Page 7 of Bookshop Cinderella

“See you tomorrow,” she called after him, hating that this lovely interlude was ending so soon. “Good day, Rory.”

He acknowledged her farewell with a wave of his hand, but he did not pause until he reached the door, where he turned to look at her. “Evie?”

She leaned forward, smiling, hopeful. “Yes?”

“Do you think we might have some of those delicious sandwiches and cakes of yours as refreshments?”

Those words were not quite what she’d been hoping for, but Evie could feel the stranger’s gaze on her, and she pasted on a smile. “I’d be happy to,” she said, as if serving up sandwiches and cake to a roomful of people was something she could afford to do every day.

“Thank you, Evie,” he said, smiling back at her as he opened the door. “You’re an angel.”

And then he was gone.

Evie leaned over the counter, craning her neck to watch him through the shop’s plate glass windows as he walked away, but he didn’t glance back as he started down the street.

You’re an angel.

He vanished from view, disappearing beyond the frame of the window, and Evie sank back down onto her heels with a dreamy sigh.

He’d be coming to the shop even more often now. He believed in women’s rights. He needed her help. He thought she was anangel.

“Ahem.”

The sound forced Evie out of her blissful reverie, and she turned to face the man who had been making those impolite sounds of derision and expressing derogatory opinions about a conversation that was none of his business.

For some reason, he seemed as irritated by her as she was by him. His dark eyes told her nothing, but an unmistakable frown creased his brow beneath his hat, and his mouth was pressed into a tight line. His face was handsome enough, she supposed, but in its lean, chiseled contours was the undeniable arrogance of a man accustomed to being immediately obeyed. That, along with his disdainful remarks a few moments ago and the expensive cut of his clothes, forced Evie to conclude he was one of those spoiled rich toffs who didn’t like being forced to wait his turn.

He gave a nod toward the door where Rory had just gone out. “Friend of yours, I take it?” he asked.

His voice was a well-bred drawl, but she caught the cutting edge beneath it, and her animosity shot up a notch. It wouldn’t do to show it, however. “May I help you?” she asked with cool courtesy.

“I believe so, yes,” he said, doffing his hat. “I’m—”

He was interrupted by the jangle of the bell, the opening of the door, and the raucous laughter of three young men who entered the shop.

“Ha! There you are, Westbourne!” one of them pronounced in a loud voice unmistakably slurred by drink. “We knew we’d lost you somewhere along here, but in looking for you, we passed right by this place twice. We never dreamed you’d be in abookshop.”

The other two men who’d entered with him laughed uproariously at that, though Evie couldn’t for the life of her fathom what they found so entertaining.

“It’s not my usual line of country, Freddie, I grant you,” the man replied, giving Evie the heaven-sent opportunity to make a derisive sound of her own.

Sadly, he didn’t seem to hear it. “I’m here,” he continued, “on an errand for my cousin.”

“You’re filled to the brim with family feeling, and I do admire you for it,” the man called Freddie replied. “But you won’t be long, will you? Bookshops are so damnably dull. This one especially so,” he added with a disapproving look around that made Evie bristle. Her shop might be small and not very posh, but when it came to the quality of the books, Harlow’s defeated any of the fashionable bookshops frequented by the nobs.

“Not long,” the man Westbourne replied. “Five minutes, at most.”

His companions wandered off to explore, making no effort to modulate their voices or quiet their laughter, and asWestbourne returned his attention to her, Evie couldn’t resist getting a bit of her own back. “Friends of yours, I take it?” she asked sweetly.

Having his own question tossed back in his face didn’t discomfit him in the least. “I wouldn’t precisely say that,” he answered with a shrug. “To these young turks, I fear I’m far more like a tiresome older brother than friend.”

The tiresome part, Evie could believe, but despite his words, he didn’t look all that much older than his companions. His hair was thick and unruly and as black as ink, with just a few strands of gray at the temples. The only lines in his face were faint crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes and bracketing the edges of his mouth. In addition, there didn’t seem to be an ounce of superfluous flesh on his tall, broad-shouldered frame. At a guess, Evie would have put him only a few years past her own age, and though being twenty-eight established her firmly as a spinster, it was not, by any stretch of the imagination,old.

“I am the Duke of Westbourne,” he said with a bow. “I take it that you are Miss Harlow, the proprietress here?”

That he had a lofty title didn’t surprise her, for he seemed to have the same air of entitlement most in his circle possessed, and his title only served to confirm her initial impression of his arrogance. But the fact that he knew who she was took her back a bit. Granted, most of her customers did come to her by word of mouth, but his conversation with his friends indicated he wasn’t the sort to be interested in books. Far more likely, she thought with another glance over his body, that he spent his time engaged in athletic pursuits rather than literary ones. “I am Miss Harlow, yes.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Harlow,” he said, glancing around as he returned his homburg to his head. “I’ve been told you have a fine establishment here.”

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