“Neither do you. You can’t see yourself as you truly are or explore what you could become. Don’t you want to find out? Don’t you want to at least peek out of your safe little nest to see what exciting, wonderful possibilities might be out there for you?”
“That’s torn it. I’ve heard enough.” Turning, she picked up the file from her desk. “Here,” she said, jabbing the edge of the folder into his abdomen. “This is all the information I have for Delia’s party at the moment. Take it, along with your wager and your insufferable presumptions, and go.”
He didn’t move, adding to her anger, and as they stared at each other in hostile silence, Evie feared she might have to grab a chair and drive him out like a lion tamer might do with beasts in the circus ring. But thankfully, Westbourne capitulated at last.
“Very well,” he said as he pulled the file from her fingers. “I often speak my mind, Miss Harlow, sometimes far more bluntly than I should, and I have certainly done so in this case. Please accept my apologies.”
He turned and reached for his hat. “When you have the rest of Delia’s information ready, send word to me at the Savoy, and I will have my valet come and fetch it. Good day. I doubt we shall meet again.” He met her gaze as he donned his hat. “Much to my regret.”
He bowed and walked away, and after a moment, the bell jangled, the door closed, and she knew he had left the shop. His departure, however, gave Evie no sense of relief, for in the silence that followed, his words echoed through her mind.
Their view of you wasn’t a flattering portrait...rather plain...unremarkable...
With a muttered oath, Evie stalked out of the storage room, reminding herself that she had better things to do than contemplate what he or anyone else in the smart set thought of her.
I contended that they were all blind as bats, that you were far more attractive than they gave you credit for, and that, if given half a chance, you could be regarded as an incomparable beauty.
Incomparable beauty. And pigs might fly, too.
But as she passed through the pantry, she caught a glint of light in the tiny mirror above the counter, and almost against her will, she stopped to stare at it, wondering what could have inspired such an opinion.
She leaned forward, peering at her reflection in the rather wavy glass, but it offered no answers.
All she could see was a pointy chin, a tired mouth, dark circles, and too many freckles.
Evie turned impatiently away from the mirror and continued on with her work. As she turned the placard in her window from Closed to Open, as she rearranged books, dusted shelves, and filled the cash register, she tried to forget the entire appalling episode. But that, she soon discovered, was easier said than done.
You will have fun, I promise you, and fun is something I sense you don’t often allow yourself...You’ll meet new people, make new friends...
Evie gave a snort of derision. Not his circle, of course, for he’d made it very clear she wasn’t good enough for that. Not that she wanted to be anywhere near his circle. At least they had agreed on that much.
Wouldn’t you like to see them eat humble pie?
No, she wouldn’t. She’d be mad to seek for the second time the good opinion of people who would talk about her behind her back and ridicule her because of things like physical appearance and background.
It wouldn’t be like that.
Ah, but it would. Evie stilled, her hands resting on the drawer of the cash register. It would be just like that.
You can’t see yourself as you truly are or explore what you could become. Don’t you want to find out? Don’t you want to at least peek out of your safe little nest to see what exciting, wonderful possibilities might be out there for you?
Evie looked up, staring at her surroundings. The shop, the flat, the books—this was her safe little nest, she realized with a grimace. It was familiar and predictable. And she had always been happy here.
Until now.
Evie slammed the cash register closed. She’d been glad to come back here, happy to help her father in the shop, relieved to be back in a world that accepted her for just what she was, a world she knew and understood. And after Papa’s death, she’d welcomed the distraction of running things on her own. Making it solvent again had been a challenge, one that in her grief, she had badly needed and had eventually come to enjoy. And with each debt paid off, there had been a sense of triumph and satisfaction.
But now, there was no debt. There was no challenge. Only the mundane daily routine. And lately, hadn’t she felt a faint discontent stirring in the air? During the past year or two, there had been mornings when getting out of bed and going downstairs had seemed like a pointless journey, endless days when even her beloved books weren’t enough to hold her interest, nights when she’d lain in bed, staring at the ceiling, bone tired yet unable to sleep. She’d wondered, more often than she liked to admit, if perhaps it might be best to let it all go, do something else.
But one thing had always hushed her questions and silenced her doubts before they could ever take hold: What else was there for a woman like her?
Better still, you could pack all this in and come live with us.
Margery’s offer felt like the last straw, the period punctuating the end of a decade of hard work, work that had once been exciting and enjoyable, but that now seemed stale, joyless, and dull.
And then Rory had come home, bringing with him the possibility of romance, love, perhaps even marriage. Was that what she really wanted—to marry Rory?
A man who is unworthy of you.
