Page 32 of Bookshop Cinderella

She concluded her shopping by selecting two ready-made ensembles—a walking suit of deep blue serge and an evening gown of plum velvet with a matching cape—so that she was assured of being appropriately dressed for any occasion during the fortnight while her other clothes were being constructed.

After offering instructions for all her purchases to be delivered to the Savoy, making an appointment five days hence for her first fitting, and treating herself to one last macaron, Evie departed the showroom, exhausted and yet strangely exhilarated, too exhilarated to go straight back to her hotel. Instead, she walked up New Bond Street, where she stopped in at a perfumery. Perfume, of course, was much too dear for a woman of her means, but she was able to afford a toilet set of bergamot-scented soaps, talc, and hand cream.

On the way back to the Savoy, she instructed the cabdriver to stop at Hatchards in Piccadilly, where she purchased what the clerk assured her was the newest, most sensational romantic novel the store possessed. She then went next door to Fortnum & Mason, where she treated herself to a box of chocolates and a tin of scandalously expensive Darjeeling tea. She then returned to the hotel, where she ordered dinner from the prix-fixe menu what was proclaimed to be a “simple” meal: filet of sole, roasted ptarmigan, potatoes Anna, salade Niçoise, and baba au rhum.

She fell into bed, too full to do anything else, and just before she drifted off to sleep, it occurred to her that if she continued to eat so much rich food, Vivienne would need to provide her with a much stouter corset.

8

Harlow’s Bookshop was alive with activity when Max arrived there the following morning. Workmen flitted about like industrious bees, moving crates of books, empty bookcases, and display tables to one side of the long room. Other workmen stood on ladders against the opposite wall, peeling and scraping at the water-damaged wallpaper. Overhead, the sound of booted feet and pounding hammers could be heard.

He found Evie near the back of the shop, lodged between two tall bookcases. Occupied with her task of packing books into a crate, she didn’t notice his approach.

As he came toward her, he opened his mouth to inform her of his presence, but then she hiked up her skirt, moving to mount the stepladder in front of her, and at the glimpse of a delicate foot, shapely calf, and scarlet-red satin garter, he came to a dead stop, and any sort of coherent thought vanished from his mind.

Evie Harlow wore red satin garters? At this heretofore hidden bit of knowledge, Max grinned in pure masculine appreciation. How deliciously shocking.

Far too soon, her white petticoat and dark blue skirt settled back into place, once again hiding her lower leg and naughty garter from view, but that did little to stop Max’s imagination. His gaze traveled upward, and as his mind envisioned the legs beneath those skirts, his grin faded, and his body began to burn. Miles long, those legs, he decided. Long enough to—

She stirred, moving to descend the ladder again, and though courtesy dictated that a gentleman rush forward to assist, Max’s second tantalizing peek of garter, calf, and ankle prevented any such noble idea from entering his head. Her feet hit the floor, her skirts fell again, and she turned, bending down to put the book in the crate. As she straightened, she spied him standing there.

“Your Grace,” she greeted, then she immediately frowned, as if puzzled. “Is something wrong?”

The erotic images conjured by his imagination were still so vivid in his mind that it took Max a moment to realize he was staring at her and looking—no doubt—like a prize idiot.

“Sorry,” he said at once, shaking his head and shoving aside any speculations regarding Evie Harlow’s legs. “I was...ahem...woolgathering.”

Feeling as ridiculously embarrassed as a boy in short pants, he glanced around, striving for something, anything, to say. “Work’s begun, I see. I’m glad Metropolitan Insurance took my expectations to heart.”

“Mr. Walpole would be terrified to do otherwise. You put the fear of God in him, I think.”

“I really did, didn’t I?” The notion made him grin. “Poor fellow.”

She laughed, pulling off the dust scarf wrapped around her hair, sending loose strands tumbling around her face in charming disarray with a shake of her head. “He may never recover.”

“Yes, well, if it makes him a bit more lenient with his claimants, I will consider my ducal duty done.”

Her laughter faded. “You consider acts of kindness to be a ducal duty?” she asked, seeming surprised by the notion.

“You needn’t sound so skeptical,” he said, laughing. “I have been known to be kind on occasion.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that you’re the first duke I’ve ever met. I don’t even know, really, what a duke’s duties are.”

Before he could reply, they were interrupted. “Miss Harlow?” called a workman from the other side of the room, “These crates of books are stacking up. Where do you want us t’put ’em?”

“By the door, Mr. Thornton. A lorry will be fetching them for storage this afternoon.”

“Very good, miss.” He resumed his work, and she returned her attention to Max.

“Did you meet with Escoffier?” she asked.

“I did.” He sighed, hoping to prepare her for the bad news. “I gave him your list of suggested dishes for the party, but he was not—”

“Pardon, guv’nor.” A workman carrying a ladder edged between them, and they both stepped back to make room.

“Yes?” she prompted once the workman and his ladder had passed between them and continued on. “I take it he wasn’t enthusiastic?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he began, only to be interrupted again, this time by the loud, rapid pounding of a hammer. “Perhaps we should adjourn to your office to discuss it?” he suggested.

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