Chapter One
London, England
January 1813
Indecent. The tall gentleman’s stare was the most blatantly indecent assault Jeanne had ever encountered. Deeper than intense. Intimate, as though he knew everything thing about her.
That penetrating gaze set her palms sweating and made her mouth dry. It was a direct threat. No one could possibly know her. She kept herself too well protected, hidden beneath layers of aloof disinterest. Yet she found herself unable to look away. She just sat there and let that gaze burn her. Burn through the wall she kept between herself and the world. It even seeped under her skin and melted her blood into warmed honey.
A single pane of rain-splattered glass separated them. The thudding of her heart in her ears blocked out the sounds from the common room of the coffee shop and created a sense of isolation.
He wore no hat and his hair lay plastered like spilt black ink streaked across his high, broad forehead. Rain dripped over hard, chiseled cheekbones, down an aquiline nose and square jaw, over shoulders that were made even more impossibly broad by a dark blue greatcoat.
He was like something from a dream. A harlot’s very naughty dream.
Oh, really. A handsome, mysterious stranger, one who was intensely interested in her and seemed to know all about her? Her imagination was running away with her, taking on a life of its own. She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. The wine hadn’t been that strong as to make her conjure carnal fantasies in mid-afternoon. In public. She dared to look again.
The tall gentleman was gone.
There, see? An author of fairy stories couldn’t be fooled by a waking dream. And yet cold, heaviness sank through her insides, a feeling of loss. How utterly ridiculous. Irritated with herself, Jeanne bent over her mug, inhaling the fruity, spicy scent of mulled wine, and listened to the low rumble of conversations around her. Mrs. Roberts had a new blue bonnet and she was preening like a peacock. Mr. Taylor announced to his friends that he’d just become engaged to Miss Smith and his companions were alternately ribbing and toasting him.
Once a week, she ventured from her garret to this coffee shop to be among people, as an observer. A customer, keeping a protective distance.
“Miss Darling.” The slightly nervous, boyish voice broke into her peace. “You usually come here on Saturday.”
She forced the irritation from her expression and looked up to meet his freckled face. “Yes, Paul, this week I decided on a change.”
She kept her tone cool and polite, as always.
Mr. Ratherford, her publisher, had sent a note, informing her that she should present herself at his offices in two weeks and bring the fairy tales he’d requested. As an author of children’s stories, she’d been working for months on the stories but she still had one more story to write, the grand finale in what she hoped would be a published leather-bound volume of the stories. However, she’d been unable to write for several weeks. The harder she tried to create a story, the less she liked anything she wrote. Today, that note had put her into a state of desperation. She’d come here to try and stimulate her mind. It had worked a little too well judging from the daydream of the handsome, mysterious stranger.
“A special occasion?” Paul’s words cut into her thoughts again.
Oh bother! She took a deep breath and struggled to find more patience. Once Paul Cook started, he never let up. But he was just a boy, and a kind one at that. She bit back an impatient response.
Her concentration, her peace, however: they were gone. Never mind. The wind was howling with more intensity outside, and the winter’s day was growing dark far too early. It was time to leave.
As she reached down to retrieve her reticule, the odor of wet wool intruded on her senses, mingled with the citrus-soapy scent of a gentleman’s shaving lotion. A body close to hers. Too close. She jerked her head up and faced her waking dream.
His greatcoat was opened to reveal a fine, silk, embroidered waistcoat that encompassed a broad chest, which narrowed into a flat-as-boards stomach. Water dripped from his hair, leaving wet spots on his hopelessly crushed cravat. He didn’t seem to be aware of his dishevelment.
She met his eyes. His gaze intensified, turning to brilliant, intimidating greenish fire, like an emerald catching the sunlight. Thick, dark lashes and heavy black brows made the color appear even richer.
“Thérèse.”
His voice was deep yet hushed and utterly masculine. It sent another curl of heat through her, stronger, penetrating all the way down from her chest to her navel and into her womb. However, it was the note of despair that made her catch her breath.
Pressure swelled in her throat, a pang of sympathy. Sympathy for others was the most dangerous emotion of all. It could lead one to make painful, unwise sacrifices.