whose acquaintance one hastened to make.
“I do hope so,” she said. “Mr. Widdershin,” she said in a stage whisper, “said that I wouldn’t be able to come into the shop again if there were any more problems.”
There followed the sound of books being shifted, some muttering, the scuffling of feet. Intensely curious, Eliza carefully inched Travels through Rome halfway out of its place on the shelf and peered through the opening. She could just see the back of Tommy as he leaned close to the shelf opposite and probed among the books.
He was wearing buff trousers and a bright blue tailcoat that made her think of spice-scented marketplaces and exotic birds. She supposed he must have had it made in India. His broad shoulders filled out the coat in a way that made her want to stare. Still poking about among the books, he lifted his arms and reached the highest shelf.
“You surely wouldn’t have put it here, Mrs. Dombrell—or would you have?” he asked playfully, and the older lady giggled. He was flirting with her! With musty, odd, sweet Mrs. Dombrell, who surely hadn’t had kind attention from a handsome gentleman in who knew how long.
Something squeezed in the region of Eliza’s heart as she remembered how genuinely charming he’d always been toward females who were ignored for reasons such as age, lack of beauty, or general awkwardness. It had been one of his most endearing qualities, this innate kindness, and she was glad that life hadn’t burned it out of him.
“Oh, Sir Tommy,” Mrs. Dombrell said delightedly, “how you jest. I could never reach that high without long arms like yours.”
The arms in question were certainly appealing. The tropical blue fabric of his coat strained against them, defining firm curves here and there. Being able to watch him unobserved was quite nice, because although he’d been perfectly—maddeningly—polite the day before, his manner had been reserved and hidden, not open and warm as he was being with Mrs. Dombrell. Eliza had to suppose that was because he hadn’t been happy to see her.
The realization stung, because clearly, from his behavior toward Mrs. Dombrell and the adulation that seemingly every other female in London was heaping on him, he was still capable of being one of the most charming fellows in the world if one were in his good graces. Which she clearly was not.
She reminded herself that she was no longer interested in either charming or being charmed by men and told herself to stop looking at his arms.
He turned to the side to reach for a shelf that was perpendicular to the one in front of him, and Eliza drew back a bit from the book slot to avoid being seen. But if she tilted her head, she could still see him through the space just above the tops of the books on the shelf. His expression bore a look of affectionate amusement with Mrs. Dombrell.
He’d always been so fun and lighthearted—it was one of the things Eliza had loved best about him. And dear God but he was handsome, even more so than he’d been years before. The taut planes and curves of his face under his bronzed skin seemed fascinating, suggesting experiences about which she knew herself to be curious.
Longing pierced her. What if, instead of laughing at him years ago, she’d said yes to his proposal? Her life would have been entirely different. For one thing, there would be no Truehart Manor.
But even now, she didn’t see how they could have grown up together as well as they’d grown up apart. She’d needed to learn things that she might never have learned if she’d been married to him at the age of seventeen.
He plucked at something amid the books on the opposite shelf, a greasy-looking packet of the kind that contained meat pies sold on the street. It looked disreputable, but Tommy presented it to Mrs. Dombrell with a flourish.
The older lady blushed and accepted the packet. “Thank you ever so much, Sir Tommy.”
“It was nothing, my dear Mrs. D. Only”—he glanced
“I do hope so,” she said. “Mr. Widdershin,” she said in a stage whisper, “said that I wouldn’t be able to come into the shop again if there were any more problems.”
There followed the sound of books being shifted, some muttering, the scuffling of feet. Intensely curious, Eliza carefully inched Travels through Rome halfway out of its place on the shelf and peered through the opening. She could just see the back of Tommy as he leaned close to the shelf opposite and probed among the books.
He was wearing buff trousers and a bright blue tailcoat that made her think of spice-scented marketplaces and exotic birds. She supposed he must have had it made in India. His broad shoulders filled out the coat in a way that made her want to stare. Still poking about among the books, he lifted his arms and reached the highest shelf.
“You surely wouldn’t have put it here, Mrs. Dombrell—or would you have?” he asked playfully, and the older lady giggled. He was flirting with her! With musty, odd, sweet Mrs. Dombrell, who surely hadn’t had kind attention from a handsome gentleman in who knew how long.
Something squeezed in the region of Eliza’s heart as she remembered how genuinely charming he’d always been toward females who were ignored for reasons such as age, lack of beauty, or general awkwardness. It had been one of his most endearing qualities, this innate kindness, and she was glad that life hadn’t burned it out of him.
“Oh, Sir Tommy,” Mrs. Dombrell said delightedly, “how you jest. I could never reach that high without long arms like yours.”
The arms in question were certainly appealing. The tropical blue fabric of his coat strained against them, defining firm curves here and there. Being able to watch him unobserved was quite nice, because although he’d been perfectly—maddeningly—polite the day before, his manner had been reserved and hidden, not open and warm as he was being with Mrs. Dombrell. Eliza had to suppose that was because he hadn’t been happy to see her.
The realization stung, because clearly, from his behavior toward Mrs. Dombrell and the adulation that seemingly every other female in London was heaping on him, he was still capable of being one of the most charming fellows in the world if one were in his good graces. Which she clearly was not.
She reminded herself that she was no longer interested in either charming or being charmed by men and told herself to stop looking at his arms.
He turned to the side to reach for a shelf that was perpendicular to the one in front of him, and Eliza drew back a bit from the book slot to avoid being seen. But if she tilted her head, she could still see him through the space just above the tops of the books on the shelf. His expression bore a look of affectionate amusement with Mrs. Dombrell.
He’d always been so fun and lighthearted—it was one of the things Eliza had loved best about him. And dear God but he was handsome, even more so than he’d been years before. The taut planes and curves of his face under his bronzed skin seemed fascinating, suggesting experiences about which she knew herself to be curious.
Longing pierced her. What if, instead of laughing at him years ago, she’d said yes to his proposal? Her life would have been entirely different. For one thing, there would be no Truehart Manor.
But even now, she didn’t see how they could have grown up together as well as they’d grown up apart. She’d needed to learn things that she might never have learned if she’d been married to him at the age of seventeen.
He plucked at something amid the books on the opposite shelf, a greasy-looking packet of the kind that contained meat pies sold on the street. It looked disreputable, but Tommy presented it to Mrs. Dombrell with a flourish.
The older lady blushed and accepted the packet. “Thank you ever so much, Sir Tommy.”
“It was nothing, my dear Mrs. D. Only”—he glanced
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