Page 39 of Bookshop Cinderella

Sadly, however, it was too late to back out. The duke was expecting her, and Evie continued along Park Lane to Green Street, trying to convince herself that this was just one of many exciting new adventures in her life. It didn’t help, and by the time she turned the corner onto Green Street, she was as jumpy as a cat on hot bricks.

Westbourne House, she soon discovered, was posh enough to boast not one, but two servant’s entrances. Evie paused again, eyeing the pair of identical oak doors before her in some uncertainty, but after a moment, she shrugged and started toward the one closest to where she stood. If it was locked, she would know she’d guessed wrong.

Despite the duke’s assurance, she cast a quick glance up and down the street to be sure there was no constable bearing down upon her, then she grasped the ornate door handle and pressed the lever at the top with her thumb. The door opened, proving she’d guessed right, and as she pushed it wide, light from the lit gas jets on the walls revealed a long passageway flanked on either side by a bewildering number of doors. The duke, however, was nowhere in sight.

“Hullo?” she called as she slipped inside and closed the door behind her. “Your Grace?”

“I’m in the kitchens,” he called back. His head appeared, emerging from a door about halfway down the passage. “Back here,” he added, beckoning her to join him, then he vanished again.

Evie walked down the passage and through the open doorway into a kitchen that was at least twice the size of her shop. Along the back, white sheets covered a long line of what were undoubtedly storage cupboards, and to her left, two enormous cast-iron cooking ranges took up the entire wall. To her right was the second door leading out to Green Street, flanked by wooden counters set with copper sinks and brass taps.

In the center of it all, Westbourne stood between the kitchen’s two long worktables, a loaf of bread and various jars spread out before him. His jacket was off, his cuffs were rolled back, and yet, despite this deshabille, his clothes were far more elegant than his prosaic surroundings would suggest.

Within the confines of a cream-colored satin waistcoat, his pristine white shirt fithis wide shoulders and tapering torso to perfection. His high collar displayed the unmistakable white tie of formal dress, and in the center of his bibbed shirtfront was a single stud of black jet and polished gold. A pair of matching cufflinks lay on the table, and his evening jacket, hanging on one of the hooks beside the door, displayed a crisp white carnation boutonniere. Out of one jacket pocket peeked a pair of white gloves.

In contrast, his hair seemed determined to rebel against the expectations of formal dress, for the thick strands were already curling in defiance of the pomade that was making them gleam like black silk, and as he bent his head to open one of the jars before him, one stubborn lock fell forward over his brow.

He shook it back, to no avail, for it immediately fell forward again, reminding her of the small boys in church whose mothers tried in vain to keep their hair slicked back and their bow ties knotted. The duke’s unruly hair, she suspected, was his valet’s despair.

When he turned his head to the side to reach for another jar, however, she appreciated that there was nothing boyish about his profile, for it was lean and strong, with a straight Roman nose and a determined jawline.

He was, she realized suddenly, a very handsome man.

She’d known that all along, of course, but until this moment, she’d never really thought about it, perhaps because the first time Max had walked into the shop, she’d dismissed him as nothing more than another arrogant aristocrat and any attractions he possessed had seemed unimportant. Or perhaps she’d just been too enamored with Rory at the time to notice any other man. Either way, it was extraordinary how only five days could completely change one’s point of view.

“Is something wrong?”

His voice brought her out of her contemplations with a start, and she realized he was watching her, a quizzical little frown between his black brows. Evie forced herself to say something. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You haven’t said a word since you came in,” he told her as he flipped up the bail of the jar in his hands. “Instead, you’re just standing there, staring at me as if dumbstruck.”

“Am I?” She realized in dismay that staring at him was exactly what she’d been doing. Because he washandsome. How mortifying.

Heat rushed into her cheeks, and she turned away before his perceptive eyes could see. “Sorry,” she said, striving to think up a reason for her woolgathering as she took off her hat and hung it beside his black silk top hat. “It’s just that...um...you’re wearing white tie. Compared to you,” she added as she began to unbutton her cloak, “I’m terribly underdressed.”

“Are you? I can’t tell. Show me.”

Evie’s heart gave a lurch;her fingers fumbled and froze.

“Evie? Are you certain you’re all right?”

She simply must get hold of herself. She could not keep standing here as if she were a gauche schoolgirl mooning over the handsome new drawing master.

“Yes, of course.” She took a deep breath and resumed undoing buttons, striving for an explanation to offer. “I thought we were only practicing for a ball,” she said as she slid her cloak off her shoulders and hung it between her hat and his tailcoat. “I didn’t realize we were going to one.”

Squaring her shoulders as he laughed, she turned around. “You see?” she said, spreading her arms wide, trying to seem perfectly at ease when she felt as skittish as a colt.

His lashes lowered, his gaze sliding down over her plain shirtwaist and skirt in a slow perusal that did nothing to decrease her nervousness. “You seem fully dressed to me,” he murmured, meeting her gaze again, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled. “How disappointing.”

He was flirting with her. At that realization, Evie’s heart gave another nervous lurch, slamming into her ribs with enough force to rob the breath from her lungs. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice.

“As for my attire,” he said, “formal dress isde rigueurfor anyone out and about in London at this time of year. And I’m joining friends at the opera after we finish here. Have you ever been?”

“To the opera?” Grateful for the neutral subject, she shook her head as she moved to stand opposite him across the table. “Never. Just penny operas at music halls.”

“True opera’s a bit different.” He picked up a spoon. “Would you like to go?” he asked as he began removing the hard wax that sealed the top of the pickle jar. “Delia has a box at Covent Garden, and she has not reserved it for any of her friends next Saturday. If you and your friend Anna or any of your other acquaintances wish to go, just let me know and I’ll reserve it for you. If Saturday doesn’t suit, I can see what other nights the box might be free. I can get you ordinary tickets, too, of course, but a box is much more fun.”

“Thank you. It sounds lovely. I’ll ask Anna and let you know.”

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