Page 46 of Bookshop Cinderella

“Hmm? What?” Still lost in thought, Max looked up to find Helen had risen from her seat and her eyes were staring down at him, eyes lauded by all in society for their beauty, eyes of pure emerald green with no murky, intriguing glimmers of amber and gold in their depths.

“Duke?” she prompted in the wake of his silent stare, and Max jerked to his feet, an automatic gesture born of a lifetime of good manners, and he could only thank God for the protection of his evening coat.

Vaguely, he thought she would excuse herself, enabling him to sit back down and get hold of himself, but instead, she stood there, waiting, looking at him in expectation.

He tried in desperation to muster a reply—an impossible feat, since he had no clue what she’d said.

In the wake of his silence, she laughed a little, smiling—a smile of dimpled cheeks and perfect teeth that did absolutely nothing to send him skidding sideways.

And that, he reminded himself, was a very good thing.

“Or perhaps you would prefer to sit?”

He blinked at the sound of her voice, still uncomprehending. “Oh, yes,” he said, falling back on the age-old masculine notion that in circumstances such as these, agreeing with a woman was always the safest bet. “Absolutely.”

He thought she’d excuse herself at that point, but instead, she continued to just stand there, staring at him, her smile faltering, then vanishing altogether.

“My dear Duke,” she murmured, looking at him with obvious bewilderment, “are you unwell?”

“Not at all,” he lied, pasting on a smile as he forced down the arousal in his body by sheer force of will. “I’m right as rain.”

This reply, emphatic as it was, didn’t seem to convince her, but thankfully, a distraction appeared in the edge of his vision that gave him a moment of breathing space.

He turned his head, watching as Colonel Anstruther and his wife entered his box with their son—theirunmarriedson—right behind them, and as he looked at them, everything in Max’s world suddenly shifted back into proper perspective.

“Or at least,” he amended to Helen, “I soon will be. If you will excuse me, my dear?”

A look of hurt crossed her face, but Max couldn’t take the time just now to rectify that. “I shall see you again shortly,” he said instead, the best he could do.

He bowed and turned away, moving past the rows of seats in his box to greet the new arrivals, and he could only hope that no pretty little debutante of the season had already stolen Ronald Anstruther’s heart.

***

During the week that followed, Evie saw nothing of Westbourne, and she heard from him only once. After explaining the bet and how it had come about to a very surprised Anna, and after the other woman’s assurance that she’d love attending the opera, Evie sent the duke a note confirming Saturday night, and his reply instructed her to call for their tickets at the Will Call box when she and her friend arrived for the performance.

Other than that brief correspondence, she heard nothing from him, but that, she discovered to her chagrin, didn’t stop her from thinking about him. As busy as she was with renovations to the bookshop, trips to art galleries and museums she’d never had time to visit in the past, and dress fittings at Vivienne, enticing memories of dancing with the duke would steal into her thoughts at unexpected moments, filling her with an exhilarating, breath-robbing euphoria unlike anything she’d ever felt before.

Every time it came, she tamped it down, reminding herself that all of this was a holiday, a mere interlude sandwiched between the ordinary days of an ordinary life, but it didn’t stop a shivering little thrill from running up her spine whenever she remembered how it felt to be in his arms.

Remember this night, he’d said, but days later, she was still wondering how he’d think she’d ever forget it.

Nonetheless, there was one much less agreeable piece of the duke’s advice also nagging at her mind, one she found far easier to shove aside, and it wasn’t until the night of the opera when she was trying to put on the plum velvet evening gown that had arrived from Vivienne that afternoon that that particular piece of advice came back to her.

You’ll need a maid. The gowns Vivienne is sure to make for you will be far too complicated for you to manage on your own.

She’d dismissed the idea as absurd. Maids were a silly extravagance of the idle rich, and an intimacy she wasn’t the least bit comfortable with. She could dress herself, thank you very much. She didn’t need a maid—a perfect stranger, at that—to help her. It was only a dress, after all, with all its buttons in the front and a few hooks and eyes under each arm. How hard could it be to put it on by herself?

An hour later, she was red-faced, out of breath, and thoroughly exasperated, wearing nothing but her undergarments, shoes, and the absurd little fascinator Vivienne had sent over for her to put in her hair.

Evie stared at the pieces that comprised her new gown in utter vexation. When the fitters at Vivienne had put the pieces of the gown on her at the showroom to make alterations, it had never occurred to her that they wouldn’t be sewing the pieces together, and as she stared at them scattered hither and yon across her bed, she wondered what the hell she was going to do now.

Just then, there was a knock on the door, and Evie dashed to the front door and opened it a crack. “Anna!” She pulled the door wide, hauled her friend into the suite, and shut the door again. “Thank God you’re here.”

Anna, whose honey-blonde hair, angelic face, and calm, serene manner always reminded Evie of a Bellini Madonna, actually burst out laughing. “I didn’t know fashionable gowns these days had their corset covers and petticoats on the outside,” she joked.

“This isn’t funny. You’ve got to help me get dressed.”

“Doesn’t this little holiday at the Savoy include a maid?” Anna asked as Evie propelled her across the sitting room and into her bedroom.

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