“A lovely shepherd’s pie ’n’ mutton stew.”

“I’ll have the pie and half a pint of light beer.”

“Yes, miss. And ye, sir?”

“I’ll have the pie as well, along with a pint of Guinness.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll be back in a tick.”

Fancy watched as Becky hurried off, grabbing empty tankards and glasses as she went, nodding toward those asking for another pint or beverage. The woman was like a juggler, tossing far too many balls in the air, yet effectively keeping each one from landing on the ground.

“Miss Trewlove.”

The quietly spoken name, drawn-out almost like it was a bit of confection to be savored, caused her attention to swing back to her table companion. “You say that as though you didn’t know who I was.”

“I didn’t. I assume you’re related to Mick Trewlove.”

She couldn’t stop her pride in her brother’s accomplishments from beaming forth. “I’m his younger sister. And you’re not to blame. We never introduced ourselves. I’m Fancy Trewlove.”

“The Fancy Book Emporium.” He mulled it over. “The name of your shop is lacking an apostrophe and an S.”

Trust a man to point out the obvious or seek to correct what needed no correction. “Their omission was intentional. It’s a play on my name you see. A bit of fun. You’ve yet to tell me who you are.”

A hesitation as though he weren’t quite sure of himself. “Matthew Sommersby. Two Ms.”

She held out her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Matthew Sommersby, two Ms.”

The smile he bestowed upon her fairly stole her breath. She’d seen hints of it, a twitch here, a small curl of a corner there, but when he spread his lips into a full smile that revealed perfect straight teeth, when his eyes sparkled as though he was truly pleased, she found herself astounded by the seeming swiftness with which he’d been transformed from a man of such seriousness to one who projected an image more welcoming, more inviting, more sensual, more . . . everything.

“A pleasure, Miss Trewlove.” His palm, hinting at the slightest roughness like the finest grains of sand on a beach beneath her soles, came to rest against hers. For some reason she envisioned him kissing the tips of her fingers. He possessed an elegance and refinement that reminded her of courtly gestures. But he merely released his hold, then opened and closed his hand as though wanting to hoard the sensation he’d experienced while touching her.

“I assume you live in the area,” she said.

“The next street over. 86 Ettie Lane. I can see the back of your shop from my upstairs window.”