A Lord For The Wallflower Widow

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 was strange for a shop girl.

He squeezed back against the shelves as she returned to the counter with her prize.

She took down another bonnet to place in the window, not the one he had suggested, he noted, but a summer hat with gauzy yellow ribbons and a cluster of cherries adorning the upturned brim.

Once she was satisfied, she returned and removed the violets from the bonnet and wrapped them in tissue paper. ‘I hope your lady is suitably impressed.’ She held out her hand. ‘One shilling, please.’

The dryness in her voice struck him on the raw. Clearly, she thought the gift paltry. He glanced down at the wares on display in the glass case. ‘How much is that handkerchief? The one embroidered with violets.’

‘Thruppence.’ She smiled for the first time since he had walked into the shop. It changed her whole face from plain to lovely. Not pretty, exactly. But...lovely. He blinked.

She pulled the drawer towards her, withdrew the delicate square from the case and laid it on the counter.

Another wave of exhaustion washed through him. He forced his spine straight. Besides, he’d already spent quite enough. Silk violets for a shilling? He must be more foxed than he’d thought.

‘I’ll take it, Mrs...’

Again, a wash of colour rose up her face. ‘Greystoke.’

Greystoke. The name sounded familiar. Propped against the counter, he watched her fumble in the drawer. She pulled out a calling card which she wrapped inside the tissue paper along with the handkerchief. ‘In case you should know of anyone who might be interested in one of our bonnets. They are of the finest workmanship. Perhaps your wife...’ She smiled encouragingly.

Once more he found himself staring at her in a bemused fashion. ‘I am not married.’

She glanced at the neatly wrapped package. ‘I see.’

‘Those are for a special lady of my acquaintance.’ Hell, why had he felt the need to say such a thing? The recipient of his purchases was none of her business. ‘A very special lady.’

‘Of course.’ Her voice held not a scrap of interest. She tied the package with a ribbon.

He bowed and hand over his calling card. ‘It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs Greystoke.’

Out in the street he glanced through the window to see Mrs Greystoke rearranging her display of handkerchiefs and watching him from the corner of her eye. Making sure he departed post-haste, no doubt.

He clapped his hat on his head and marched off.

A spray of silk violets for a shilling. He hoped like hell Mimi Luttrell appreciated the sacrifice.

But he would tell her about the bonnets. Because Mrs Greystoke was right. Even in his inebriated state, he could tell they were of the finest quality.

* * *

Whatever hopes Carrie had harboured that Lord Avery’s purchase would result in a swarm of ladies interested in hats had died over the following two days. He hadn’t bought a hat, he’d merely pillaged its decoration. The hat, sans violets, now resided on the highest shelf, there to languish until her return to Kent.

There it remained, a constant reminder of his wheedling smile and beautiful brown eyes rimmed with the longest eyelashes she had ever seen. Disastrously beautiful brown eyes with gold flecks scattered like sunbeams across them. Not to mention how he towered over her, which so few men did. Dash it all, she did not want to think about Lord Avery, the younger son of a duke, she’d realised later, having properly read his calling card. A wealthy young man she should have tried to convince to buy a dozen embroidered handkerchiefs instead getting flustered and wrapping up one. She’d made a proper mull of it, as her father would have said.

The idea of returning to the ladies at Westram with nothing but the grand sum of one shilling and thruppence and a ruined bonnet had given her nightmares. Her handbills had not brought in a single customer and she dared not use any of these meagre funds to print more. All in all, the shop in which she had placed such high hopes was a failure.

They would be able to afford one more week’s rent from what little funds they had saved over the winter before she had to close the doors. It was so frustrating. If the ladies of the ton saw these bonnets, their original design, their craftsmanship, she had no doubt they would snap them up. But how was she to accomplish it?

For the third time that morning she rearranged the items beneath the glass counter top, putting lacy gloves beside the chicken-skin fan Marguerite had painted with a pastoral scene. The bell above the door tinkled. She straightened. Her jaw dropped. ‘Lord Avery?’

He bowed. ‘Mrs Greystoke.’

She glanced behind him. There was no sign of the very special lady he had mentioned. ‘How may I help you?’

‘I have need of another of your fripperies.’ He scanned the hats.

Blankly she stared at him. ‘This is a millinery shop, my lord. You bought the one and only violet nosegay in the shop and I have no intention of demolishing any more of my stock for a whim. However, I would be more than pleased to sell you a hat in its entirety. What you do with it afterwards would be your prerogative.’

Oh, dear, that was not the way to treat a customer. Especially the younger son of a duke. But really!

‘It is hardly demolished.’ He gave her that heart-stopping crooked smile that had flustered her the first time he’d gazed at her. He looked even more handsome this morning than he had the other day. His lovely brown eyes were clear and bright, his jacket unrumpled, his dark brown hair carefully ordered. And that smile... It was doing devastating things to her insides. ‘And besides,’ he continued, ‘a hat is far too personal item for a gentleman to purchase. In my experience, a lady needs to try on several bonnets before she can decide on one. Do you let your husband buy your hats?’

‘My husband is dead.’ She clamped her jaw shut. Now why had she told him that? And in such a blunt manner, too. He might think she was interested in him and before she knew it he’d be taking advantage. That was the sort of thing men did. It had been drummed into her at Mrs Thacker’s Academy for the Daughters of Gentlemen.

His expression changed to one of sympathy. ‘I am sorry.’

Why should he be sorry? She meant nothing to him. But he was right about him buying his lady a hat. Most women did prefer to choose their own. There was something very intimate about the purchase of a hat and it was decidedly perspicacious of him to realise that particular fact. Clearly the man knew women.

A suggestion was in order. She gave him a tight little smile, wishing she knew how to be a little more charming. ‘Perhaps you could bring her with you and let her choose.’

He gave a low chuckle, a deep rich sound that seemed to stir things up low in her belly. ‘Perhaps one day. In the meantime...’

‘Well, I doubt any lady would be pleased to receive the same gift, even if it is in a different colour and form.’

His brow clouded. ‘No. You are right.’

‘What about a pair of gloves?’ She brought out a pair and set them on the counter.

‘Too practical.’

‘An embroidered pair of slippers.’ She laid several before him.

‘Too mundane.’

‘Not these. The workmanship is the finest you will see anywhere.’

He shook his head. ‘I would prefer something more...’

‘Romantic?’ She smiled sweetly.

‘Unique.’

‘What about a fan?’ She spread two hand-painted silk fans, showing off the delicate paintings, one of a ballroom scene and the other of the countryside.

He picked one up, opening and closing it and inspecting the painted sticks. ‘Very nice. Are they imported from the East?’

‘No, my sister-in-law makes them.’

‘She is a talented woman.’

Carrie smiled. She loved to hear her sisters-in-law complimented. She’d been an only child and the idea of having sisters thrilled her.

He stood there, staring at her mouth as if he had never seen a woman smile before. Her body flushed warm. Goodness, but the man was a flirt.

‘Your special lady will love using it,’ she said firmly. ‘It is sure to be admired by all her acquaintances.’

He gave her a sharp look. ‘And put me in her good graces?’

She nodded encouragingly. ‘Of course.’

‘How much?’

‘Half a crown.’

His lips thinned. ‘That’s a little steep, don’t you think?’

‘Is the lady not worth it, my lord?’ She flicked it open. ‘Nevertheless, because you are a repeat customer, I am willing to sell it to you for two shillings.’ That was sixpence more than the price she and the others had agreed upon, but the man’s need seemed urgent. And her own needs were pressing in.

‘Very well. Two shillings it is. Though I feel I am getting the worst of this bargain.’

It was not good for a customer to feel that way. ‘You will not see another fan like this one anywhere, I assure you.’

‘I see another right there.’ He pointed to a third fan.

She spread it open. On this one, the leaf was a pale blue silk and showed a scene of the ocean at sunset. ‘It is not at all the same.’

He grinned. ‘You have me there, Mrs Greystoke. Very well, I will take this fan for two shillings.’

He dug out his money pouch. ‘I hope you will recommend my shop to your lady,’ she said as calmly as possible despite the rapid beating of her heart. Was it him making it beat so fast? Or merely the idea of finally making a sale? She wrapped the fan in tissue. ‘When she is next in need of a hat.’

‘I most certainly will. Indeed, I will mention your shop to every one of my acquaintances.’

He bowed and left with the little package tucked under his arm.

Carrie could not help admiring his lithe male figure as he disappeared through her shop door. He was so masculine. Despite his elegant tailoring, he looked athletic and fit. He’d no doubt be an excellent lover. She blushed at the unbidden thought. It was his flirting that had made such a wicked thought about a man she scarcely knew occur to her.

She was a woman, wasn’t she? And her thoughts were her own. As long as they remained merely thoughts, she was doing nobody any harm.

What would it be like to have such a handsome gentleman paying attention to one?

Lord Avery would no doubt be a master of the art of flirtation. And she had never been the object of a gentleman’s attentions. Not even her husband’s.

A sigh escaped her. She was such a fool. No doubt Lord Avery would never even think of her again, let alone mention her little shop to anyone.

She looked in the tin cash box. The grand sum of three shillings and thruppence stared back at her.

The Westram ladies were going to be so disappointed.

Chapter Two

‘What do you think?’ Mimi Luttrell batted her lashes at Avery, her pale blue eyes soulful, her lips pouting provocatively.

He stifled the urge to yawn. Mimi would run a mile if he so much as hinted at anything sensual between them. She had agreed to this little outing in his company because her husband preferred the hunting field to escorting her to shops and balls. She wanted to feel appreciated, that was all. And perhaps wake her errant husband up to the fact that she was a desirable woman.

It was strange how differently the English husband regarded the position of cicisbeo to those on the Continent. In Italy a man would see it as a compliment that his wife garnered the attention of a young attractive gentleman. He would even participate in funding said gentleman, provided the affaire was conducted according to the rules. In England, such financial arrangements were despised by noblemen who liked to guard their wives, pulling up their drawbridges as if they were castles.

It had certainly worked that way with Lady Passmore, the first lady whom Avery had endeavoured to charm on his recent return from the Continent. Her neglectful husband had hot-footed it all the way back from Scotland to stake his claim on his wife and hadn’t been far from her side ever since.

To Avery’s surprise, the whole thing had also been financially rewarding, both in terms of her eternal gratitude expressed in her effusive thank-you note accompanied by a parting memento he’d sold for a goodly sum and with the commissions from the merchants where he had taken her to shop, the latter being the same sort of arrangement he had entered into in Italy where he’d been living until recently.

There, in Venice, he’d fallen into the role of cicisbeo quite by chance, having at first been attracted to the lady in question, only to discover there were financial benefits to be reaped from what could only be described as a platonic relationship, and all with the approval of the lady’s husband.

Here in London, he was walking a much finer line between husband and wife, but Lady Passmore had been so delighted with the results of her innocent flirtation with Avery that she’d advised Mimi to contact him about a similar ‘arrangement’ to see if it worked on her dilettante husband, too.

And he was happy to oblige, as long as Mimi shopped in the places he recommended and did not expect him to come to her bed, since socially that would put him beyond the pale.

‘I prefer the blue.’ He’d picked out the fabric because he had known that it suited her perfectly.

Mimi frowned at herself draped in the material in the looking glass. ‘Why?’

He gazed at her silently.

She glanced over at him and gave a trill of laughter. ‘Really, Ave, darling. Please explain.’ Again, she fluttered her lashes.

Unfortunately, Mimi’s girlish tricks were a little too cloying for his taste. He much preferred the stern looks he encountered in a certain millinery shop. And the very rare smile he was able to coax from its owner.

Madame Grace, the dressmaker, pursed her lips as if trying to hold back words.

Avery had no trouble interpreting that look of disapproval. Madame Grace knew that this lady was married to someone else. The dressmaker likely thought he was a libertine, if not something worse, but that was because she did not understand that his goal was to bring the lady’s errant husband home to her side, not drive a wedge between the couple. If Mimi’s husband did not show up in a day or two, the man didn’t deserve his wife. But he would since he did not yet have his heir and his spare. He certainly would not want another man poaching on his turf, at least until that duty was completed. And knowing the minds of men, it would be a long time before her husband strayed again.

While Madame Grace might pout about giving him his cut of what Mimi spent in her shop, she knew where her best interests lay. Why should he not be paid for the extra business he brought her way?

Not that these arrangements brought him a huge income. They merely helped augment his winnings at the table.

Avery leaned back in his chair in the fitting room at the back of Grace’s shop and smiled lazily at the woman staring at her image. ‘Because that blue shade brings out the colour of your eyes, my dear, and the lustre of your skin. The rose colour you have there does not complement, rather it shouts your best features down.’

Her lips formed an O of surprise. Again, she peered into the mirror and turned this way and that. ‘How clever you are, Ave.’ She turned to the dressmaker. ‘Let me see the first one again?’

Madame Grace swathed her in the pale blue fabric, pleating it artfully so it displayed well.

Mimi nodded slowly. ‘I see what you mean. I’ll take it.’

Behind her, the dressmaker heaved a sigh of relief and Avery knew exactly how she felt. Sometimes ladies spent hours looking in the mirror and bought nothing. But Madame Grace should know better than to worry about one of Avery’s ladies. They never left her establishment without placing an order.

Oddly, he used to enjoy accompanying a woman shopping, but more recently it had simply become a chore. He gave Mimi a broad grin of approval. ‘Where do you want to go next, Puss? Slippers?’

Ladies loved their shoes and the cobbler made a healthy profit that he was more than happy to share with Avery.

Mimi stroked the pale blue fabric. ‘Which bonnet would I wear with this?’

He stilled. An array of exquisite bonnets popped into his mind. But he did not have an arrangement with Mrs Greystoke. Indeed, he’d been doing his best to ignore the fact that he had ever met the woman, because he found her far too intriguing. A distraction. Yet, despite his best efforts, he kept thinking about her smile.

Why hadn’t he offered her the same arrangement he had with other merchants? Was he concerned about what she would think about him? Why would he even care?

‘Ave?’

Mimi’s peevish tone brought him back from the recollection of a tall stern-faced woman to the dressmaker’s shop. He gritted his teeth. He hated it when Mimi called him Ave. It was presumptuous and demeaning, but she was his sister’s bread and butter and as such her irritating little foibles had to be tolerated.

‘Yes, Sweetling?’

‘I don’t have a bonnet that will go with this fabric.’ She touched the rose fabric, now discarded on the counter. ‘I do have one with pink ribbons.’

The lady did love pink. He recalled that particular hat with an inner shudder. It was hideous. Not in the first stare of fashion either. ‘You wish to drive out in a brand new carriage dress wearing a bonnet you must have worn at least five times?’

Mimi winced. ‘You think people would notice?’

‘Other ladies would certainly notice. The gentlemen would not give a fig, I suppose.’

She grimaced. ‘But the ladies will mention it to the gentlemen and they will rib George about not providing for his wife. I won’t have them belittling George.’

Mimi was really fond of her husband in the strange way of the ton.

‘A bonnet it is then,’ he said. ‘I know just the place.’ He winced inwardly. He really was going to do this, then? Take her to visit Mrs Greystoke? Where he wouldn’t make a penny in commission. He must have porridge for brains. Except he wasn’t thinking with his brain if the surge of warmth in his veins at the thought of seeing her again was anything to go by. ‘Afterwards, we will see new half-boots to complete the ensemble.’ And put a few coins in his purse.

Mimi put her arm through his. ‘Perfect.’

Trailed by Mimi’s maid, they strolled down Bond Street, looking in shop windows until they passed a milliner’s shop. Mimi pointed at a jaunty hat with a huge feather. ‘What do you think of that one?’

‘It really isn’t you.’

‘It is all the crack. It might look better on.’

‘We can come back if we don’t find anything else.’

For a moment, he thought she would refuse, but she shrugged. ‘Very well.’

When he turned off Bond Street, she frowned. ‘Really, Avery? Where are we going?’

‘Not far. This shop has the best hats for really decent prices and if you purchase one, you won’t see another hat like it anywhere.’

Her face lit up.

Finding something unique but not outrageously priced was always the trick. There was nothing worse than arriving at a ball or a drum and discovering another lady in the exact same gown or riding Rotten Row and meeting a lady wearing the same carriage dress or hat.

Ladies set great store by such things. Whereas most men were happy wearing black coats and buff pantaloons with the occasional idiosyncrasy of a fanciful waistcoat.

He opened the door to Mrs Greystone’s establishment and ushered Mimi in.

As far as he could tell not a single bonnet had been sold since his last visit two days ago.

‘Good morning,’ she said, eyeing him askance.

‘Good morning,’ Mimi said.

A strange look passed across Mrs Greystoke’s face as she took in his companion. An expression she quickly masked with a bright smile.

‘This is Mrs Luttrell,’ Lord Avery said.

Mrs Greystoke dipped a curtsy. ‘How may I be of service, madam.’

‘I need a hat.’

Amusement danced in Mrs Greystoke’s dove-grey eyes. ‘Then you have come to the right place.’