Elizabeth Rolls – His Convenient Marchioness (страница 3)

‘Please, Mama?’

She dragged her attention back to Harry, summoning patience. ‘We can set money aside for a kite at the next quarter day. For Christmas.’ Assuming no unexpected bills dropped into her lap. As it was, she had considered letting the Hatchard’s Circulating Library subscription go back at Michaelmas, but the children had to be given their lessons and she needed the weekly selection of books to help with that. It simply meant that she could not save as much this quarter towards the day when she must send Harry to school.

‘I hate quarter day.’ Harry dragged his feet over the doorstep, his face sulky.

Emma opened her mouth to tell him not to scuff his new shoes, that they had to last until the next quarter day—and changed her mind. She hated quarter day, too. Hated the having to sit down and budget for the next three months, because there never seemed to be enough for new shoes and a simple treat like a kite for a ten-year-old boy. Hated having to worry about the cost when one of the children became ill and most of all she hated that Harry even knew what quarter day was. Even little Georgie had an inkling of the import of quarter day.

The struggle to make ends meet had not been so bad when Peter was alive. There had been more money and the children had been smaller, too. Georgie, now six, was still content with Emma’s attempts at doll-making. Her effort at kite-making had fallen well short of the mark. Quite literally. The makeshift kite had ended up in the Serpentine.

‘Papa would have known how to make a kite.’ Georgie, holding Emma’s hand again, looked up with complete assurance in her tawny eyes. Peter’s eyes.

Harry looked back and scowled. ‘Oh, shut up, Georgie. You’re just a baby. You don’t even remember Papa.’

Georgie stuck her tongue out. ‘Do, too! And he would have!’

‘Harry.’ Emma frowned at her son. ‘Don’t be rude to your sister. Georgie, no lady ever sticks her tongue out.’

Georgie looked mutinous. ‘It’s only Harry.’

‘Even so. And, yes, Papa would have known how to make a kite.’ And how to help their rapidly growing son become a man.

Harry looked crosser than ever. ‘Doesn’t matter anyway.’ He sulked ahead of his mother and sister, still scuffing his shoes.

Emma followed, Georgie’s hand tucked into hers. Harry needed to be with boys his own age, but at the moment school was beyond her means. More, he needed a man’s influence. Not, as her father had put it four years ago, to lick him into shape, but just to be there for him. Somehow she had to see to his education and—

‘What book shall I choose, Mama?’

She smiled down at Georgie. ‘Let’s see what’s there, shall we?’

* * *

Hunt told Fergus to stay and left the spaniel sitting beside Hatchard’s doorstep. Fergus’s plumed tail beat an enthusiastic tattoo on the pavement and, confident the dog would be there when he came out, Hunt strolled into the shop and breathed in the delight of leather bindings, ink and paper. One of the few things he missed about London when he was in the country was her bookshops, this one in particular. John Hatchard had only opened his business a few years earlier, but it had quickly become one of Hunt’s favourites.

The dark-haired young man came forward to greet him. ‘Good morning, my lord.’ He executed a slight bow. ‘Welcome back to London. You found us, then.’

Hunt smiled. ‘Good morning, Hatchard. Yes.’ He glanced around the shop. When he’d left London at the end of the spring sitting of Parliament, Hatchard had been further along Piccadilly. ‘Your new premises are satisfactory?’

The bookseller smiled back. ‘Oh, yes. I venture to say we’ll be here for a while, my lord. May I help you with something in particular?’

‘No, no. I’ll just wander through to the subscription room and make my selection. Unless you’ve anything special for me look at?’ Hatchard knew his collection almost as well as he did.

Hatchard’s smile deepened. ‘As it happens, sir, I do have a 1674 edition of Milton. I was going to write to you.’

Hunt hoped his expression didn’t betray him. ‘Paradise Lost? That sounds interesting.’ An understatement if ever there was one. Hatchard knew perfectly well that he didn’t have the first edition of Paradise Lost.

‘I’ll fetch it for you. The subscription room is through there.’ Hatchard pointed.

Hunt tried not to look as though Christmas had arrived early. ‘Thank you, Hatchard. No rush. Call me when you’re ready.’

Hunt strolled on through the shop, pausing to look at this book and that, making his way towards the subscription room. He didn’t know any of the other customers; late October was a little soon for most of the ton to return to London. He planned to head out to his house near Isleworth in a few days himself, rather than stay in town the whole time, but there were matters to discuss with his man of business and solicitors if he were to marry again.

He couldn’t bring himself to care very much. Paradise Lost was far more enticing than marrying merely because male branches on his family tree were in distressingly short supply.

He stopped on the threshold of the subscription room and quelled his unreasonable annoyance at finding it occupied. A grey-clad woman and two children had claimed a large leather chair, the small girl snuggled in the woman’s lap and the older boy—was he ten, eleven?—perched on one arm, kicking at the side of the chair. A governess and her charges, he supposed. The boy glanced up at Hunt, subjecting him to an unabashed stare from dark blue eyes.

Slightly taken aback, Hunt inclined his head gravely. ‘Good morning.’ A pang went through him. Simon had had just that direct, confident gaze.

The lad’s eyes widened. ‘Oh. Um, good morning, sir.’

The woman looked up sharply from the book she and the little girl were examining and Hunt forgot the boy. Deep blue eyes, very like the boy’s, met his. His breath caught and he tensed, staring, startled by the unexpected and unwelcome heat in his veins. Her lips parted and for a moment he thought she would speak, but with the merest nod she returned her attention to the book and settled the little girl closer, speaking too quietly to hear anything beyond the question in her voice. The child nodded and the book was set aside.

Hunt forced himself to turn to the shelves. All he saw was a pair of midnight eyes in a still, pale face. He gritted his teeth, willing away the shocking heat. For God’s sake! He was fifty. Not a green boy to be rattled by an unexpected attraction. And he didn’t prey on governesses, damn it! Although...no. The resemblance to the boy was clear. Not the governess. Their mother and that meant she was married. Respectably married judging by her gown and the fact that she took her children about with her, rather than leaving it to a governess. Memory stirred. She had nearly spoken to him and he had seen those eyes before. It was not just that unwelcome flare of attraction. Did he know her? He started to turn back, but stopped. She had neither smiled, nor given any hint of encouragement. When a lady made it clear she did not wish to acknowledge an acquaintance, then a gentleman acquiesced. The Marquess of Huntercombe did not accost strange females in bookshops.

‘Harry?’ The woman spoke firmly. ‘Will you have Mr Swift this week?’

At the musical, slightly husky voice, Hunt’s memory stirred again.

‘I don’t mind.’

Perusing the bookshelves, Hunt thought that sounded remarkably like I don’t care. He grinned. Understandable that the boy would far rather be out with friends playing cricket, than choosing books with his mother and sister. His own boys had been the same.

‘Georgie, you had that stupid book last month!’

‘Harry.’ The mother’s voice remained quiet, but it held steel enough to wilt a grown man, let alone a young boy.

‘Well, she did, Mama.’ Brotherly contempt oozed. ‘Why can’t she choose a proper book if we have to come here? Fairy tales are only for babies.’

‘I’m not a—!’

‘Georgie. I haven’t noticed you choosing any book at all, Harry.’

Mama’s clipped tones silenced the little girl and had Hunt wincing. The boy was dicing with death here.

‘I chose Mr... Mr Swift!’

‘No. I suggested it and you didn’t mind. That’s hardly choosing.’

A moment’s sulky silence. ‘Well, I’d rather have a kite. Not a stupid library subscription.’

‘Harry—’

‘I know! Because she was sick and had the silly doctor and a lot of medicine, I can’t have a kite.’

‘It wasn’t my fault! You gave me the beastly cold!’

‘Yes, but I didn’t have the doctor, because I’m not a stupid girl! Ow!’

‘Georgie! Don’t hit your brother. You know he can’t hit back.’

‘Don’t care! He did give me the cold and I’m not stupid!’

‘Right.’

At the sound of upheaval, Hunt turned to see the woman rise from the chair, setting the little girl down gently, despite her obvious ire. Her face scarlet as she met his amused and, he hoped, sympathetic smile, she gathered up several books and stalked to the shelves. His gaze focused on the slender figure, caught by the unconscious grace in her walk.

‘Mama?’

‘While I am replacing these you may both apologise to his lordship for disturbing his morning.’