside before he reached her shop. Hadn’t she? She straightened and met his gaze. She couldn’t believe how haggard he looked, how tired and drawn, and yet his usual charming smile curved his lips and his eyes warmed as they rested upon her face.

An answering warmth trickled through her veins. ‘Lord Avery.’ She couldn’t believe how breathless she sounded. It must be all that vigorous sweeping.

‘Up and about early this morning, aren’t you?’ he said.

She folded her arms across her chest and narrowed her gaze. The first time he’d visited her shop he’d been quite bosky. This morning he simply looked tired. ‘As are you. I have to make ready for my customers.’

His smile broadened. ‘Indeed. And here I am.’

She frowned. ‘The shop is not yet open.’

His smile changed from charming to wheedling. ‘Surely you will not make me come back later.’

‘What did you want?’

‘Another of your delightful posies, naturally.’

She sighed, but inside her chest her traitorous heart was galloping like a runaway horse. ‘Come in, then.’

He followed her into the shop and she went behind her counter. She felt more comfortable, more in control when there was a solid piece of furniture between them. She spread out several little sprigs on the counter. ‘These are all I have at the moment.’

He stared at the array ‘Did you make any of these?’

What an odd question. ‘I helped make the pink roses and the yellow sweet peas.’

‘I’ll take the roses.’

‘I really would not recommend those for Lady Fontly. The yellow would be better for her colouring.’

He grinned. ‘It is not for Lady Fontly.’ He tucked the spray of flowers into his buttonhole. ‘It is for me.’

‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘That was why...’ Surely not.

He raised a brow. ‘That was why what?’

Heat raced up her face to her hairline. ‘Nothing.’

He chuckled. The deep rich sound sent a shiver down her spine and made her want to giggle like a girl not yet out of the schoolroom.

‘It was why I asked if you had made any of them,’ he said. ‘I wanted something to remind me of you. I need cheering up today.’

He was flirting with her. She felt uncomfortable. Awkward. What was she supposed to do? Should she be flattered or annoyed? Better to ignore the whole thing than make a fool of herself. ‘Will there be anything else, Lord Avery?’

He gave a little grimace. ‘No. That will be all, thank you, Mrs Greystoke.’

She wrote up her bill. ‘Why do you do it?’ Oh, there went her brusque tongue again, asking questions regarding things that were none of her concern.

He leaned a hip against the counter. ‘Do what?’

‘Gamble. You must have been up all night, you look so dreadful.’

‘That bad, hmmm?’

She nodded. She forestalled the urge to ask if he had won or lost, but he seemed so weary, she guessed it was the latter.

‘I do it to keep the wolf from the door, Mrs Greystoke. To put food on the table. Coal in the hearth. To keep body and soul together.’ He sounded bitter.

The son of a duke needing to earn a living? ‘Surely...’

‘Surely what?’ His tone was suddenly dark, even a little dangerous.

She handed him the bill. ‘I beg your pardon. It is none of my business.’

He glanced down at the paper in his hand and back at her face. ‘You were going to ask why a man in my position, the son of a duke, needed to earn his living in such a manner.’

‘Oh, please. I have no wish to pry.’

‘My papa is a man with high expectations of his sons. I have disappointed him and therefore I am to make my own way in life.’

She knew all about parental disappointment. ‘Why not engage in some sort of gainful employment?’ She winced. Dash it, she sounded disapproving.

His lip curled and his smile became mocking. ‘You sound just like my father.’

Mortified, she began to put the rest of the nosegays back in their places in the drawer. ‘I beg your pardon. It is not my place to judge.’

The kettle on the hob began to sing. She raised her gaze to meet his. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

He looked surprised. And then pleased. ‘That is the best offer I have had in the last twenty-four hours. But I would hate to interrupt your morning.’

‘It is no interruption. I went to sweep the step while I waited for the kettle to boil. Would you throw the bolt on the shop door for me? No lady goes shopping at this early hour.’

He did as she asked and then followed her behind the curtain into her private quarters. Very small quarters, she realised as his large form seemed to take up most of the space in the little kitchen-cum-sitting room-cum-dining room. And more recently a place for ladies to try on naughty night attire.

She winced. And then there was the alcove curtained off, where she slept. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice.

‘Please, sit down,’ she said.

He took one of the two chairs at the small kitchen table while she busied herself with the pot and tea leaves.

‘This is where you live?’ he asked, his voice full of curiosity. ‘All alone?’

‘This is where I stay during the week while the shop is open. I go home at week’s end to collect more stock.’ She glanced over her shoulder to discover he was frowning.

‘London is not a safe city for a woman on her own,’ he said.

‘I am perfectly safe. My landlord, Mr Thrumby, lives upstairs and his man keeps an eye on my safety.’

He looked less than satisfied. She hadn’t expected him to care about her well-being. It surprised her and warmed her in odd ways. Something inside her chest seemed to soften.

She brought two cups of tea to the table along with milk and sugar on a small tray. ‘Please, help yourself.’ It was hardly the sort of elegant tea a lady would serve in a drawing room, but she was pleased to see him adding cream and sugar to his cup and sipping the tea appreciatively.

She felt bad for him. While he had not said in so many words that he had been disinherited by his father, clearly it must be the case. A gentleman such as he would have no trade, no skills, to fall back on, so it was no wonder he gambled. And then there were his special ladies. Mrs Baxter-Smythe’s sly words returned to her mind. A terrible idea entered her head. Terrible and exciting and awful. Terrifying.

So awful, yet so awfully tempting. She struggled to think of a way to phrase her question. Her request.

He leaned back in his chair with a boyish smile. A smile quite different from his usual practised charm. It made him seem more endearing. ‘That is the best cup of tea I have had in a long time.’

As a general rule men like him, charming handsome men, made her feel uncomfortable. She always felt awkward, as if her arms were too long and her feet too big. Lord Avery, on the other hand, made her feel...womanly. Even attractive. She could not help beaming back at him. ‘Thank you.’ She took a sip of her own tea.

A friendly silence descended. It felt companionable. As if they had known each other for years.

She put down her cup. ‘I wanted to ask you...’

He tilted his head in question. ‘What?’

‘I am not sure how to put it?’

‘Ask away.’

‘Do you also earn money from the ladies you escort to my shop?’ The words were too blunt when she had meant to be tactful.

He stiffened. ‘What makes you ask?’ he said. His voice was calm, but his eyes were cold. Shuttered.

She repressed a shiver. Oh, dear, why hadn’t she left well enough alone. ‘Something Mrs Baxter-Smythe said.’ Dash it, she should never have opened her mouth. She had spoiled everything.

His lips thinned. ‘Mrs Baxter-Smythe is jealous because I do not count her as one of my special ladies.’

‘Ladies you escort while their husbands are out of town.’

‘Exactly.’ He put down his cup. ‘And, yes, they do pay for my services.’ He picked up his hat.

He was going to leave and she still hadn’t asked her awful question. ‘Can any lady hire your...services?’

His eyes widened, then narrowed. ‘Are you asking for yourself?’

Heat rushed all the way up her face to her hairline, but she was not one to hide behind a lie. ‘I am.’

He put his hat down and shook his head. ‘I am not sure I fully understand what it is you are asking me. The ladies I escort are all wealthy and married. Single ladies present too many complications since I am single myself.’

She twirled her cup on its saucer. Did he think she was looking for a husband? ‘I am not seeking anything permanent, I assure you. I would prefer something...’ She frowned and set the handle of the cup at the proper angle.

‘Something?’ he prompted. His voice held a distinct chill.

She glanced up. His lips were still a thin straight line. ‘Brief,’ she blurted. In for a penny in for a pound her father always used to say. ‘One night. I am willing to pay, of course. Whatever the other ladies pay.’ She still had a little of her personal allowance for the month left over.

His eyebrow lifted. ‘Let me get this clear. You wish to pay me to bed you.’ His tone was grim.

Embarrassment rushed through her in a hot tide. Oh, why had she said anything at all? But having done so, she pressed on, her cheeks hotter than fire. ‘As you can imagine, there are particular disadvantages to being alone. I simply thought that...’ She gave an awkward laugh.

‘I do not bed my special ladies for money, Mrs Greystoke.’ His tone was as dry as dust. ‘I merely serve as their escort in their husband’s absences. And since you do not have a husband, the arrangement would not work.’

He was trying to let her down gently, to couch his rejection in kinder terms. She didn’t believe him for a moment. She had seen the looks that had passed between him and Mrs Luttrell. And Lady Fontly. She wasn’t such a fool as to think the ladies merely wanted him to take them shopping.

Resentment spurted through her and a healthy dose of disappointment. She should have known all his flirting with her was nothing but a hum. ‘You don’t have to lie, Lord Avery. You can simply say no thank you.’

‘You may, of course, think what you wish, Mrs Greystoke, but I would advise you not to listen to gossip.’ He clapped his hat on his head and strode out of her shop.

Clearly, he viewed her offer as an insult. Something in her chest shrivelled.

* * *

‘I win!’

The men around the table groaned as the young fellow opposite Avery laid down his cards and scooped up the guineas in the centre of the table. ‘Waiter, more wine here.’

Astonishment broke Avery broke free of his reverie. He glared at the rapidly disappearing gold. Money he needed for Laura and her family.

‘I’ve no luck tonight,’ one of the other men said.

Another threw his cards down in disgust. ‘I need a drink.’

The whist table broke up.

Avery stared at his hand. He should have won. His skill was legendary among London’s gamers, which was why he had been reduced to gambling in hells like this one, where he would meet men who were not aware of his reputation. Amend that, he thought bitterly. His skill had been legendary. These past few days he’d been unable to concentrate. Not only was he losing at the tables, he’d been avoiding all of his social engagements, including a request from Lady Fontly to suggest a new hairdresser. He knew just the fellow who would have put a considerable sum of money in his pockets.

And now this.

The conclusion he’d been avoiding for the past few days became unavoidable. He needed to see Mrs Greystoke and get the dashed woman out of his head. He could not stop remembering the way she had looked at him when he had refused her offer. It wasn’t the hurt in her eyes that haunted him, it was the acceptance.

She had expected his rejection.

He rose from his seat.

‘What? Giving up already?’ His opponent, Giles Formby, a young gentleman from Surrey, frowned. ‘Don’t you want a chance to recoup your losses?’

Avery shook his head. He wasn’t such a fool as that. ‘Another day.’

Craddock, the hell’s owner, sidled up to Formby. ‘You won’t beat me so easily.’

Giles’s opponents perked up.

‘If you’ll take a bit of advice from someone who knows gaming,’ Avery said to the younger man, ‘leave now, while your dibs are in tune. Come, I’ll find you a hackney outside.’

Formby hesitated, then nodded. ‘You are right. It is getting late.’

Craddock shot Avery a hard look. ‘The night’s young yet, gents.’ His smile became oily as he turned it on Formby. ‘Surely you ain’t leaving yet, young sir? Not when lady luck is looking kindly upon ye.’

The young man glanced at Avery, who raised a brow. He didn’t want to alienate Craddock, but nor did he want to leave a wet-behind-the-ears boy to the cardsharp’s tender mercies. Avery won by skill, Craddock would use any means at his disposal to relieve the young man of the money he had won.

No one who did not pay for the privilege was supposed to win in this place. Including Avery, who paid a percentage of his winnings for a place at Craddock’s tables. Avery had contributed a considerable sum of money over the past couple of months. He hoped Craddock would let him get away with leading the mark out of trouble, at least this once.

He leaned close to the young fellow’s ear. ‘I know a place where the wine flows free and a man can find himself cosy between the sheets.’

Giles swallowed. ‘A brothel?’

Damn, but the boy was a fool. Had Avery ever been that innocent? ‘A very exclusive place I know. Want to go?’

Giles nodded eagerly.

Craddock frowned, but let them leave without another word. No doubt he assumed that Avery had another plan to get his fingers on the boy’s money, so he would be receiving his share later.

Outside in the brisk evening air, Avery pushed Giles into a hackney. ‘Where do you live.’

Giles looked puzzled. ‘I am lodging in Golden Square. Number three. Why?’

Avery gave the address to the driver.

‘I thought we were going to a brothel?’

‘You are going to a place where you don’t have to pay for wine and you have clean sheets waiting. You will thank me tomorrow. And so will your parents.’

The boy looked chagrined at the reminder of his parents and then grinned broadly. ‘Won’t Pater be proud when I tell him I won. After all his warnings about gambling hells, too.’

‘Only if you refrain from going to another,’ Avery said drily. ‘You were lucky tonight.’

‘I know. And besides, tonight was my last night here. I am due home tomorrow. I’m on my way down from Oxford. I can’t delay any longer or Papa will worry. He’s not a bad old chap, but he does fuss so.’

Very lucky indeed. Avery wished he had a papa who cared enough to fuss over him.

‘Buy a nice gift for your mama and buy a new waistcoat for yourself and go home.’

The boy sank back against the squabs, his expression thoughtful. ‘Thank you, sir. I will.’

The boy might be naive, but he wasn’t stupid. Avery wondered if he would have been so sensible at that age. He stepped back and the hackney coach clattered off into the night.

He strode down the street and turned into the alley that ran behind Mrs Greystoke’s shop. There was an odd feeling in his gut. A sense he might be making the worst mistake of his life. The gold plate on the door identified the residence of a Mr Arnold Thrumby. He hesitated. Did he really want to do this?

Her expression, the instant acceptance of his rejection, swam before his eyes once again. If nothing else, he could not allow her to continue to believe she was not worthy of his attentions. Damnation and how the hell was he to do that? He’d just have to play it by ear. The way he always did.

He knocked.

After a few long moments, the peephole opened. ‘Who be knocking at respectable folks’ door at this time of the night?’ a deep voice grumbled.

‘A visitor for Mrs Greystoke. Lord Avery. I am expected.’

Hopefully the lady would not give him the lie. Though he would not put it past her to deny him entry. She was not like any other woman he had ever known. Which accounted for some of his fascination.

Footsteps retreated and a little later returned. ‘She says you best come in.’

The elderly porter opened the door and stood back. ‘At the end of the hall there.’ He indicated with his thumb. He locked and bolted the door and sat back down at his post.

So much for her safety. The porter needed a swift kick somewhere it would hurt for letting a man visit the lady in the middle of the night.

The door to Mrs Greystoke’s apartment stood ajar, allowing a small bar of light to escape into the corridor. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

She was sitting at the kitchen table facing the door, wearing an old brown woollen dressing gown pulled tight around her form. A heavy rope of brown hair curled over her shoulder and rested on her generous right breast. At her throat, a fragment of lace peeped out from the enveloping gown and skimmed the hollow of her throat. The scrap of frill was a nod to her femininity. And it was the most erotic sight he had ever beheld.

Slowly he raised his gaze to her face. ‘Mrs Greystoke. Good of you to see me at this late hour.’

‘Lord Avery?’

Her voice held a question, though her face was perfectly calm. A calmness she wore like armour to hide her worry. But the tremble in the hand that clutched her robe close gave her away.

He shouldn’t have come. ‘I don’t suppose you would offer me a cup of tea?’

She stared at him for a long moment.

He really should not have come.

She rose from her chair, tall, magnificent, composed. ‘Very well.’


Chapter Four (#u199ae4cf-f451-57f2-92dd-d710d7f6183e)

He wanted a cup of tea at this late hour? What did he think this was? A tea house? To calm her thundering heart, she busied herself with stirring up the coals and filling the kettle of water. To her mortification, she realised he was still standing with his back against the door. Watching her. And taking up far too much space in her little kitchen.

‘Please,’ she said. ‘Sit down.’

He moved with cat-like grace across the small space and took the chair against the wall beside the kitchen table. It didn’t help. His watchful presence unnerved her. She should have told the porter to send him away. Of course she should. But then she never did anything she was supposed to do. Except for marry Greystoke. And look what a mistake that had turned out to be.

He said nothing. Why didn’t he say anything?

She was hopeless at small talk.

She kept her back firmly pointed in his direction, until finally there was no more excuse to avoid his gaze. She carried the tea tray to the table and set it down. She sat opposite and poured his tea. She recalled he liked lots of sugar and cream and put plenty in before handing him his cup.

‘Thank you.’ His deep voice resonated around the room.

‘I—I don’t have any biscuits, I’m afraid. I gave them all to Jeb. For his journey. To Kent. I haven’t had time to bake more.’

He stirred his tea, took a sip. ‘Excellent.’

She blushed like a schoolgirl at the compliment.

He leaned against the chairback. Relaxed. Confident. Elegant. Whereas she felt as if her hands were too large for her arms, like an ungainly colt.

‘Was there something you wanted?’ she blurted. So awkward. And her blush went from warm to scalding.

He put down his cup. ‘I have been considering your proposal.’

The blood drained from her head. ‘No. I mean I made a mistake. I wish you to forget it.’

A brow lifted. He tilted his head. ‘I wish you would hear me out.’

She turned her face away. Embarrassed. Mortified. Angry at her stupid impulse. ‘I beg you will say no more on the matter. You were clearly insulted by what I asked.’

‘Mrs Greystoke, I apologise if I was rude. I ought to be used to the gossips by now.’

She drew in a shuddery breath. ‘But I think ladies do not generally ask for your services so bluntly.’ She tried a smile. It felt weak. She straightened her shoulders. ‘Let us say I have changed my mind.’

‘Have you?’ His voice sounded wistful. Almost regretful.

Again the horrible blush. She’d done nothing but dream about the what ifs all day. What if she had flirted with him? What if she had enticed him? What if she had been someone other than Carrie Greystoke, daughter of a merchant and as blunt as a darning needle?

He reached across the table and took her hand, gently, lightly, his thumb brushing across the back of her fingers. Tingles shot all the way up her arm. She drew in a quick breath. Never had she felt anything so startlingly sensual. Her inner muscles clenched.





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