Page 11 of Bookshop Cinderella

Max, having overheard her question about women’s rights, knew there was noperhapsabout it, but he didn’t say so. And having once had a very passionate and rewarding interlude with a widowed suffragist, he could also have pointed out the charming advantages of being in the company of women who regarded men as equals instead of superiors. But with these three, it would be a waste of breath. Besides, a gentleman couldn’t give chapter and verse on things like that. It simply wasn’t done.

“I say you’re right, Timmy,” Freddie went on. “That vinegar-tongued, freckled thing who looks as if some brute’s given her two black eyes? No gentleman would look at her twice, much less comply with her demands.”

Perhaps it was all the strong cocktails he’d consumed. Or his innate sense of fair play. Or perhaps he just had a weakness for defending those who were not available to defend themselves. But whatever the reason, Max found himself unable to stand by as these scathing criticisms of the absent Miss Harlow were bandied about.

“I fear I must disagree with you, gentlemen,” he said. “Miss Harlow strikes me as a young woman with a great deal of potential. All she needs,” he added as the other three burst into disbelieving laughter, “is some new clothes, an awareness of her own attractions, and some sleep.”

“She has attractions?” Freddie asked. “I didn’t notice.”

“Get the poor girl some rest,” Max persisted, “find a maid to dress her hair and massage away those dark circles, a modiste to put her in a fetching ball gown, and a jeweler to hang some glittering baubles around her neck, and you three would soon sit up and take notice.”

“You’re mad, Westbourne.” Timothy Banforth shook his head, staring at Max with pity.

Max gave a shrug. “Laugh if you like, but I think the girl has the potential to be an incomparable beauty. And I daresay there’s plenty of men who’d agree with me. Launch her into society, introduce her about, and she’d have suitors lined up outside her door within a month.”

“He’s raving,” Thomas agreed at once. “What do you think, Freddie?”

“That girl, a beauty?” Freddie laughed. “She’s about the plainest, most unremarkable girl I’ve ever seen. The duke would have his work cut out to change her into a beauty. I say,” he added, slapping one hand down on the table with enough force to rattle the empty glasses, “that’s an idea. Westbourne thinks Little Miss Bookshop is some sort of Cinderella? All right, then; he needs to prove it. A wager is clearly called for.”

Max laughed. “What are you saying? That you want me to play Fairy Godmother—Godfather, in this case—and transform Miss Harlow into the sort of girl who could captivate the handsome prince?”

“If you can.” Freddie gave him a smirk. “A hundred pounds says you can’t.”

He was tempted, by God, if for no other reason than to put this man-child in his place. And it would probably do the girl a world of good to have some fun for a change.

Delia’s words came back to him, something about how the men she met were usually musty old duffers, and after seeing her shop, he could well believe it. Young men might read, but their literary choices didn’t often include an originalMalleus Maleficarumor a pristine edition ofThe Pilgrim’s Progressprinted in the time of Queen Anne. No, eligible young men would most likely be found at Hatchards, perusing copies ofThe Prisoner of Zendain the hope of impressing any young ladies who might stroll by.

Given her situation andlack of desirable suitors, Max supposed her attraction to that odious Roryfellow was understandable, but he was still irked by it. She was far too good forhim.

Ah, but get a few good men clamoring for her attention, asking for dances, treating her with the consideration and respect she deserved, and she’d soon see she could do much better for herself than a lout on the make whose primary interest in women was what he could get out of them. What a lark it would be, Max thought, to watch her make that particular discovery.

“What’s wrong, Westbourne?” Timothy asked, interrupting his contemplations. “Losing your nerve now that there’s money on the line?”

Max’s current bank balance could have supported a bet a thousand times greater than this one, but he didn’t say so. “On the contrary,” he replied as he set down his empty glass. “You’ve challenged me, and I adore a challenge. Just how long,” he added recklessly, “would I have to effect the transformation of Miss Harlow?”

“Oh, we’ll give you plenty of time before you have to pay up,” Freddie assured him with a breezy confidence Max found irritating as hell. “You’re sponsoring a charity ball in the middle of June, aren’t you? London hospitals, army widows, or some such?”

“Orphanages.”

“There you are, then. Arrange for her to be at the ball, and if she dances every dance, then you win. That gives you six weeks to get her ready.”

“That’s enough time, I grant you, but…” He paused, frowning, trying to think past the exhilarating fog of too much rye and vermouth. “There are difficulties.”

“Oh, listen to him, gentlemen,” Freddie said, laughing. “He’s trying to back out already.”

“You misunderstand me. The girl doesn’t move in society. She’s unknown.”

“Which is why your charity ball is perfect. You don’t need to worry that inviting a nobody like her will raise eyebrows, since all she has to do to attend is buy a voucher.”

He suppressed the impulse to roll his eyes. A voucher for his charity ball cost far more than a woman of Miss Harlow’s station in life could afford. So like Freddie to be oblivious to facts like that. “I’m not worried about how to get her into the ball, Freddie. That’s easily managed. It’s my ball, after all. But the girl can hardly go alone. She’ll need a chaperone.”

“Nothing could be simpler. Get one of your sisters to take her.”

That, Max knew, was an untenable option. Even if one of his sisters could be prevailed upon to chaperone a girl she didn’t know, he had no intention of putting his own matrimonial plans in the sight of his interfering sisters to make it happen.

“They’re not coming for the season,” he said, crossing his fingers that keeping the house closed would be enough to deter them until his engagement to Helen was afait accompli. “But perhaps...” He paused, considering. “Perhaps my cousin Delia could be prevailed upon. She returns from Rome in about a month, and she already knows the girl and likes her.”

“Then we’re on,” Freddie countered triumphantly. “But you must agree to play fair. No dancing with the girl yourself at the ball, and no persuading or bribing friends in your own circle to fill her dance card.”

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