The Golden Season (7 page)

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 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 first seeing him was, as his posture, a matter of habit, not something he consciously adopted, and that there was more that went on beneath his handsome countenance than his mild expression allowed one to see.

“So no jewelry. Something for myself, I think,” he was saying. “Something, well, that you might like.”

“Me?”

“Yes,” he said, clasping his hands lightly behind his back. “You.”

Good heavens. Was he flirting with her? She was caught between being appalled that she was receiving the attentions gentlemen reserved for shopgirls and thrilled that she’d elicited them. She wasn’t sure what to make of him. What if he pressed his attention further? How horrifying that would be for both of them, because then she would be forced to reveal herself.

Her distress must have shown, for his gaze softened.
Not spring ice, twilight fog.
“Miss,” he said gently. “I am asking for your opinion, not offering you carte blanche.”

She blushed deeply. Now she truly felt like a fool. The poor man! Of course he hadn’t been flirting with her. A gentleman of his obvious quality wouldn’t impose on a girl dependent on his goodwill for her livelihood.

“Of course not,” she denied. “I was just wondering what to show you.” Now she’d have to think of something. What sort of ridiculous mull had she gotten herself into? Her eye caught on the ladder and she had an idea. “There’s a splendid Oriental bowl on the top shelf there that you might be interested in.”

“That sounds promising,” he said.

“Here. Let me get it for you.” She’d just put her foot on the first rung when his hand, broad, long fingered, and masculine, appeared above hers on the ladder rail. She swung around, nearly bumping into him. He was very tall. She had to tip her head to look up into his eyes. This close she could discern a coppery corona around the blue-gray irises.

“This ladder doesn’t look too sturdy,” he explained.

She backed up, bumping into the ladder, feeling ridiculously callow, stammering and blushing like a fifteen-year-old debutante. Her friends would have laughed themselves ill if they could see her now.

“Kind of you to worry, sir, but I’ll be fine,” she said, clambering up the rungs past the arm steadying the ladder. Unfortunately, she clambered too quickly.

Her foot slipped and she lost her balance. Before she could even gasp, strong hands had caught her around the waist and plucked her deftly from mid-tumble, swinging her up against a broad, hard chest. For one timeless second she was held gazing into his eyes. Something flickered in their depths. Did he catch his breath or was that her? Her. Because then he was lowering her lightly back to earth and releasing her, his expression showing no more than slight concern.

“Allow me,” he said. His voice was entirely calm.

If only the same could be said of her heartbeat. It pattered madly.

Without waiting permission, he moved past her up the ladder. He didn’t need to climb nearly as high as she and when he stopped, he had only to stretch out a long arm to secure the bowl and lift it from the shelf.

He returned with it and handed it to her. “This is the bowl?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. She took it from him and her attention shifted. She loved such things.

At first, she’d taken to studying the artifacts in Sir Grimley’s house because there’d been little else to do in the big, cavernous manor without any company other than the servants that her guardian employed. But later, she’d developed an honest fascination. Not that very many people knew this. Expertise was not required of a beauty.

Now, her practiced eye moved over the high-footed rim of the bowl, the impressed woven silk pattern under the blue and white glaze and the pinholes in the base. Her own home had many examples of such porcelain.

“Chinese,” she murmured. “Kangxi, I believe. One can tell because of the Islamic influence of the design and the crowding of the figures.”

“Ah, you are a connoisseur,” he said.

“Merely an enthusiast,” she demurred. It was a lovely thing, in perfect condition. “This is a very handsome piece.”

“Extraordinary, I’d say.” His voice was thoughtful.

She looked up. He was regarding her intently. “You know something about Chinese porcelain?”

“Not really,” he admitted. “But I do know quality when I see it. Yes, I believe I have found exactly what I want.”

“This is not all that old, less than a hundred years if I am correct, but still quite rare,” she said. She could not resist teasing him a bit. “Perhaps you can’t afford it.”

“I almost certainly cannot.” His smile was lopsided and wry.

“Then perhaps you ought to ask the price before you set your heart on it.”

“It’s too late for that, I’m afraid,” he said.

She laughed. “You are too frank, sir. It makes you vulnerable. Someone less honest than I would be tempted to take advantage of such openness.”

He sketched a courtly bow. “I am at the mercy of your better self.”

“Ah!” She waggled a finger at him. “But you are assuming I have a better self. Perhaps I am entirely mercenary.”

“Are you?” he asked and Lydia checked, regarding him in surprise.

He was serious. And he obviously expected her to answer him in kind. She didn’t know how to react. Gentlemen of her acquaintance played at conversation. They did not seek honesty from words, only sport.

She felt heat rise in her cheeks as he caught her interest anew, this time with something other than his manners and his looks. Now she wanted to know not only who he was, but what manner of man.

“Miss?”

She was not about to answer a question about whether she was mercenary or not, particularly now, when she’d so recently decided to barter her independence for wealth. “I’m afraid I don’t know what my uncle is asking for it,” she said instead.

“Ah. Then I’ll wait.”

At this, Lydia’s head snapped around. “No! I mean, my uncle warned me he would be gone for quite some time, hours perhaps, and you can’t mean to dally here all afternoon.”

“No? But there’s so much to explore. So many unanticipated surprises.”

Panic touched her. If this man found out she’d masqueraded as a shopgirl, he would think her the worst sort of romp, on par with Caroline Lamb, who for years had made a fool of herself by chasing after Byron. And should he then relate the tale—and men
always
related such tales—oh, no!

Perhaps she should throw herself on his mercy? If she told him all and appealed to him as a gentleman, he would be obliged to keep her confidence. But he would still think her a hoyden. She didn’t want him to think she was a hoyden! Oh!

And it was at that moment that Berthe’s baby, forgotten and fragrant, wet and hungry, who’d woken when the candlestick hit the floor and had been industriously sucking on his foot for the last fifteen minutes, decided he’d enough of this unproductive occupation and commenced howling.

“What in God’s name is that?” the gentleman asked.

“The baby!” Lydia said, clapping a hand to her cheek. She brushed past him, hurrying over to the bombé chest. The baby’s face was screwed up in a little red knot, its mouth a circle of outrage.

Without thinking, she reached into the drawer and swept the infant into her arms, blanket and all. “Hush. Hush little . . . little . . . one,” she crooned against its damp skull.

It wailed louder.

She stared helplessly at the gorgeous gentleman. He looked as unnerved as she felt.

“Is the baby
yours
?” he asked.

“Good Lord, no!” she burst out. “It’s . . . it’s my cousin’s.”