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Chapter Five
With one hand on her leghorn bonnet and the other gripping her voluminous skirts, Artemis dashed down Piccadilly through the sheeting rain toward her destination just up ahead. The one place she truly loved in this whole chaotic, teeming city.
Delaney’s Antiquarian Bookshop.
Despite the fact that Artemis’s trunks had turned up at Cadogan Square shortly after breakfast—so Artemis wasn’t withoutsomekind of wardrobe—Aunt Roberta had declared her clothes were so dreadful, they were not even fit to tear into rags to clean the scullery. A baroness had standards to maintain, and a niece dressed like a guttersnipe was not to be borne.
Subsequently, from noon, Artemis had endured being measured and poked and prodded and tutted over by Aunt Roberta’s French modiste, Madame Blanchard. All the while, Aunt Roberta and Phoebe had taken turns in disagreeing with Artemis whenever she’d attempted to politely point out that a ball gown or walking gown was not quite to her taste. Or that the color clashed with her auburn hair, or the garment was too expensive, or too tight, or just too much of everything.
After nearly three interminable hours, Artemis had staged a mutiny.
By Jupiter, she would not miss the reconvening of the Byronic Book Club. While Artemis wasn’t ungrateful for Aunt Roberta’s magnanimity, she’d made plans and simplyhadto see Lucy and Jane, so Aunt Roberta and Phoebe could jolly well deal with it. With a firm farewell and a promise she’d be home in time for dinner, she’d struck out on her own, determinedly striding down Bond Street. She certainly wasn’t going to waste her coin on a hackney, not when the bookstore was only half a mile away.
However, before she reached the corner of Bond Street and Piccadilly, the heavens opened up and, of course, she’d neglected to bring an umbrellaagain. By the time she passed Burlington House and then dashed into Sackville Street where Delaney’s was located, she was soaked to the skin.
Unfortunately, Artemis was a tad early for the book club meeting—Mr. Delaney, Jane’s grandfather, informed her that Jane was out but due back soon and Lucy had not yet arrived. But he kindly invited her to browse even though she’d burst through the door in a flurry of wet russet wool, drooping ribbons, and waterlogged petticoats and no doubt resembled a drowned rat.
The first floor where the novel section was located was deserted—as far as Artemis could tell because there were so many nooks and crannies one could lose oneself in. She was removing her damp gloves to look through a nicely preserved first-edition copy ofThe Mysteries of Udolphoby Ann Radcliffe when she heard the front doorbell tinkle.
Glancing over the wooden balustrade to the floor below, Artemis expected to see Lucy or Jane. But no, it was a gentleman. Aside from the fact he was tall and broad across the shoulders, she couldn’t see much of him beneath his black top hat and well-cut greatcoat.
But then he asked Mr. Delaney for directions to the novel section, and Artemis’s skin prickled with awareness.
Oh no, it couldn’t be…Artemis took a step back and her breath quickened. She was absolutely certain that her Mr. Mysterious Byronic Hero was coming this way, straight up to the first floor. And she had nowhere to go.
Although, perhaps she could duck down one of the narrower corridors between the tightly packed bookcases. It would be easy enough to disappear…
No.Artemis squared her shoulders. Even though her pulse was racing like a creature about to be cornered by a dangerously seductive predator, she wouldn’t scurry away and hide in a corner. Mr. Bothersome Byronic Hero was encroaching on her territory, not the other way around. She would stay her ground.
Heavy-booted footsteps on the rickety winding staircase heralded his arrival. Upon spying Artemis, he hesitated on the top step, but only for the briefest of moments. He swept off his hat and approached with sure, smooth strides. His eyes gleamed with sardonic amusement rather than ill humor as he said, “It appears that fate keeps thrusting me into your path, Miss Bluestocking.”
Thrusting.Was his choice of words calculated to throw her off? Irritation warred with reluctant attraction as Artemis replied as nonchalantly as she could. “So it would seem.” As the stranger’s gaze raked over her sodden form in a far too leisurely fashion, she suddenly felt uncharacteristically self-conscious. Which was also annoying because how she lookedshouldn’tmatter.
Despite her determination not to betray her uneasiness by fidgeting, she tucked a rain-damp curl behind her ear and added without thinking, “As luck or misfortune would have it, it also appears that whenever we meet, I’m dripping wet.”
Oh. Dear. God.Artemis barely resisted the urge to clap her hand over her mouth. Had she really just blurted that out? Heat scorched her cheeks.
To his credit, the gentleman barely reacted beyond a flicker of movement at the corner of his mouth. “Under the circumstances, I feel an introduction is in order.” He removed his leather gloves, pushed them into a coat pocket, and then extended a hand. “Miss…”
Even though this man was beyond forward and she was also breaking a thousand rules of etiquette, Artemis threw caution—and any remaining remnants of her good sense—to the wind and placed her bare fingers in his. “Jones. Artemis Jones.”
The enigmatic stranger bowed. “I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance, Artemis Jones.”
The sound of her name on his lips, on his tongue, felt shockingly intimate, and Artemis was aware of tingles and warm flutters gathering in all sorts of secret feminine places beneath the confines of corsets and drawers. Then again, perhaps it was simply the way the man’s lingering gaze dipped briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes that had sparked such an inconvenient flurry of sensation. Or the fact his large hand still held hers captive.
However, within a moment, he straightened and released her from his warm grasp and his spell. Gesturing at the book she still held, he said, “I must confess, I’m intrigued by your taste in literature, Miss Jones. During our brief encounter yesterday, you professed you’re a bluestocking. But from what I’ve heard about books penned by authors like Ann Radcliffe and Lydia Lovelace, one could hardly deem them works that would stimulate the intellect.”
Oh, the gloves reallywereoff then. Chiding herself for being so easily beguiled by a charming smile, Artemis raised her chin. “And I would contend, good sir, that even the most scholarly among us likes to read for pleasure on occasion,” she returned. “Unless you subscribe to the particularly draconian school of thought that novel reading will expose women to dangerous ideas that will provoke them into subverting overly rigid, and I would say unfair, societal rules. Or worse still, that we are so foolish that we cannot even distinguish fiction from fact. Fantasy from reality, so to speak. That reading novels likeThe Mysteries of UdolphoandLady Violetta and the Vengeful Vampyrewill fill our heads with ridiculous fancies, prompting us to run off in search of wild adventures featuring nefarious villains or, heaven forbid, sharply fanged suitors.”
The stranger’s wide mouth twitched with a wry smile. “You’ve obviously been challenged about your taste in books before, Miss Jones. Your arguments are well thought out.”
Artemis stammered a thank-you while she mentally cursed him to Hades. Why did Mr. Nameless Byronic Hero have to deploy his smile again? And compliment her? Like yesterday, Artemis had the strangest sensation of being breathless and hot and shivery all over. Glancing away, she tried to shake herself free of the illusion. She really was becoming as fanciful as one of her hapless Gothic romance heroines who’d been caught in the wicked hero’s thrall, and it just wouldn’t do. This supremely confident man was clearly used to dispensing his charm to disarm the opposite sex whenever it suited him. Her first impression of him the day before had been correct. He was, indeed, dangerous.
“Actually,” he continued after Artemis failed to think of anything else to say, “I’m keen to obtain a few novels for my daughter, and Hatchards doesn’t have what I’m after. She’s fifteen and she very much enjoys the works of Jane Austen. Apparently, she’s only readMansfield ParkandNorthanger Abbey.”
“Oh…” Artemis blinked, momentarily taken aback. This man had an adolescent daughter? And he cared for her so much that he was bothering to purchase her a book or two that she actually liked? She hadn’t expected that. “I adore Miss Austen’s books too,” she managed after she’d somehow gathered her scattered wits. “And Delaney’s usually has all of her works on hand.” She indicated a nearby bookcase. “Just over there.”
“Thank you.” A fleeting look of uncertainty flickered in the man’s eyes. “Forgive me if this sounds presumptuous, but as you’re clearly familiar with Miss Austen’s books, perhaps you could suggest a few that my daughter might enjoy.”
