A courtesy she’d obviously not bestowed upon Mr. Tittlefitz, a courtesy he would be a fool to accept as viewing her in an informal light could have him lowering his guard, allowing her to skirt past his defenses when she was already battering at the wall. How easy it would be to simply allow it to crumble, to open himself up to the possibility of having her in his life on a more permanent basis. But he needed to test the waters with her first. He’d lived the old adage about marrying in haste and repenting in leisure. He wasn’t going to make that mistake again. “Good night, Miss Trewlove.”

She offered up a tentative smile, and he regretted that he might have hurt her with his rebuff of her offer to call her by her Christian name. “Good night, Mr. Sommersby.”

He didn’t go straight home, but instead wandered through the streets, his mind a chaotic swirl as he debated the wisdom of pursuing her without telling her who he was. But how else was he to be sure her feelings toward him weren’t influenced by his position? When he finally returned to his residence, he followed his usual routine of pouring himself a glass of scotch, walking upstairs to his bedchamber, and gazing out the window.

Only tonight he was met with a lovely view. Fancy Trewlove sitting in the reading nook she’d told him about. Her profile to him, her back against a wall. He could see only a portion of her: chest, shoulders, head, bent knees upon which a book rested. Then she twisted slightly, lifted a hand, and waved. So simple an action that seemed to reach down and touch something deep inside him.

Without much thought, he set his glass aside, shoved a chair in front of his own window, grabbed a book, and sat. With any luck, he’d give the appearance of reading, while in truth he was simply watching her, wondering how the mere sight of her could bring such calm to his soul, knowing when he finally retired for the evening, he would dream of making love to a shopgirl.

Chapter 11

The following afternoon, inside the sweet shop unimaginatively named “Sweet Shop,” Matthew studied the selections within the glass case. In the mood for some sugar, but without even a hint of lemon, he’d already perused the jars on the shelves and found nothing of interest. When the bell above the door jangled, he didn’t bother to look, his focus narrowing to some red hard candies.

“Good afternoon, Miss Trewlove,” the silver-haired lady behind the counter said with enthusiasm.

He couldn’t stop himself from turning then. Did the woman always wear a smile? Was she always glad to see people?

“Hello, Mrs. Flowers.” Her eyes warmed. “Mr. Sommersby.”