Her gaze slid to the book still sitting on the counter beside her, and as she stared at it, she remembered the duke with the book open in his hands, entertained by something he’d read within its pages. On impulse, she snatched up the slim little volume, wondering if she could determine what that man had found so amusing in a political tract.
The moment she opened it, however, the words scrawled across the flyleaf in Rory’s nearly illegible handwriting caused her to regret her curiosity and curse the duke’s painfully shrewd perceptions all over again.
To my favorite worker.
Evie stared at the words and felt a sudden, absurd impulse to cry.
“Hell,” she muttered, tossed aside the book, and sagged wearily against the counter.
No, she would not be marrying Rory. She supposed that wasn’t a loss to be mourned, but it felt shattering just the same, because with it came the acknowledgment that there might not be another chance.
She was twenty-eight, every bit the spinster Margery had almost called her. How could she ever hope to be anything else? She never went anywhere, and she never seemed to meet any eligible men, at least none under sixty. She supported herself—barely—with a business that had once been a challenge but had somehow become a chore.
She had just been presented with the chance for a holiday, a way to alleviate the tedium, but as she’d told the duke, it was impossible.
But what if it weren’t?
Evie found herself wavering. Yes, it was a sting to her pride that men were debating her attractiveness and placing wagers on it. Yes, the duke’s proposition was absurd. Yes, it had risks.
But maybe it was time to be a bit absurd and take a few risks?
That tiny little surge she’d felt earlier welled up again, the longing for something else, something more, something that would lift her out of a rut she hadn’t even realized she’d fallen into.
You’re afraid.
The duke had been right. She was afraid. What a ghastly thing to admit. And yet, she wasn’t a naïve girl in finishing school anymore. She was different now, wasn’t she? Older, wiser, stronger, braver.
She didn’t feel brave. But wasn’t that what came of playing too safe?
“This is ridiculous!” she cried aloud, exasperated with herself for even considering it. “It would be insane to agree to this—set myself up to be humiliated by people who think they’re better than me? Let some bored duke and his friends amuse themselves at my expense? Why should I?”
She looked up, staring in resentment at the ceiling overhead, imagining she could see beyond it to the heavens above, demanding an answer to her question from the highest authority possible. “Why the hell should I?”
Suddenly, an explosive bang rang out from above, a sound so loud it rattled the plate glass windows and caused the very walls of the building to shudder. In its wake, Evie could hear a strange, gushing sound that was somehow even more ominous than the bang had been.
With a cry of alarm, she raced for the stairs at the back of the shop, the duke’s proposition, her agonizing doubts, and her questions to the Almighty all forgotten.
She started up the staircase, but on the landing, she stopped, her hand clenching around the cap of the newel post as she stared in horror at the flood of water that was tumbling down the steps toward her.
It washed over her feet in a warm wave, and as it continued on toward the shop below, Evie realized with a sick sense of dismay that the ancient boiler must have exploded, sending its three hundred gallons of water spreading throughout the attic and down into her flat. Soon, it would completely flood the shop.
She looked up from her soaking wet shoes and scowled venomously at the ceiling overhead, appreciating that her defiant question had just been answered.
God, she decided, had a wretched sense of humor.
6
If Max had to make a list of lessons learned in life, the first one would have been to never marry out of your class. Prominent placement would also have been allotted to never giving cheek to Oxford dons and never kissing a girl while in church. But after his most recent encounter with Miss Harlow, Max was prepared to add another to his list: never make a bet if you’re drunk.
He had been decidedly in his cups the other night at the Savoy, granted, but even the following day, he’d still regarded the wager as little more than a lark. It wasn’t until he’d begun laying out the circumstances to Miss Harlow that he appreciated how insulting it all might sound to her ears.
A serious mistake on his part.
Sitting down with her face-to-face, stumbling his way through explanations of how the bet had come about, he’d felt as embarrassed as an unprepared schoolboy reciting an essay. In consequence, he’d behaved boorishly, abandoned any shred of tact, and been deservedly booted out of her shop. Now, walking back to the Savoy with her scathing words still ringing in his ears, Max was forced to acknowledge that he’d made a mess of the whole business.
There was nothing for it but to forfeit the wager. A shame, really. He was more certain than ever Evie Harlow was in serious need of fun. He also remained convinced there were many young blades about town who’d be happy to oblige her in that regard, men far more deserving of her attentions than the one she’d set her sights on. Sadly, making her appreciate all that seemed as likely as the Prince of Wales playing the fiddle in Leicester Square. And if all that wasn’t enough to make Max gloomy as an undertaker, he’d have to admit defeat to that impudent pup Freddie Maybridge. What a nauseating prospect.
It wasn’t long, however, before Max discovered his pessimism might have been premature. Among the letters delivered with his breakfast the following morning was one from Miss Harlow inquiring if he might pay a call on her at the bookshop that afternoon to further elucidate the terms of what they had discussed.
