garment, rolled back the sleeves, and commenced climbing the ladder. It was a good deal more rickety than she’d expected and the notion that this might not be a wise idea occurred to her, but her legs kept moving and before she knew it, she’d made it to the top. On the other side of a moldering cardboard box, a stunning Oriental bowl beckoned.
Her eyes widened with delighted discovery. She recognized this! Certainly it was Chinese. Kangxi? She had to get a better look. . . .
She grasped the edge of a box obstructing the bowl and gave it a cursory tug. The moldering side broke away. Startled, Lydia snatched her hand back, accidentally knocking over a silver candlestick holder and sending it rolling toward the edge. With a gasp, she ducked, but not before the candlestick fell, catching the brim of her hat and knocking it from her head, causing her elegant coiffure to come half undone. The candlestick clattered to the floor.
She held her breath and counted, praying the baby didn’t wake. It didn’t.
Relieved, she brushed her hair from her face and too late realized her hand was dirty and that she’d just smeared grime across her forehead. “Damn.”
She eyed the bowl, still resting above her. It glinted enticingly. She must see if she was right. She stretched to the top of her toes, sliding aside the torn box. It caught up on something and there was no way she could reach around it to the bowl. She dared not attempt to move the crumbling box lest it disintegrate completely. Which meant she would simply have to reposition the ladder—
The bell above the shop’s front door jingled jauntily, announcing someone’s arrival. And not a moment later, a deep masculine voice said, “Excuse me.”
Lydia looked over her shoulder and down toward the door. A tall, broad-shouldered gentleman stood below her, his hat in his hand, the sun glinting off guinea-gold hair.
He was quite simply one of the most handsome men Lydia had ever seen. His face was composed of strong, sculpted features: a high, straight-bridged nose, a wide mouth, and a square, clean-shaven jaw. And was that . . . ? Yes. His chin sported a cleft. She’d always had a weakness for men with clefts in their chin. Her father had had one. He, too, had been a strikingly handsome man.
The gentleman’s expression was pleasant but reserved. His bearing was strictly erect but without self-consciousness, the results of training, not of conscious effort.
“Can you help me?” he asked.
Lydia realized that not only was she gawking like a shopgirl at the handsome stranger but that he had, in fact, mistaken her for one. And why not? Her hair had come half-undone, a dusty old smock covered her stylish dress, and there was dirt on her face.
She came to her senses with a start. She couldn’t have a gentleman see her like this. Here . First and most important, because no one had ever seen Lady Lydia Eastlake in such a grimy state—not that she’d never been in one before, but no stranger had ever caught her in one. And second, because ladies did not engage in vulgar transactions with pawnbrokers. And since being a nonpareil and a lady were amongst the few things she still possessed, she was not going to be disowned of them, too.
There was nothing for it but to pretend she was exactly what he’d mistaken her for. She composed a pleasant, helpful smile and started down the ladder. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Just doing a bit of tidyin’ up like,” she said, pleased with her Cheapside accent even though the real Berthe Roubalais did not have one. She stepped off the bottom rung onto the floor and dusted her palms off on the smock. “How can I ’elp you?”
The man drew closer, and now that she was back on the ground she could see that his eyes were a soft blue-gray, like spring ice, and banked by thick, sooty lashes. In addition, he was smiling now, making his good looks even more devastating.
Who is he ? She knew everyone in Society and she had never seen him
Her eyes widened with delighted discovery. She recognized this! Certainly it was Chinese. Kangxi? She had to get a better look. . . .
She grasped the edge of a box obstructing the bowl and gave it a cursory tug. The moldering side broke away. Startled, Lydia snatched her hand back, accidentally knocking over a silver candlestick holder and sending it rolling toward the edge. With a gasp, she ducked, but not before the candlestick fell, catching the brim of her hat and knocking it from her head, causing her elegant coiffure to come half undone. The candlestick clattered to the floor.
She held her breath and counted, praying the baby didn’t wake. It didn’t.
Relieved, she brushed her hair from her face and too late realized her hand was dirty and that she’d just smeared grime across her forehead. “Damn.”
She eyed the bowl, still resting above her. It glinted enticingly. She must see if she was right. She stretched to the top of her toes, sliding aside the torn box. It caught up on something and there was no way she could reach around it to the bowl. She dared not attempt to move the crumbling box lest it disintegrate completely. Which meant she would simply have to reposition the ladder—
The bell above the shop’s front door jingled jauntily, announcing someone’s arrival. And not a moment later, a deep masculine voice said, “Excuse me.”
Lydia looked over her shoulder and down toward the door. A tall, broad-shouldered gentleman stood below her, his hat in his hand, the sun glinting off guinea-gold hair.
He was quite simply one of the most handsome men Lydia had ever seen. His face was composed of strong, sculpted features: a high, straight-bridged nose, a wide mouth, and a square, clean-shaven jaw. And was that . . . ? Yes. His chin sported a cleft. She’d always had a weakness for men with clefts in their chin. Her father had had one. He, too, had been a strikingly handsome man.
The gentleman’s expression was pleasant but reserved. His bearing was strictly erect but without self-consciousness, the results of training, not of conscious effort.
“Can you help me?” he asked.
Lydia realized that not only was she gawking like a shopgirl at the handsome stranger but that he had, in fact, mistaken her for one. And why not? Her hair had come half-undone, a dusty old smock covered her stylish dress, and there was dirt on her face.
She came to her senses with a start. She couldn’t have a gentleman see her like this. Here . First and most important, because no one had ever seen Lady Lydia Eastlake in such a grimy state—not that she’d never been in one before, but no stranger had ever caught her in one. And second, because ladies did not engage in vulgar transactions with pawnbrokers. And since being a nonpareil and a lady were amongst the few things she still possessed, she was not going to be disowned of them, too.
There was nothing for it but to pretend she was exactly what he’d mistaken her for. She composed a pleasant, helpful smile and started down the ladder. “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Just doing a bit of tidyin’ up like,” she said, pleased with her Cheapside accent even though the real Berthe Roubalais did not have one. She stepped off the bottom rung onto the floor and dusted her palms off on the smock. “How can I ’elp you?”
The man drew closer, and now that she was back on the ground she could see that his eyes were a soft blue-gray, like spring ice, and banked by thick, sooty lashes. In addition, he was smiling now, making his good looks even more devastating.
Who is he ? She knew everyone in Society and she had never seen him
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