dark-haired young man came forward to greet him. ‘Good morning, my lord.’ He executed a slight bow. ‘Welcome back to London. You found us, then.’
Hunt smiled. ‘Good morning, Hatchard. Yes.’ He glanced around the shop. When he’d left London at the end of the spring sitting of Parliament, Hatchard had been further along Piccadilly. ‘Your new premises are satisfactory?’
The bookseller smiled back. ‘Oh, yes. I venture to say we’ll be here for a while, my lord. May I help you with something in particular?’
‘No, no. I’ll just wander through to the subscription room and make my selection. Unless you’ve anything special for me look at?’ Hatchard knew his collection almost as well as he did.
Hatchard’s smile deepened. ‘As it happens, sir, I do have a 1674 edition of Milton. I was going to write to you.’
Hunt hoped his expression didn’t betray him. ‘Paradise Lost? That sounds interesting.’ An understatement if ever there was one. Hatchard knew perfectly well that he didn’t have the first edition of Paradise Lost.
‘I’ll fetch it for you. The subscription room is through there.’ Hatchard pointed.
Hunt tried not to look as though Christmas had arrived early. ‘Thank you, Hatchard. No rush. Call me when you’re ready.’
Hunt strolled on through the shop, pausing to look at this book and that, making his way towards the subscription room. He didn’t know any of the other customers; late October was a little soon for most of the ton to return to London. He planned to head out to his house near Isleworth in a few days himself, rather than stay in town the whole time, but there were matters to discuss with his man of business and solicitors if he were to marry again.
He couldn’t bring himself to care very much. Paradise Lost was far more enticing than marrying merely because male branches on his family tree were in distressingly short supply.
He stopped on the threshold of the subscription room and quelled his unreasonable annoyance at finding it occupied. A grey-clad woman and two children had claimed a large leather chair, the small girl snuggled in the woman’s lap and the older boy—was he ten, eleven?—perched on one arm, kicking at the side of the chair. A governess and her charges, he supposed. The boy glanced up at Hunt, subjecting him to an unabashed stare from dark blue eyes.
Slightly taken aback, Hunt inclined his head gravely. ‘Good morning.’ A pang went through him. Simon had had just that direct, confident gaze.
The lad’s eyes widened. ‘Oh. Um, good morning, sir.’
The woman looked up sharply from the book she and the little girl were examining and Hunt forgot the boy. Deep blue eyes, very like the boy’s, met his. His breath caught and he tensed, staring, startled by the unexpected and unwelcome heat in his veins. Her lips parted and for a moment he thought she would speak, but with the merest nod she returned her attention to the book and settled the little girl closer, speaking too quietly to hear anything beyond the question in her voice. The child nodded and the book was set aside.
Hunt forced himself to turn to the shelves. All he saw was a pair of midnight eyes in a still, pale face. He gritted his teeth, willing away the shocking heat. For God’s sake! He was fifty. Not a green boy to be rattled by an unexpected attraction. And he didn’t prey on governesses, damn it! Although...no. The resemblance to the boy was clear. Not the governess. Their mother and that meant she was married. Respectably married judging by her gown and the fact that she took her children about with her, rather than leaving it to a governess. Memory stirred. She had nearly spoken to him and he had seen those eyes before. It was not just that unwelcome flare of attraction. Did he know her? He started to turn back, but stopped. She had neither smiled, nor given any hint of encouragement. When a lady made it clear she did not wish to acknowledge an acquaintance, then a gentleman acquiesced. The Marquess of Huntercombe did not accost strange females in bookshops.
‘Harry?’ The woman spoke firmly. ‘Will you have Mr Swift this week?’
At the musical, slightly husky voice, Hunt’s memory stirred again.
‘I don’t mind.’
Perusing the bookshelves, Hunt thought that sounded remarkably like I don’t care. He grinned. Understandable that the boy would far rather be out with friends playing cricket, than choosing books with his mother and sister. His own boys had been the same.
‘Georgie, you had that stupid book last month!’
‘Harry.’ The mother’s voice remained quiet, but it held steel enough to wilt a grown man, let alone a young boy.
‘Well, she did, Mama.’ Brotherly contempt oozed. ‘Why can’t she choose a proper book if we have to come here? Fairy tales are only for babies.’
‘I’m not a—!’
‘Georgie. I haven’t noticed you choosing any book at all, Harry.’
Mama’s clipped tones silenced the little girl and had Hunt wincing. The boy was dicing with death here.
‘I chose Mr... Mr Swift!’
‘No. I suggested it and you didn’t mind. That’s hardly choosing.’
A moment’s sulky silence. ‘Well, I’d rather have a kite. Not a stupid library subscription.’
‘Harry—’
‘I know! Because she was sick and had the silly doctor and a lot of medicine, I can’t have a kite.’
‘It wasn’t my fault! You gave me the beastly cold!’
‘Yes, but I didn’t have the doctor, because I’m not a stupid girl! Ow!’
‘Georgie! Don’t hit your brother. You know he can’t hit back.’
‘Don’t care! He did give me the cold and I’m not stupid!’
‘Right.’
At the sound of upheaval, Hunt turned to see the woman rise from the chair, setting the little girl down gently, despite her obvious ire. Her face scarlet as she met his amused and, he hoped, sympathetic smile, she gathered up several books and stalked to the shelves. His gaze focused on the slender figure, caught by the unconscious grace in her walk.
‘Mama?’
‘While I am replacing these you may both apologise to his lordship for disturbing his morning.’
That jolted Hunt from a particularly improper fantasy about how the lady might move in another context. If she knew he was a lord, then he hadn’t been mistaken. He did know her and he certainly shouldn’t be fantasising about her.
‘I can’t have my fairy tales?’
It was almost a wail from the little girl, but the boy turned to him, his face crimson, and nudged his sister.
‘What? It’s all your—oh.’ She shut up and looked at Hunt.
‘I’m very sorry, sir.’ She retained the merest lisp, utterly enchanting. Bright brown eyes, still with the glint of angry tears, gazed up at him out of a face framed with
