That, she supposed, was meant to be a compliment, but as he continued to study his surroundings, Evie wondered if he was noting the faded wallpaper, dim light, and chipped plaster ceiling and deeming it a contradiction to what he’d been led to expect. The thought that he might be judging her shop and finding it wanting based on superficialities made her feel both self-conscious and oddly defensive.
“Your companions don’t seem to hold that opinion,” she replied, wincing as the loud laughter of the younger men echoed through the shop. “At least not well enough to respect other patrons.”
“How fortunate, then,” he said smoothly as he returned his attention to her, “that there aren’t any other patrons here at present.”
Evie stiffened. “I wasn’t aware that behaving like a gentleman required an audience.”
If she hoped her tart reply would sting, she was disappointed. “It shouldn’t do,” he agreed at once. “But in defense of my companions, may I say that they are young and filled with high spirits. And they’ve been penned up at their family estates in the country all winter long.”
She donned an expression of mock sympathy. “The poor little dears. How arduous for them.”
His mouth twitched with amusement, but when he spoke, his voice was grave. “Just so. And now, having only just arrived in town, they are attempting to savor all the delights of the season in a single day. It’s made them quite ebullient.”
She watched as the one called Freddie, a foppish dandy with dark red curls peeking beneath his straw boater hat, pulled a book from the shelf, glanced at the title, and made a disparaging comment about silly lady novelists that sent his two companions into another fit of boisterous laughter.
“That’s one way of calling a goose a swan,” she countered dryly.
The duke had no chance to reply.
“Westbourne, do hurry,” Freddie urged, “or we shall have no time for a drink before we’re off to change for Lady Trent’s card party. And if we’re late, we’ll both fall several notches in my dear sister’s estimation.”
“Me more than you, Freddie, I fear,” Westbourne answered, turning a bit to look at the younger man.
“Only because Helen expects more from her suitors than from a mere brother,” the younger man countered at once. “Either way, my point remains. If you continue to dawdle, we’ll be late to Lady Trent’s, and Helen will be furious. She hates being late.”
Westbourne gave a shrug, as if the displeasure of his love interest didn’t matter at all, a reaction that Evie supposed was natural under the circumstances. He was a duke, after all, and among his set, that consideration clearly outweighed the defect of overweening arrogance. In fact, the latter was probably a direct result of the former.
“In the game of courtship, dear Freddie,” he drawled, “it’s best for a man not to make himself too available.”
Her estimation of his character now firmly validated, it was Evie’s turn to make a sound of disdain, causing the duke to return his attention to her. “I take it you have a different opinion, Miss Harlow?”
“It’s not for me to say.”
“Perhaps not,” he agreed with a chuckle, “but I’ll wager you’re itching to say it, just the same.”
She pressed her lips together and didn’t reply, reminding herself that it was not wise for a woman in trade to antagonize a customer, especially a duke.
In the wake of her silence, he looked down at the empty tea tray between them. “No doubt,” he murmured, tracing the rim of the tray with one gloved finger, “you believe one should put oneself at the absolute mercy of one’s love interest.”
His voice was light, but his meaning was plain, and Evie’s usual prudence and common sense went to the wall.
“If, by that, you mean that I don’t believe courtship is a game, Your Grace, then you would be right.”
“Ah, but I must disagree with you there,” he said, looking up. “Courtship is very much a game.”
“And love?” she countered. “It that a game, too?”
“Love?” He laughed softly, but there was no humor in his eyes. They were dark, hard, and strangely opaque. “My dear Miss Harlow,” he murmured, his voice too low for the others to hear, “what does love have to do with it?”
Freddie reentered the conversation before Evie could reply. “I daresay you’re right, Westbourne. It is a game, and I applaud your strategy. Having at least one man in town who’s not panting over her will do my sister a world of good. In fact,” he added, tossing the gilt-edged, rather fragile first edition of Brontë’sJane Eyreto the floor with careless disregard, “she’ll probably like you all the better for it.”
This manhandling of the books was too much for Evie. “Please don’t do that,” she called sharply. “Books should be treated with respect.”
“Uh-oh,” one of the other men said with a laugh. “That’s done it, Freddie. We shall all be swatted with a willow switch any moment now.”
“And sent to bed without our supper,” his other friend added.
“If she did such a thing,” Westbourne told them before Evie could respond, “it would be no more than you three scapegraces deserve.”
