“I did. Then her father found me.”
He took a sip. “Oh?”
She looked up at him and decided to be a bit daring. “Am I utterly unacceptable? Socially, I mean.”
He tilted his head, considering. “I would say you are not entirely acceptable.”
“Oh, that’s a relief. Much better than being utterly unacceptable.”
“It is. If you were utterly unacceptable, I would not be courting you.”
She startled and her tea sloshed over the rim of her cup, dripping onto her shoe. “Damn,” she hissed. She threw a hand over her mouth. “My apologies. I should not have been so vulgar.”
He shrugged. “Not entirely acceptable.”
At least he didn’t seem to mind.
“Why are you courting me, then?” she asked.
“You’re pretty. Acceptable enough. I never thought to catch the attention of such a sought-after woman. I’m not dashing.”
Again, he didn’t seem to mind.
“But,” he continued, “a woman from the lower rungs of society, no matter how admired, is a different matter altogether.”
“Are you saying you have a chance with me because I need to marry a man with a title?”
He shrugged.
“I think you would like my friend Jane. The Countess of Abbington. She doesn’t believe in romance, either.”Romance had happened to her, anyway. Convenient, that. For her at least.
“What use is romance?”
Lillian sighed. “It is of no use whatsoever.”
Lord Littleton’s suit was not the stuff of fairy tales. He had no desire to slay dragons for her. Instead, he’d open debate with said dragons about the nuances of her less than acceptable social status, then conclude that he’d continue to court her, anyway.
Made one feel a bit—she sighed again—stabby.
Better than being ignored, she supposed.
And if she was going to help Lady Abigail and the other wallflowers shine, she needed the sedate respectability Lord Littleton offered. Not a fairy-tale prince.
CHAPTER4
Devon strode into Frederick’s Coffeehouse like he owned the place because one day he would. Sitting snuggly on one of Cheapside’s mostly residential streets, Frederick’s had been a small townhome before Freddy and his missus had bought it up and transformed it into a haven of intellectual activity and life-giving coffee excellence.
Devon had plans to make it even better. He’d keep the open, comfortable atmosphere, the someone-lives-here feel of a home, but hewouldn’tlive here as Freddy did. That way, he’d be able to expand the seating upstairs, and if his invention worked out, or justworked, he’d improve far more important things than the seating. He’d improve the very beverage the establishment sold.
He propped an elbow on the bar. “Freddy! The usual,” he called, looking out into the shop. Booths with tall backs lined either side of the large open room, and in the middle sat a long, sturdy table scattered with newspapers. A handful of men perused the periodicals, chatting, and more men sat isolated in booths. The air smelled of rich beans, and beside every man, or cupped in their hands, a dark brew steamed.
Frederick’s was the only coffeehouse where smoking was not allowed. Frederick had sneezing fits around too much smoke, and Devon appreciated that everyone respected the older man’s ailment. He hated tobacco smoke.
The others likely abided by Freddy’s dictates only because his coffee was far superior to others, and his shop was one of the remaining few at all. Devon had heard the men here tell tales of twenty or so years earlier—a shop on every street, the aroma of beans around every corner, and the scuttle of conversation right behind it. Lucian—a retired professor from Cambridge who haunted Frederick’s every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday—claimed there were half as many shops in London as there used to be.
Devon mourned the loss, though he’d never experienced the bounty.
“And how many have you had today?” a voice behind him asked.
