Page 7 of Sir Hugo Seeks a Wife
But how could a red-blooded Yorkshireman ignore the charge in the air between them?He didn’t imagine that.And a woman in her situation needed to be careful.
He ventured a smile.“I mean to take you somewhere public.My intentions are respectable.”
At least for their first meeting.
The frost didn’t melt.“As you can imagine, I need to maintain an unsullied reputation.My work requires me to be both discreet and untainted by scandal.If I start meeting clients outside the shop, I’ll lose my name for being trustworthy.”She paused.“In fact, I’ll lose my good name altogether.”
He spread his hands in an appealing gesture.“But how am I to get to know you?”
Something that looked like fear flashed in her eyes.As if he’d threatened her, when that was the last thing he intended.“You don’t.This is a purely commercial transaction.Anyway, aren’t you wooing Lady Petronella?”
He bit back a denial.In part because he worried about looking like a liar.Also because if Miss de Smith refused to see him outside Sweet Little Nothings, his only choice was to see her here.That meant purchasing more verses.He intended to win this prickly, intriguing creature in increments of five shillings.
“Of course,” he said smoothly and watched the polite mask descend again.But it was too late for her to hide from him.For a second there, her expression had betrayed genuine terror.
She might state her resolution to remain a stranger, but so far this conversation had proven remarkably enlightening.The lady had secrets.The ridiculous alias proved that, if nothing else.She’d also learned to withhold her trust.
He couldn’t blame her.She didn’t know him from Adam.But she would come to trust him, or his name wasn’t Hugo Brinsmead.
She straightened the pen and adopted a businesslike attitude that would be more convincing if she hadn’t lost her composure a moment ago.“What would you like me to say?”
That you are as meshed in this attraction as I am.“What have you said before?”
“That she’s pretty.”He could see that Miss de Smith didn’t mean to help him.Or perhaps this was part of the discretion that she prided herself on.
“There’s a start.Just do what you always do.I’m sure it will be grand.”
“You don’t want to stand out as special?”
Not for Petronella Fitchett.“Let me see what you come up with.”
“So you expect to wait here to read it?”The resentment in her voice made him want to laugh.He wasn’t impressing her as a passionate suitor, which was hilarious when right now he felt as passionate as he could remember.
“Of course.”He intended to spend every second that he could with his mysterious poetess.
“If that’s the case, I’d rather you waited outside.Have you chosen your bonbons yet?”
“No, but I’m sure Madame Lebeau is familiar with what Lady Petronella likes.That’s a few seconds’ work.”
“I become self-conscious if people watch me compose.”
Rather, she’d like to get rid of him, he thought.Good luck with that.“I’m a big lad.I’m sure Madame Lebeau doesn’t want me cluttering up her shop.Sweet Little Nothings is both sweet and little, after all.”
That miracle of a mouth pursed.The urge to lunge across the desk and snatch her into his embrace became nigh irresistible.His grip on his hat tightened, as he fought his unruly impulses.The memory of her quickly concealed fear was too fresh for him to risk frightening her again.
“You’re very demanding, Sir Hugo,” she said in a dark tone.“I’m not sure I can meet your requirements.”
He struggled not to dwell on hisrequirements.“It would be a pity for Madame Lebeau to miss out on acquiring a regular client, just because you don’t feel you can write me a suitable verse.”
The eyes were back to flashing.He liked that.Her vulnerability had tangled his gut into knots.“I can write a verse standing on my head.”
He laughed, partly because he was just so damned delighted to discover that a woman like this one existed in London.So far, none of the ladies he’d seen had struck him as suitable brides for a Yorkshireman.They were compliant and they were decorative and they were all frightfully well-bred.And every single one of them would melt away like sugar in the rain if transplanted to the rocky, windy wilderness of Hampden Crags.
Hugo didn’t need a dear little poppet to share his life.He needed a strong woman who could meet him as an equal, a woman with a soul as indestructible as the granite tors on his estate.
Praise be, he might have found that woman.
Writing poetry in a bonbon shop, of all places, of all things.Fate had a sense of humor.
