Page 69 of Bookshop Cinderella

“When I got to New York, I found that Rebecca had been run down by a carriage three days before my arrival. Rebecca’s father, you see, had refused to shelter her from her obligation as my wife. I will never know...”

He paused again and swallowed hard, then he went on, his voice so low, she barely heard, “I will never know if the carriage was an accident or if she stepped in front of it on purpose to save herself from coming back to me.”

The first dinner gong sounded before Evie could reply, resonating through the gallery with painful finality.

“Half past seven,” he said as the notes died away. “I’d best be in the drawing room before the others start arriving. Shall we?”

He offered Evie his arm, and she took it, but neither of them spoke as they walked to the drawing room. That wasn’t surprising, of course. What was there to say?

***

In looking back on the disaster of his marriage, Max had always thought of it, at least in part, as the idiocy of youth. After all, he’d only been twenty-two at the time.

By the age of thirty-two, he felt, a man ought to be sure enough of his ground and strong enough in his character that temptations of the flesh and yearnings of the heart would not derail his plans or compromise his ethics. But Evie Harlow was putting Max’s convictions on that score to the test in every way possible.

After his conversation with her at her shop, he’d hoped they were back on friendly, neutral ground. He’d hoped that ten days away from her would put out the fire she roused in his blood, and that returning to his home, where he could be surrounded by all the reminders of his position and his duty, would renew his resolve to set a different course than the one he’d embarked upon ten years ago.

Those hopes, however, had been dashed the moment he’d seen Evie’s lithe, slim form standing in his gallery. At once, his heart had leapt in his chest, his pulse had quickened, and his need for her had come roaring back stronger than ever.

If time and distance and sheer will had proven insufficient to deter him from the course his body seemed bent upon, the portraits of his ancestors, so stern and disapproving, ought to have done the trick, but no. Watching her profile as she’d studied the faces of his mother and father had only served to set his mind wondering if he could steal a kiss before anyone else strolled into the gallery.

When she’d asked about Rebecca’s portrait, he’d seized on it like a drowning man seizing a lifeline. Telling her that sordid tale, he’d thought, would surely put his priorities back in order. And as he’d relived the pain of those days so long ago, he’d felt his hungry yearning for Evie receding, and his resolve once again coming to the fore. Through dinner, port, and cards afterward, he’d scarcely thought about her, and he was glad to note that his sleep had not been disturbed by any dreams of making love to her. By morning, it seemed his latest effort to obliterate his desire for her had worked splendidly.

As plans for the day’s amusements were discussed by the various guests over breakfast, his gaze barely strayed to where she was sitting across the table, until the subject of the ladies’ afternoon croquet match came up.

“Do you play croquet, Miss Harlow?” asked Sarah Harbisher, who was sitting beside her.

“I’m afraid not,” Evie answered. “I’ve never been very accomplished at sports.”

“Oh, but you must try,” cried Sarah. “Croquet is a tradition at Idyll Hour. We play in teams. It’s great fun.”

“Teams?” Something in Evie’s voice caused Max to look up from his plate. “You play croquet in teams?”

“It’s always done in teams,” Sarah explained. “Teams and rounds. That’s the only way with this many people. We draw lots as to who plays with whom.”

Because he was looking straight at Evie, he was able to see the shimmer of dismay that crossed her face, the same dismay he’d seen there when he’d told her about the upcoming ball.

He felt impelled to jump in. “You don’t have to play, Miss Harlow,” he said. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“Quite right,” Edward Harbisher put in, leaning past his sister to look at Evie down the table. “Don’t let my sister bully you.”

“I’m not doing any such thing,” Sarah protested. “If Miss Harlow doesn’t want to play, of course she doesn’t have to.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Evie clarified. “It’s just that I don’t know how. And I wouldn’t want to disappoint my team.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Sarah told her. “No one takes it that seriously. And besides, it’s always good to try new things, isn’t it? Sometimesthey turn out to be much more fun than we thought.”

“Yes,” Evie murmured, looking at Max across the table. “So I’m discovering.”

That made him smile. “Croquet’s a bit like dancing,” he remarked. “It’s usually best to relax and not think about it too much.”

“What excellent advice.” She smiled back, the extraordinary smile that always sent him topsy-turvy. “I’ll remember it this afternoon.”

“Does that mean you’ll play?” asked Sarah eagerly.

“Yes, yes,” Evie said, laughing. “I’ll play. Though I won’t guarantee the results.”

Watching her laughing face, Max could feel his wits skidding sideways and all his hard-won fortitude slipping away again, and when Lord Ashvale spoke beside him, it was all he could do to tear his gaze away.

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