Page 154 of Rakes & Reticules
He shook his head. “What are you reading?”
“The Romance of the Forest by—”
“Ann Radcliffe. Yes, I’ve read about the mysterious de la Motte family.” There was a question in his gaze, and she knew he wondered how a costermonger would happen to have a novel. “Do you enjoy reading?”
“I do. I was an instructor at the Darlington School for Girls before I married.” His hazel eyes, brimming with curiosity, had more gold flecks than she remembered. “I’m surprised you would have chosen such a novel.”
“Gothic? As a boy, I read anything. I still would if I had the time. What subjects did you teach?” He crossed his arms, giving her his full attention. The sleeves of his riding coat stretched across muscled arms.
She directed her gaze back to his face. His very handsome face. “French—”
“French?”
His astonished tone irked her just a bit. “Yes, French and the pianoforte, and skills for running a household. Budgets and meal planning.” She sniffed. “You’re surprised.”
“Stunned as a matter of fact.” He grinned, showing his dimples. “Beautiful and intelligent. A rare combination.”
“Especially pushing a pastry cart?” She grinned back. His jocular mood was infectious. Who was she to take umbrage? The widow of a criminal, no less.
“Exactly! Pardon my shock, although now you’ll have to put up with a discussion of the novel when you finish it.” He rubbed his chin. “Do you enjoy poetry?”
She shrugged. “Some. And you?”
“Despise it,” he said in mock horror. “I remember trying to write a poem for a girl that I was arsey varsey over. The rhyming was absolutely horrid.”
Dottie laughed. “How old were you?”
“Fourteen and very, very awkward.”
“I can’t imagine you as awkward, sir.” She bit her lip as she realized he was flirting with her—and she was reciprocating. While flattered, she didn’t have the time or inclination for coquetry. Dottie was determined never to succumb again to a man’s sweet-talk. A hard lesson learned in her short life.
“My fourteen-year-old self thanks you.” He chuckled and returned his attention to her cart. “Let’s see, there will be…” His fingers flicked as he mentally counted. “I suppose there might be as many as a dozen. Since I’m not sure what everyone would prefer, why don’t I take a dozen of each?”
Dottie gasped. That would be over half her inventory for the day. She could be home early, perhaps take Violet out for tea. “My goodness. Are you sure?”
“Yes, I don’t want to be responsible for someone not getting their favorite. It’s a birthday party, after all.” He fished in his pocket for coin.
“Someone special, I assume?” She wanted to know if he was married—no, she didn’t. Yes, she did. Dottie told herself it was only so she would know if he was being kind or hoping for something in return for such generosity.
“I’d say very special. The couple saved me from freezing to death in the street and put me through school. It’s her celebration.” He watched her for a reaction.
“You’re an orphan?” This was a surprise.
“No, well, yes.” He shook his head. “Both my parents are dead, yes, but they were alive when I was a child. Still, the O’Briens helped raise me into the man I am today.” The softness in his hazel eyes told her how much he cared for this couple. “They saved me from a life I was ill-suited for.”
“It sounds like an interesting tale.” He had piqued her curiosity.
“And one for another day when I have more time.” He handed her several coins, waved away her protestations, and collected his treats wrapped in newspaper and tied with a string. “Enjoy this lovely day, Mrs. Brown.”
“Enjoy your party, Dr. Brooks.” She watched him walk away and collect his horse from the boy holding his reins. The lad’s eyes opened wide at the coin given him. It seemed the physician was a charitable man, along with having good looks and a fine profession.
But the worst of men could appear to be the best of men.
CHAPTERFIVE
As Sam rode back to Cheapside, crossing over to the north side and the wealthier homes, a plan began to take shape. He liked Mrs. Brown. Yes, he was also attracted to her. She was a beauty. But helikedher. There was kindness mixed with the pain in her deep blue eyes. Perhaps next week, he’d find out about the girl who had been with her. Daughter? Sister? A waif she’d found?
So, the pastry lady had worked at a girls’ school. Sampson was on the board for the Magdalen House, a hospital established in 1758 to take in “penitent prostitutes and young women” who had been seduced or shunned and might be forced into prostitution. It was a worthy charity, and he was proud to be a part of it. The staff worked to reunite the upper-class women with their families, and those who couldn’t return home were taught working skills. No woman was forced out until she found a good position and could support herself.
