Page 31 of When a Duke Loves a Woman
“He lived much better before his wife and son died a few years back. Cholera. Now he’s simply sad.”
He remembered how he’d wanted to close himself off from the world after his siblings perished and then later when his father passed, but in both instances his responsibilities prevented his withdrawal.
“You’re in pain,” she said sympathetically. “I hadn’t given much thought to the fact you’re still recovering.”
He didn’t like admitting that his leg was fairly killing him. “I’m fine.”
“Your limp has worsened. I could do with a bit of a rest myself. There’s a coffee house around the corner.”
“I say we push on.”
“You can push on if you like. I’m going to have some coffee.”
“You are well aware I haven’t a clue regarding who I should approach.”
That smile again, only this time there was a hint of triumph in it. “Then I suppose you’d best join me.”
She was one of the few ladies in attendance, not that she seemed bothered by it. A couple of the women, standing about, were giving him the eye and every now and then a sultry smile. He watched as one led a gent up the stairs. It was not uncommon for a coffee house to also serve as a brothel, letting rooms by the hour. He wondered if Gillie was aware of that. He suspected she was. She seemed to be intimately familiar with all aspects of this area of London.
He wondered if she’d ever taken a man—other than a wounded one—to her rooms. He doubted it. She wasn’t the flirtatious sort, and yet something about her was decidedly coquettish. Perhaps because she didn’t appear to be aware of her appeal. Even downplaying it with her plain garb and her short hair couldn’t diminish it. She was like the sun, hiding behind clouds, but the brilliance of her still shone through.
Lifting the heavy mug, she placed it just below her slender nose and inhaled the aroma. Her eyes closed and her expression of bliss had his lower body tightening painfully. He’d like to be the one responsible for causing the soft sigh that escaped through her slightly parted lips just before she took a sip of the dark brew.
With an easy smile, she opened her eyes. “I love coffee.”
“I’d have not guessed.” Which was a lie, as it was obvious she enjoyed the flavor. “What did you mean when you asked Mrs. Bard about the people sleeping on the ropes?”
She seemed surprised by his question. “Not everyone has the luxury of a bed. She has a room where she has lined up pallets. If people haven’t the means to afford one, they can sleep on a bench for fewer coins. There’s a rope strung the length of it about chest high so they can put their arms over it in order to not tumble off the bench once they fall asleep.”
He was rather appalled by the notion. Many lords and ladies were involved in charitable works, and while he had made numerous donations to their causes he was unfamiliar with this practice. “Sounds terribly uncomfortable.”
“Oh, it is.”
His gut tightened at the thought of her hanging over a rope. “Have you slept in such a manner?”
“When I was fifteen, and only as a lark to see what it was like. My mum always provided me with a bed before I could afford one of my own.”
“Your voice always softens when you mention her.”
Lifting a shoulder, she took another sip of coffee, looking at him over the rim of her cup. It was an odd thing that he couldn’t remember Lavinia ever studying him and had no memory of ever scrutinizing her either. But then he’d known her for ages, because their fathers had ensured they met and understood they were destined to wed. “I have to admit to being surprised you know the area and people, so well.”
Blinking, she set down her mug. “I thought that was the reason you asked for my help.”
“Well, yes, but still I underestimated your knowledge. I assume you grew up here.”
“Not in Whitechapel specifically, but nearby. I’ve been here since I was nineteen, ever since I opened my tavern.”
“What’s that then? A half dozen years?”
She laughed, a sound that caused gents to turn their heads, and he suspected he was the envy of some, to be sitting at a table by the window with her. “A little over a decade.”
Which made her a mature woman, not an innocent, untried lass. Surely a woman who’d had lovers. Or at least at some time a husband. Perhaps she was a widow. He didn’t like the thought of her with another man, sipping coffee, sharing whisky. Something akin to jealousy rushed through him at the thought of another man lying in her bed, opening his eyes to find her tending to him. “Have you never married?”
“Nary once.”
Most women would be a bit embarrassed by the fact, but she seemed to view it as a badge of honor. “Why ever not?”
“I’m not the sort men love, and I won’t marry without love. I’m content with what I have.”
