and about early this morning, aren’t you?’ he said.
She folded her arms across her chest and narrowed her gaze. The first time he’d visited her shop he’d been quite bosky. This morning he simply looked tired. ‘As are you. I have to make ready for my customers.’
His smile broadened. ‘Indeed. And here I am.’
She frowned. ‘The shop is not yet open.’
His smile changed from charming to wheedling. ‘Surely you will not make me come back later.’
‘What did you want?’
‘Another of your delightful posies, naturally.’
She sighed, but inside her chest her traitorous heart was galloping like a runaway horse. ‘Come in, then.’
He followed her into the shop and she went behind her counter. She felt more comfortable, more in control when there was a solid piece of furniture between them. She spread out several little sprigs on the counter. ‘These are all I have at the moment.’
He stared at the array ‘Did you make any of these?’
What an odd question. ‘I helped make the pink roses and the yellow sweet peas.’
‘I’ll take the roses.’
‘I really would not recommend those for Lady Fontly. The yellow would be better for her colouring.’
He grinned. ‘It is not for Lady Fontly.’ He tucked the spray of flowers into his buttonhole. ‘It is for me.’
‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘That was why...’ Surely not.
He raised a brow. ‘That was why what?’
Heat raced up her face to her hairline. ‘Nothing.’
He chuckled. The deep rich sound sent a shiver down her spine and made her want to giggle like a girl not yet out of the schoolroom.
‘It was why I asked if you had made any of them,’ he said. ‘I wanted something to remind me of you. I need cheering up today.’
He was flirting with her. She felt uncomfortable. Awkward. What was she supposed to do? Should she be flattered or annoyed? Better to ignore the whole thing than make a fool of herself. ‘Will there be anything else, Lord Avery?’
He gave a little grimace. ‘No. That will be all, thank you, Mrs Greystoke.’
She wrote up her bill. ‘Why do you do it?’ Oh, there went her brusque tongue again, asking questions regarding things that were none of her concern.
He leaned a hip against the counter. ‘Do what?’
‘Gamble. You must have been up all night, you look so dreadful.’
‘That bad, hmmm?’
She nodded. She forestalled the urge to ask if he had won or lost, but he seemed so weary, she guessed it was the latter.
‘I do it to keep the wolf from the door, Mrs Greystoke. To put food on the table. Coal in the hearth. To keep body and soul together.’ He sounded bitter.
The son of a duke needing to earn a living? ‘Surely...’
‘Surely what?’ His tone was suddenly dark, even a little dangerous.
She handed him the bill. ‘I beg your pardon. It is none of my business.’
He glanced down at the paper in his hand and back at her face. ‘You were going to ask why a man in my position, the son of a duke, needed to earn his living in such a manner.’
‘Oh, please. I have no wish to pry.’
‘My papa is a man with high expectations of his sons. I have disappointed him and therefore I am to make my own way in life.’
She knew all about parental disappointment. ‘Why not engage in some sort of gainful employment?’ She winced. Dash it, she sounded disapproving.
His lip curled and his smile became mocking. ‘You sound just like my father.’
Mortified, she began to put the rest of the nosegays back in their places in the drawer. ‘I beg your pardon. It is not my place to judge.’
The kettle on the hob began to sing. She raised her gaze to meet his. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
He looked surprised. And then pleased. ‘That is the best offer I have had in the last twenty-four hours. But I would hate to interrupt your morning.’
‘It is no interruption. I went to sweep the step while I waited for the kettle to boil. Would you throw the bolt on the shop door for me? No lady goes shopping at this early hour.’
He did as she asked and then followed her behind the curtain into her private quarters. Very small quarters, she realised as his large form seemed to take up most of the space in the little kitchen-cum-sitting room-cum-dining room. And more recently a place for ladies to try on naughty night attire.
She winced. And then there was the alcove curtained off, where she slept. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice.
‘Please, sit down,’ she said.
He took one of the two chairs at the small kitchen table while she busied herself with the pot and tea leaves.
‘This is where you live?’ he asked, his voice full of curiosity. ‘All alone?’
‘This is where I stay during the week while the shop is open. I go home at week’s end to collect more stock.’ She glanced over her shoulder to discover he was frowning.
‘London is not a safe city for a woman on her own,’ he said.
‘I am perfectly safe. My landlord, Mr Thrumby, lives upstairs and his man keeps an eye on my safety.’
He looked less than satisfied. She hadn’t expected him to care about her well-being. It surprised her and warmed her in odd ways. Something inside her chest seemed to soften.
She brought two cups of tea to the table along with milk and sugar on a small tray. ‘Please, help yourself.’ It was hardly the sort of elegant tea a lady would serve in a drawing room, but she was pleased to see him adding cream and sugar to his cup and sipping the tea appreciatively.
She felt bad for him. While he had not said in so many words that he had been disinherited by his father, clearly it must be the case. A gentleman such as he would have no trade, no skills, to fall back on, so it was no wonder he gambled. And then there were his special ladies. Mrs Baxter-Smythe’s sly words returned to her mind. A terrible idea entered her head. Terrible and exciting and awful. Terrifying.
So awful, yet so awfully tempting. She struggled to think of a way to phrase her question. Her request.
He leaned back in his chair with a boyish smile. A smile quite different from his usual practised charm. It made him seem more endearing. ‘That is the best
