The Golden Season by Connie Brockway Page B

before and she’d wager none of her companions had either. They would have mentioned someone with his extraordinary looks. Yet his manner was that of a gentleman and his coat had clearly been cut by the great Weston.
    “I was told that you had some fine walking sticks. I’m interested in seeing them.”
    “Walking sticks?” she echoed. She had no idea whether Roubalais carried walking sticks. She did know, however, that Littner and Cobb on St. James Street did.
    “Yes. Something in silver or ivory, if possible.”
    “I see.” She glanced around as though fearing an eavesdropper and sidled closer, beginning to enjoy her spontaneous stagecraft. “Look ’ere, sir. I’m going to tell you something maybe I oughtn’t.” She eyed him closely. “ ’Cause you seem a nice sorta fella, new to town and all.”
    For a second his surprise flickered in his gray-blue eyes, but his smile remained easy and neutral. “Oh, I am a nice fella,” the gentleman avowed. The neutrality in his expression had relaxed into subtle amusement. “And I am new to town. But however did you know that?”
    Because someone would have told me about a gentleman like you, Lydia thought. She gave him a cheeky smile. “Because your coat is brand-new. Not a seam turned. As are your boots and trousers. And that hat in your ’and ain’t never seen a London pea souper.”
    “How very astute of you. And intriguing.”
    She tipped her head. She liked the notion of intriguing this gentleman as much as he intrigued her. Tall, lean, and dressed in the height of masculine fashion, he might have been any London gentleman. Except, he did not look like a London gentleman. His skin was too tanned and his gaze too frank and his tall figure too straight and . . . formidable.
    “What’s intriguing?” she asked, knowing she was staring but giving herself permission because she was Berthe the shopgirl and Berthe had never seen the likes of him. True, neither had Lady Lydia Eastlake, but she would never stare.
    “How your H appears and disappears,” he said, then clarified, “You said, ‘the hat in your ’and.’ ”
    Drat! Heat rushed into her cheeks. It was impossible to say from his tone whether he was twitting her or not.
    “I’m trying to improve myself,” she said, pulling herself up to her full five foot, four inches. “My uncle says as how one ought to speak like a lady if one is serving ladies.”
    “Ah!” He nodded. “That explains it. But now, what was this thing you were going to tell me because I am a nice fella new to town?”
    “Well . . . truth to tell, we ’aven’t”—she paused to correct herself, feeling very clever—“I mean haven’t the selection of walking sticks that Littner and Cobb over on St. James do.”
    There. That ought to get rid of him before Berthe and Roubalais returned. . . . Except she realized she didn’t want to get rid of him and he didn’t seem in any hurry to leave.
    “Do they?” he asked. “How kind of you to suggest it, even though it means the loss of a sale for your master.”
    “He isn’t my master,” Lydia said without thinking and then quickly amended, “He’s my uncle and he sells lots of other sorts of goods, antiquities and jewelry and such, and I assure you he shall not miss the price fetched by one walking stick.” She bobbed a curtsy. “Sir.”
    “That is kind of you. Miss,” he said. “But before I go, let me first return the favor you’ve done me by purchasing something from your uncle’s shop. What can you show me?”
    Show him? She hadn’t any idea. She doubted he was in the market for a parure unless there was some lady . . . “We have a beautiful parure of amethyst and pearls that might be for sale. Perhaps you’d like to look at them for your . . . wife?”
    “Alas, I am not so blessed,” he said. One corner of his mobile mouth twitched. He knew quite well what she’d been about.
    She blushed as she was visited by the notion that the reserve she’d noted on