He stopped, but she waved her hand in such a way as to say “Continue.”
“I also spent time in the gaming halls, my gentlemen’s club, and other, more…shall we say inappropriate-for-young-ladies’ parties.”
Lizbeth smiled and leaned back as the server approached with their tea things. They went through the usual process of Lizbeth pouring and fixing tea, passing plates of small sandwiches, biscuits, and tarts.
She shook out her napkin and placed it on her lap. “And the other things?”
He arranged his features into the most innocent way he could and looked at her. “Other things?”
Lizbeth took a sip of tea and raised her eyebrows. “Mistresses?”
Bloody hell, she was going to make him say it. Were she any other woman he would dodge the question, but he wanted something more between them. Truthfulness and trust. No doubt given her experience, her trust had been smashed like a glass tossed into a fireplace. As uncomfortable as this made him, she needed his honesty.
“Yes. I have had mistresses. Not dozens, but a few over the years, never more than one at a time.” He chuckled. “Couldn’t afford it.” He took a sip of tea wishing it would turn into brandy when she merely responded with raised brows. Miss Lizbeth Davenport made him feel like a young boy with a stolen biscuit behind his back.
“And affairs?”
Double bloody hell. “Yes. There were a few of those.” He stopped, then hurried on. “But no married women. That goes against my own personal code of behavior.”
She eyed the treats on the plate in the center of the table. “Debutantes?”
“Never.” He shook his head. “I would never ruin a young lady. Or be stuck having to marry one.”
She nodded as if satisfied with his answers. He, on the other hand, felt the sweat under his cravat, and soaking the back of his shirt as if he’d just gone a round in the boxing ring.
Lizbeth took a bite of a fruit tart and smiled. “This is delicious. You should try one.”
She licked her lips and grinned at him.
What the devil just happened?
12
“Thank you, Mr. Sinclair. I’m sure your wife will just love that book.” Lizbeth smiled at the man who visited the store just about every day she worked. He didn’t always buy something, but he chatted with her, and occasionally brought a piece of lemon candy or fruit for her, telling her she needed to add some pounds.
Were he younger, or unmarried, she would suspect he was attempting to court her, but at nine and sixty years—he proudly boasted of the number the first time they’d met—and married to the same woman for more than forty years, he was just a nice man who loved books.
“I am sure she will love it, too.” He tipped his hat. “Have a nice day, Miss Davenport.”
There were still a few customers browsing the shelves and since she’d already asked if they needed help, she decided to take a short break and settle into the comfortable stuffed chair at the front of the store to read a few more pages from Jane Austen’s Emma that she’d started that morning.
She first picked up a copy of The Woman in White but found it unnerving and decided it was not something she would enjoy, and at this time in her life she was all for fun and enjoyment.
“I would like to purchase these two books, miss.” An older woman who had been in the store once before when Lizbeth was working walked up to her.
Lizbeth hopped up. “Of course.” She took the books from the woman and carried them to the front counter where she checked the prices of the books, tallied the numbers and handed the slip to the customer.
They exchanged money and the woman picked up her purchase and left. Lizbeth looked around the store again, and it appeared the other people
who’d been browsing had left. She took a quick peek at her timepiece. Only fifteen more minutes until closing time.
There were rarely new customers in the last few minutes before closing, so she sat on a stool in front of the counter and began to tally up the day’s sales. The bell jingled and she looked up from her work and sucked in a deep breath.
“Good evening, Miss Davenport.” Mrs. O’Leary strolled up to her as if they were the best of friends.
“What do you want?” The words came out even before Lizbeth thought of them. And she didn’t care how abrupt they sounded.
Mrs. O’Leary tsked. “My dear, does the owner of this wonderful store—” she stopped and looked around “—know how you greet his customers?”