Page 107 of The Lyon Whisperer
But what of Mr. Hoby and his family? What of the unsuspecting Mr. Shepperd? Hoby and Shepperd would be looking for cheaper real estate, that’s what.
She could not have their ruination on her conscience.
“Yes, go on, g’al,” Peppersham urged.
She huffed out a chagrined laugh. “Evidently Mr. Hoby has his work cut out for him with me, I’m afraid. I am unable to make up my mind, presently, concerning the style I prefer.”
Lord Peppersham snorted indulgently. “The fairer sex never could make up their minds, but you know what they say about a woman’s prerogative and all that.”
She sent Mr. Hoby a last, chiding look, or meant to.
The look of gratitude on his face perplexed her. Not five minutes ago, he’d sent her packing without a by-your-leave.
She sniffed. “I must go. My…husband awaits me in the carriage. A pleasure seeing you, Lord Peppersham.”
He opened the door, and she swept out onto the walk. No sooner had the door closed, than it reopened behind her. “Lady Culver…”
She turned to see Mr. Hoby standing before her, the measuring tape around his neck floating on the wind. “I wanted to apologize and thank you for…” He glanced back at his establishment.
She opened her mouth to inquire why he’d felt the need to shun her business in the first place, but Mr. Hoby continued, “Please know I didn’t have a choice. I’m very sorry.” He cast a furtive glance around him as if to ascertain no one stood near enough to overhear their conversation. “Good day, madam.”
With that, he disappeared into his shop. The door slammed behind him.
She considered going after him, but Lord Peppersham still posed a problem, and, compounding matters, she hadn’t the time.
All of this trouble and she’d gotten precisely nowhere. Tamping down her frustration, she started the trek back to Madame Eloise’s shop.
By the time she reached the final block of her wasted journey, Eloise’s sunny, cream-colored shop in her sights, Amelia was thoroughly disgruntled.
The day had grown increasingly warm and muggy. She was hungry, thirsty, sticky and on top of everything, her feet hurt. Her soft-soled slippers were not designed for traipsing along a stone pathway for miles on end. She longed to submerge herself in a steaming, sweet-smelling bath, with a pot of peppermint tea and several pounds of cake in arm’s reach.
She would settle for awaiting her husband’s coach inside the shop, off her feet, and, perhaps, talk the modiste out of a tall glass of water.
Consumed with reaching her destination, she did not at first recognize the tall, well-dressed man who stepped into her path, blocking her access to the last cross street.
She made to step around the man.
He sidestepped to remain in her path.
“Pardon me, sir. Please, go right ahead.” She shifted sideways and gestured for him to pass her.
He did not oblige. Instead, he doffed his hat. “Lady Culver, what a surprise to see you out and about today.”
She looked up and into twinkling hazel eyes. A sinking sensation unfurled in the pit of her belly.
“Good day, Lord Tully,” she said, and shot a longing gaze over his shoulder at the shop on the next corner.So close.
He made a show of looking around the walking path behind her, alongside her, then said in apparent confusion. “On your own? Not a husband or chaperone in sight? Surely, I’m mistaken.”
The befuddled smile he sent her did not mask—nor, she imagined, was it meant to—the sly gleam in his eye.
“I stepped out of my modiste’s shop for some fresh air. My lady’s maid awaits me inside. If you’ll ex—”
“I’m sure she does,” he said, cupping her elbow in a firm grip and guiding her in the direction from whence she’d come.
Gritting her teeth in a semblance of a smile, she obliged him—for the moment. What else could she do? “I really must get back, my lord.”
“But you said yourself, you were in need of air. Tell me, how is Mr. Hoby today?”
