Page 21 of Ravishing Camille
Before he’d left the house, Pierce had inquired of the man if Miss Bereston had requested a carriage return for her. She had but it was to arrive at the corner of North Street at two. His appointment with Victor was set for one-thirty on the Steine at his office, so Pierce would have to offer to take Camille to luncheon another day.
“Aye, sir. Three it’ll be!” The groom nodded and flicked the reins.
Pierce secured his straw hat and took the lane to his right. He passed a knife peddler, a perfumery and a china shop. In the next circle, he came to a stop and questioned his memory of where the book store was.
He spun around when a commotion on the other side of the fountain had everyone pausing to stare. A lady in a violet walking dress glared at the gentleman before her.
“I won’t!” she told him.
He reached out to her, but she swayed away from him.
“You cannot set this right unless you end it, I tell you.”
Whatever his response was—and Pierce could wager a goodly sum it was a refusal of her demand—she set her teeth and then, slapped him.
He recoiled.
His face, above his trimmed light brown beard, went red. His eyes, dark blue, gleamed with bitterness. Aware of those who witnessed the confrontation, he surveyed the crowd, swallowed hard and turned his back on the lady.
The lady—and Pierce saw now on closer examination—was not quite deserving of ascription to that class. Her gown was fashionable. Fitting her voluptuous form to perfection, but the fabric was faded. Her bodice lower than a woman of style or of social standing would wear to shop at midday. Her hair, as abundant and wild Scottish red as his step-mother Liv’s, was piled haphazardly upon her head. And her hat was a pitiful thing that had seen a better year and a fuller feather. She was, quite simply, of the demimonde. And the gentleman? Better attired, a dandy in his summer tan linen trousers and navy frock coat, he wore his cravat at an angle that bespoke either of lack of a valet or hasty dressing.
All in all, a quarrel between a man and his paramour presented the onlookers with a spectacle that had them shaking their heads, whispering and walking on.
So did he.
But after he came to another fork in the lanes, frustration beset him. He surrendered to go inside the tea salon and ask for directions to Winslow’s Book Shop.
Within two short minutes, he was there, opening the spruce green door and setting the bell a-jingle. He removed his hat and threaded his fingers through his hair. The bookshop had long been a favorite haunt of his when he’d lived here in England. The smell of beeswax polish mingled with the fragrances of hundreds of books, paper and ink, soothed him. It was good to be home.
He stopped, absorbing the sound of a voice that filled him with more contentment.
She was easy to find. Always had been. Her husky contralto, a symphony like dark notes of cognac, drew him past one shelf and the next. Talking of an old manor house on a craggy hill on some gloomy, godforsaken shore, she was reading her own words with an ease and certain relish that brought a grin to his lips.
He rounded a corner and the sight of her stopped him cold.
If her voice charmed him, the lovely rest of her arrested him. He had been so blithe yesterday. Complimentary as any man was to a beautiful woman in his family. Jovial in his praise as a man is toward a young lady he’s not seen in years. But this, the looks of her, in her element took his breath.
She came to the end of a passage and something induced her to look up and peruse her audience. She spied him, standing as he was, arms crossed, his back to the wall of shelves, chock full of books, floor to ceiling. She fluttered her dark golden lashes in nervous surprise.
He gave her a wink and she flushed, overjoyed.
He lifted his finger and made a little circle in the air for her to proceed. She tipped her head to and fro, her mellow eyes wide to chasten him. Losing, she gave a laugh, then went back to her recitation.
“‘I caught my breath and pulled my frayed wool collar up against my throat.
The coach stopped.
The door opened. The groom reached in to offer his hand. I took it. I did, demanding my body to calm.
With quick steps, I took the stoned path to the forbidding black front door.
It swung wide to admit me.
There stood the liveried butler. Tall, pallid and proud, he had the pinched look of one who remains too much indoors. Without a word of welcome, he indicated I should surrender my cloak, my gloves, even my hat.
I did not argue.
“This way, Miss Parton.” He was too officious. Too formal.
