‘Good afternoon.’ The first man, the irritant, faltered mid-step, a lock of blond hair flopping across his face as his gaze followed Henrietta. ‘My friend and I were just strolling past when we had a sudden craving for chocolate.’
‘Oh, what a shame.’ Anna heaved an exaggerated sigh. ‘Unfortunately we don’t work with chocolate, which you might have known had you asked about our merchandise on one of your previous visits. We sell biscuits, just biscuits. Perhaps you might try the shop on...’
‘But I adore biscuits even more!’ The man grinned, exposing a row of dazzlingly white teeth. Definitely a wolf. ‘Perhaps your lovely assistant here might recommend something special?’
‘I’m perfectly capable of recommending—’
‘I’d like one of the big tins,’ the other man interrupted before she could finish, addressing her in an amused-sounding baritone that none the less carried a distinct note of command. ‘If it’s not too much trouble?’
Anna turned her head to glower and then felt her stomach perform a strange kind of bouncing manoeuvre instead. She’d been so focused on the irritant that she’d barely spared a glance for his companion, though now she seemed unable to look away again. Henrietta was right, he was very handsome and yet a mass of contradictions, too, with hair the colour of mahogany and eyes so silvery pale they resembled icebergs. He might have looked austere if it hadn’t been for his athletic build and a rugged aspect that seemed at odds with his finely cut and, she couldn’t help but notice, perfectly tailored tailcoat, midnight-blue waistcoat and crisp white shirt. His face was lean and tanned, too, somewhat surprisingly for Somerset in March, yet despite his youthful appearance—surely he couldn’t be any more than thirty?—there was already a web of fine lines around his eyes that crinkled when he smiled. Just as he was doing now, she realised, making her cheeks flush and her stomach bounce all over again.
‘Trouble?’ she repeated the word, trying to focus on what he’d just said. ‘Of course not. If it were trouble, then I’d be in the wrong profession, sir. Just allow me a moment to fetch one.’
She turned to climb a set of steps set against the shelves, glad to avert her face for a few moments while she berated herself, or more precisely her body, for its own foolish reaction. He was a gentleman! Albeit a handsome one and in an attractively ungentlemanly sort of way, far less foppish than his friend and with an air of self-possession and authority that surely accounted for all the stomach bouncing, but still a gentleman, and hadn’t she just been warning Henrietta about those? Besides, he could hardly have made his purpose there any more obvious if he’d had it printed across his forehead. He was a decoy, enlisted to divert her attention while his companion tried to seduce her assistant. Well, if he thought he could outwit or charm her so easily, then he could think again!
She reached for the nearest tin and started back down the steps, throwing a surreptitious glance towards the window as she descended. As expected, Henrietta was already deep in conversation with the first man, who was standing far too close for decency. Both details meant that she had to hurry.
‘Here you are.’ She deposited the rectangular-shaped tin in front of him with a clatter. ‘It contains an assortment of biscuits, sixteen in total, each individually wrapped in tissue paper.’
‘Just sixteen?’ Her customer rested one forearm on top of the counter, regarding the tin as if it posed some kind of dilemma. ‘May I see inside?’
‘If you wish.’ Anna removed the lid, struck with the uncharacteristic impulse to neate
n her hair as he leaned closer. Not that there was any point in doing so when long experience told her the curls would only tumble straight out of her bun again, and not that she cared what this gentleman thought of her hair either, even when he was standing close enough to see every wild tendril, but something about the deep timbre of his voice made her self-conscious. She found herself tucking a stray coil behind her ear before she could stop herself.
‘There you are.’ She unwrapped one of the bundles of tissue paper, unveiling a cream-coloured round biscuit for his inspection, then waited in silence for several long moments until she couldn’t wait any longer. ‘Is something the matter?’
‘Not exactly. I suppose the tin just looked bigger from a distance.’ He rubbed a hand across his chin as if he were considering the problem. There were bristles there, she noticed, another ungentlemanly contradiction, though she supposed it was nearing the end of the day. They were the same dark auburn shade as his hair and looked softer than she would have expected bristles to look, positively strokeable, in fact... She gave a startled jolt and lifted her gaze determinedly back to his eyes, irritated that any gentleman could have such a distracting effect on her.
‘I’m afraid this is the biggest tin we do.’
‘Ah. Pity.’ He laid his hand down flat on the counter beside hers, so close that their fingers were nearly, but not quite, touching. To her surprise, his skin was rough and weathered-looking as if, despite being a gentleman, he was used to manual labour. ‘They’re for a special lady, you see, and I wouldn’t want to appear churlish.’
‘Indeed?’ She tugged her own hand away, heat rising in her cheeks. ‘Then perhaps you might want to consider two tins? Or a different present altogether?’
‘But these look delicious.’ He seemed undeterred by her sarcasm. ‘And of course some would say that quality is more important than quantity, only I’m afraid that this particular lady is rather...’ he paused, lowering his voice to an intimate undertone ‘...voracious in her appetites.’
‘I’m sure she’d be delighted to hear you say so.’ Anna straightened her shoulders, feeling her temper start to escalate. How dare he talk to her about appetites, voracious or otherwise? No gentleman would ever speak to a lady in such an unguarded fashion! The words encouraged her to be indiscreet, too. ‘Well, I suppose that size matters to some people. Perhaps you’ve disappointed her with something small before?’
She put her hands on her hips with a look of defiance, expecting him to storm out of the door in an offended rage, surprised when he burst into loud laughter instead.
‘The tin it is.’ He pushed himself up off the counter, eyes glinting with humour. ‘And I’ll just have to bear whatever criticism my lady friend makes. Are the biscuits inside all the same?’
‘Only in shape.’ Anna rearranged the contents and replaced the lid quickly, trying to ignore the way his laughter seemed to vibrate through her body, like a breeze stirring ripples across a lake. It seemed to cause a strange quivering sensation in her stomach, too, lower down than before and somewhat alarming in its intensity. It made her feel even more agitated. If only he’d stormed out! Then she could have forgotten his existence and turned her attention back to Henrietta. Instead, annoyingly, she found herself wanting to hear him laugh again... ‘We make three types of Belle. Vanilla, cinnamon and rosewater.’
‘So the biscuits are called Belles?’
‘Precisely.’ She pushed the tin across the counter, shooting a pointed look from beneath her lashes. ‘You’re very quick, sir.’
Despite the insult, he laughed again. ‘Which is your favourite?’
‘None of them. I started baking when I was eight. After sixteen years, I can honestly say that I’ve lost my sweet tooth.’
‘But if you had to choose a favourite? So that I can particularly recommend one to my lady friend?’
‘She’s your lady friend.’ Anna pursed her lips disapprovingly. ‘If she’s so special, then I would have thought you might know her tastes better. Here...’ She picked up the plate of samples. ‘Try one.’
‘Thank you.’ He selected the darkest-coloured biscuit and took a bite, eyebrows lifting as he chewed. ‘Cinnamon? It’s delicious.’