Page 4 of A Trickster’s Temptation

And what on earth made you think that now was the time to start doing things you want to, rather than doing things you have to?

For a lump of dough, it was very perceptive. Mary scowled at it, wiped away a smudge of flour on one of her knuckles with the edge of her shawl, then began kneading again.

As a rule, very few things that she did were things that she actually wanted to do. She had liked talking to Lisbeth before she died—Mary briefly, reflexively stroked the pocket tied to her skirts where Lisbeth’s handkerchief lay concealed as it always was—but it was best to not think of that, given how fragile a state her mind was already in. Reading novels, making bread—she liked baking bread very much, which was why she still insisted on doing it at least once a week despite her parents’ confused disapproval—and anything involving dear Abigail or Winnie, whether it was simply going for a short walk with them or plunging head first into Abigail’s romantic misadventures. Not that Abigail would have many misadventures now that she was so happily married to His Grace, but still, Mary would enjoy playing a friendly part if any more capers were to be had.

And that, in truth, was about it. Those were the only three things she liked doing. But to Mary’s increasing dismay, as she slowly grew into the role of spinster that had been waiting for her since her first Season, most of her time was spent doing things that she didn’t want to do at all.

It was because her parents refused to give up. Other women, women only a little plainer than Mary and with slightly less of an inheritance waiting for them, were gleefully put out to pasture to pursue solitary lives of passionate interests by mothers and fathers willing to cut their losses. Elizabeth Bates, she was a governess now—adored by the children, and much given over to prayer—while Anne Makepeace, whose woeful skills at the pianoforte had caused Mrs. Makepeace to rend her apron and weep, was now a perfectly happy unmarried woman in possession of a small lapdog and a ramshackle cottage on the edge of Cumbria. But Mary, only a little less plain than both Elizabeth and Anne and only slightly more wealthy, was still believed by her mother and father to be capable of making a tremendous match.

So Mary spent hours visiting people who she didn’t particularly like. Still more hours were spent choosing fabrics for gowns that she didn’t care a straw for, eating meals that she didn’t enjoy and dancing dances that Mary hated bitterly. And the small things she still managed to take pleasure in, whether it was reading a book or making a cottage loaf or laughing with Abigail and Winnie, were being slowly but surely squeezed out to make way for yet more things that would make her acceptable. Admirable. Marriageable.

But you’re not marriageable. You’re not young enough, pretty enough or rich enough to attract any gentleman that you’ve even felt a passing fancy for.The dough seemed to stare at her, even without eyes.And so, my dear, you decided to kiss a wildly handsome and wildly unsuitable criminal who annoys you beyond all comprehension—because you knew that he’d kiss you back for the thrill of it rather than due to any sentiment. And because you know, sooner rather than later, that you’ll never feel any excitement again.

It was the most depressing thought that had ever entered Mary’s mind. She sat mutely on the wooden stool at the end of the table, allowing the dough to sag and flatten as she considered just what on earth her life was becoming.

Footsteps made her stand up again. Mary reached for the dough, quickly wiping away a stray tear that would certainly not be joined by any companions. ‘The dough must be proved, Mrs. Bates. Two hours, I think.’

‘You know best, ma’am.’ Mrs. Bates was a calm anchor in the world’s distressing storm. Round, rosy-cheeked and invariably holding either a feather duster or a jar of jam, the woman had been the Fine’s housekeeper for so many years that the house would feel strange without her. ‘I’ve never known anyone with as light a hand as you for dough.’

‘My hands aren’t light today.’

‘And neither is the rest of you, now that I look at you in good light.’ Mrs. Bates turned her head to one side, regarding Mary like a well-feathered chicken. ‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Not terribly well.’

‘That’s not like you.’

‘I know.’ Mary had spent entirely too long remembering every detail of the kiss. The way Mr. Hart had stroked her cheek, her neck—the way he’d looked at her for that single, burning instant, as if she’d done something thoroughly singular even though all she’d done was follow his lead. ‘I’m feeling a little out of sorts.’

‘Hmm.’ Mrs. Bates looked at her with sympathy. ‘I’ll tell him to go away, then.’

‘H-him?’

‘The bookseller from the new shop on Minton Road has come with the new volumes you ordered. He said you wished them to be delivered as soon as possible, and so he came himself.’ Mrs. Bates gave a brisk little shrug. ‘But I’ll send him away, seeing as you’re not well.’

‘No! No.’ Mary sank back onto her stool. ‘I’ll see him. Send him in.’

There was a new bookshop on Minton Road, but she certainly hadn’t ordered any books from there yet. Which meant that the enterprising man about to enter the house was either a religious fanatic bearing pamphlets, a murderer about to slaughter everyone, or… someone else.

Someone who she didn’t want to see at all, and yet at the same time was most passionately interested in seeing.

It is you.She remained seated as the man entered the room, a package tied with paper under one arm. Yes, there was a moment of confusion—the man’s face was subtly different from Mr. Hart’s at first glance, but it was only an illusion.You came to me before I came to you.

That has to mean something. If only I could work out what on earth it means.

‘Mr. Hart.’ She had intended to make him speak first, but she couldn’t simply sit in silence and look at the man as he arranged himself in the overstuffed armchair by the fire as if he belonged there. ‘Impersonating a bookseller is somewhat unseemly. Like impersonating a priest.’

Mr. Hart wasn’t just wearing the plain garb of a bookseller. He had done something to his hair, his face; Mary peered at him, wondering what combination of paint and powder had caused such a subtle but arresting change to the man’s features, but looked away as soon as she realised how fiercely she was staring.

‘Miss Fine.’ Mr. Hart bowed his head, even if the rest of him already displayed an unseemly level of relaxation. He was basking by the fire as if the kitchen belonged to him; . ‘I’d ask you to forgive the deception, but I know you won’t.’

As long as her voice didn’t shake, she would be all right. ‘How very perceptive of you.’

‘It’s polite to curtsey when someone bows to you.’

‘Oh, is it? Is it polite to scream for the housekeeper and summon the police as well? Because I can do that if you’d like.’

‘Oh, Miss Fine, you sprinkle far too many pleasantries into our conversations. It’s shockingly easy to enter your home under false pretences, by the way. You should tell your staff to be more careful.’

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