A Lord For The Wallflower Widow. Ann Lethbridge
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the rear of the shop. Tansy will be happy to help you.’ She looked back at him. ‘Gentlemen are not permitted.’
Liz looked relieved. ‘Do you have it in any other colours?’
‘We do. One for every day of the week.’
Liz giggled. ‘Good lord. Really?’
Mrs Greystoke inclined her head. ‘Really.’
Avery inhaled a breath. His forte was helping ladies choose outer garments that showed them off to advantage. Things such as this were best left to the women themselves. Or their husbands. He didn’t want to be facing pistols at dawn over such a trifle. ‘The colour you have there would suit you very well,’ he said, smiling. ‘Try it on. You can always try a different colour if you decide you do not like it.’
Elizabeth took the whisper of fabric and lace and followed the shop assistant into the back of the shop.
‘And how are you, Lord Avery?’ Mrs Greystoke asked.
Since there was now no one else in the shop he gave her his best charming smile. ‘A little surprised, I must say.’
‘At our new venture?’
Our? Who were the others? She had said her husband was dead. ‘Yes. I thought you were a milliner.’
‘Oh, we discovered a demand for something no one else was offering. We thought it a suitable addition to our inventory, since most of our customers are ladies.’ She gave him a considering look and lowered her voice. ‘How is Mrs Luttrell?’
‘She is well, so far as I am aware.’
A crease appeared in her forehead as she considered the implications of his remark. He had the decided urge to kiss that little frown. To taste it with his tongue. To smooth it away with his thumb.
‘If you should see her,’ Mrs Greystoke continued, ‘give her my thanks for sending her friends along. If there is ever anything I can do for her, I would be most happy to return the favour.’
Good old Mimi. She had kept her word, then. Was that the reason he had hesitated about returning here? Because he feared she might have not done so and that he would discover Mrs Greystoke more desperate than before?
‘I will let her know, but I believe she is away at the moment. At a country house party in Sussex.’
‘Oh, I see.’
What did she see? Ah. Did she think he was doing something underhanded with Lady Fontly in the other lady’s absence? ‘Yes. We parted on the most agreeable terms.’ He emphasised the word ‘parted’.
Her frown deepened and the disapproval in her expression said she had drawn some conclusions she did not like. He quelled a faint sense of hurt and the urge to explain. It was none of her business how he chose to support members of his family.
A moment later, Elizabeth emerged with a neatly wrapped package in her hand. She looked ready to explode with excitement. ‘I love it.’
‘Did you wish to purchase a hat also?’ Mrs Greystoke asked.
‘Yes. Yes, I do.’
They agreed on the summer bonnet Mrs Greystoke had already recommended and when she wrote up the bills, she wrote one to Lord Fontly. The other she wrote to Lady Fontly. ‘In case you wish to keep it as a surprise,’ she explained.
Or in case she wanted to wear it for Avery, he thought, feeling a little bitter at her misjudgement, despite knowing how it looked.
Mrs Greystoke handed him the hatbox. ‘Enjoy your purchase.’
When she said those last words, she was looking at him. Oh, yes, she really thought him some sort of Lothario.
Fortunately, Elizabeth did not notice her misunderstanding.
Annoyed at Mrs Greystoke and feeling slightly ashamed of himself, he left the shop.
* * *
The next morning as Carrie swept the front step and the narrow path in front of her window, she could not help wishing the shop had a better location. Mr Thrumby had warned her more than once to keep her door locked and bolted at night and not to linger in the street during the day. Fortunately for her, he and his wife occupied the upstairs rooms, the stairs to which were reached by way of a hallway that passed her back door. He kept a porter on duty at that back entrance, both day and night, so there was always someone nearby who would come at her call.
Hearing the sharp tap of footsteps on the pavement, she lifted her gaze from her broom to glance up the street. A familiar figure strolled towards her. Lord Avery. Behind him a door slammed. The gambling hell Mr Thrumby had warned her about no doubt. There could be nowhere else he was coming from at this time in the morning.
Why did men gamble away their fortunes in such places? It was so utterly irresponsible. They ruined themselves and they ruined their families. They also gambled away their lives for the sake of some foolish bet. As her husband had. Furiously, she brushed at the paving slabs, as if she could sweep away the memory of her wedding night along with the news of his death in some terrible battle in Spain a few weeks later. She wanted no truck with any man who gambled.
As if she could sweep away Lord Avery along with the memories. Even if he was the most handsome, most charming fellow she had ever met.
He removed his hat and bowed. ‘Good day, Mrs Greystoke.’
Blast. She had meant to whisk herself inside before he reached her shop. Hadn’t she? She straightened and met his gaze. She couldn’t believe how haggard he looked, how tired and drawn, and yet his usual charming smile curved his lips and his eyes warmed as they rested upon her face.
An answering warmth trickled through her veins. ‘Lord Avery.’ She couldn’t believe how breathless she sounded. It must be all that vigorous sweeping.
‘Up 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