A Lord For The Wallflower Widow. Ann Lethbridge
never came home empty handed. After his father had thrown him out of the family for refusing to marry the woman Papa had chosen, he’d had years of living by his wits on several continents to hone his skills at the gambling tables. Last night and into this morning had been more successful than usual. Perhaps Lady Luck had turned her smile his way.
Which was a good thing. All these years of living abroad, he’d become adept at supporting himself, but having learned of his sister’s struggles from his older brother, he now felt financially responsible her, too. At least until her husband could earn enough to support his family as a barrister, which would hopefully be soon, since he had recently been called to the bar and accepted for a pupillage in chambers.
Finally, after last night, Avery could truthfully tell Laura not to worry about money, at least for a while.
Blithely, he strode for his lodgings, but halted at the sight of a very pretty bonnet in a window polished to a mirror-like shine. A cleanliness one didn’t often find in the backstreets leading off Bond Street. He crossed the street to take a closer look, avoiding the dollops of horse manure and the vagabond lounging in a doorway. Fellows like that would cut your purse in the blink of an eye if you weren’t careful.
Avery knew all about cutpurses and their ilk. The owner of the Ragged Staff, the establishment he’d just left, had accused him of being a fraudster, because he had so easily seen through the house’s ploy to trick him out of his winnings. For a moment, it had looked as if he might have to fight his way out of the hell, but for the interference of some of the other customers, who were only too happy to see someone win for a change.
Pigeons for the plucking they might be, green as grass, too, but they were also gentlemen.
Avery wavered a little on his feet as he stared at the bonnet displayed in the window. He shook his head to clear it. Too much cheap brandy, though he was nowhere close to foxed. His unsteadiness was more from lack of sleep, though he had no doubt he would have the devil of a headache later. He squinted at the hat. The violets and primroses decorating the crown were not real, as he’d thought at first, but silk. He didn’t want the hat, but he did want a posy to offer to Mrs Luttrell later. The poor little pet pined for such marks of attention. Would silk flowers raise her spirits?
The confection blurred. Dash it. He was a little more in the bag than he had thought. He really needed to go home to bed. But he also needed a gift...
Silk flowers lasted longer.
No doubt they would also cost a great deal more. Still, Mimi Luttrell would be more compliant with such a mark of attention. And for once he had blunt in his pocket.
He entered the narrow shop.
A tall, remarkably tall, young woman rose to her feet behind the counter. Her face was not pretty exactly, but handsome, with fine grey eyes and a mouth that begged to be kissed even as she frowned. Why was she frowning?
Gad, she really was tall. Not quite his height, but close to it.
‘Good day, sir,’ she said, her voice pleasantly deep. ‘How may I be of service?’
He stared at her in surprise. Outwardly, she looked like a shop girl in her dun-coloured gown and prim cap, but she sounded like a lady, for all that there was a trace of the north in her accent.
Plush full lips pursed in disapproval. ‘Is something wrong?’
He dragged his gaze from her mouth to her face. Brought his mind back to the task at hand. He gave her his most charming smile. ‘Nothing wrong at all. I simply had not expected to find such a lovely lady brightening my morning.’
The frown reappeared. ‘It is after midday, sir, and this is a ladies’ millinery shop. Perhaps you mistake where you are?’
He swayed on his feet, surprised by her lack of response to his smile. He had smiled, he was sure of it. ‘I beg your pardon, but I certainly do know where I am. Your shop has a remarkable array of very fine bonnets.’ That compliment ought to cheer her up. ‘And you, I notice, have remarkably beautiful eyes.’
Astonishment filled her face. ‘Sir—’
Clearly, he was not up to snuff this morning, or else the lady was not of a flirtatious bent. ‘How much for the violets, madam?’
The floor shifted uneasily beneath his feet and he propped a hip against the counter.
Warily she backed up, her expression puzzled. ‘Violets?’
‘Yes, violets. In the window.’
‘There are no—Oh, you mean the ones on the bonnet. They are not for sale.’
Everything was for sale for the right price. ‘I’ll give you sixpence.’
Her eyes widened. A hint of desperation lurked in their depths. Grey depths. Grey depths, encircled by a smoky line around the edge.
He waited for her acceptance.
She shook her head. ‘I am afraid it would ruin the look of the bonnet.’
He blinked. Had she really turned him down? Well, there was a surprise.
‘You can soon make a new trimming.’ He waved at the other bonnets. ‘Put one of those in the window in the meantime.’ He peered at one festooned with rosebuds. ‘This is just as pretty as the one in the window.’ A wave of dizziness hit him and he rested one hand on the counter for support, hoping she wouldn’t notice.
A hand sporting a wedding ring flattened on the counter as if to steady it against his weight. He felt a surge of disappointment at the sight of that ring. Really? No. He was just disappointed that she wouldn’t sell him the posy.
‘All right. I’ll give you a shilling.’
Now who was desperate? And why? He could just as easily buy a posy from a flower girl. There was one on every corner. Except that something told him that this silk posy would be received with a great deal more pleasure. And he never ignored his well-honed instincts of a veteran gambler. Yes, he relied on his skill and never played foolish games of chance, but there was also that certain something that told him when to bet high and when to hold back. And right now, it had a feeling about those flowers.
Another frown shot his way. ‘I will not take advantage of a man obviously in his cups. There are plenty of fresh violets for sale on the street at this time of year.’ She made a shooing gesture with her arms.
Why the devil was she being so intractable? ‘Fresh?’ he scoffed. ‘I’ll be lucky if they last until this afternoon.’ He leaned forward, giving her his best friendly smile. ‘I need to make a good impression. Those flowers are better than real ones.’
She eyed him askance. ‘If you want to make a good impression, you will need to sober up first, I should think.’
‘Rather direct and to the point for a shop girl, aren’t you?’
She coloured faintly. ‘If there is nothing else...’
‘I am not leaving until you sell me those flowers.’
‘Then you must buy the bonnet.’
Aha! So that was the game she was playing. ‘I can’t imagine you get many customers stuck away here on this side street. Isn’t it better to have a shilling in your hand than no sale at all?’
She closed her eyes briefly. He felt uncomfortable as desperation won out over what had been a very ethical response to his demand. Sadly, he’d been right. Everything did have a price.
‘Very well. I will sell you the violets.’ She came around the counter. He moved back to allow her to pass in the narrow confines of the shop. Once more he was struck by her height and now got a look at what could only be described as a sumptuous figure. As she leaned over to remove the hat from the window, he ogled the swell of her derrière, its curves beautifully outlined by the dark fabric of her narrow skirts. Surprisingly, for all the fabric’s drab colour, it was of the finest quality of cotton.
Which