Chapter 3
The morning began as it always did: with the bell over the door clanging like it meant to rattle her nerves.
Vicky ignored it, straightening the stack of primers that never stayed put. The fire kept the chill at bay, frost traced patterns on the windows, and the air smelled of paper, pine, and purpose.
Gracie sat at the counter, spectacles low on her nose as she tallied sales with the calm of a woman who thought numbers the truest friends one could have. “Your bow has been straightened again,” she remarked without looking up.
Vicky stilled, feather duster frozen mid-swish. “What bow?”
“The holly you pinned to Mr. Stouts’s counter. It was rakish when you tied it. This morning it’s as proper as a parson’s sermon.”
“Coincidence,” Vicky said briskly, dusting harder than necessary.
“Nothing in his shop is coincidence,” Gracie replied. “He touched it.”
Vicky pressed her lips together. “Then let him marry the holly and set up house with the ivy. I’ll send my congratulations.”
Gracie only hummed, which was her polite way of saying she didn’t believe a word.
The bell clanged again and in came Mrs. Hardwick, red-cheeked from the cold, requesting a devotional for her sister.
Vicky suggested Johnson’s Rambler, which was received as solemnly as medicine.
After her, two boys clamored for tales of highwaymen.
Vicky gave them a lurid chapbook—then insisted they add a moral tract besides.
“Vice reads better when virtue keeps it company,” she told them, pocketing their coins.
By midmorning, the shop hummed with custom. Vicky packed a parcel for Mr. Carter’s apothecary. “Mind the till,” she told Gracie.
“Gladly. If a thief dares try, I’ll charge him interest.”
The air outside was sharp, biting her cheeks as she strode down the street. Carriages rattled, hawkers shouted, children skidded across icy patches with alarming cheer.
She was halfway to the apothecary when a carriage veered too close, wheels spraying a wave of slush. Vicky gasped—then felt herself yanked against a wall of warmth and wool. Broad shoulders shielded her as the splash struck the stones instead.
Her breath caught. His hand wrapped firmly around her arm—long-fingered, steady, scandalously strong. When she lifted her gaze, she found Hubert Stouts himself, so close she could see the faint shadow of a beard along his jaw. His expression was stripped bare, concern sharpening his dark eyes.
Heat rushed to her face, entirely out of keeping with the weather. “Blast,” she breathed. “You move quickly for a man who irons his socks.”
For one treacherous second, the corner of his mouth threatened to soften. “One must look where one is going.”
“I was looking,” she retorted, refusing to glance at the chest pressed scandalously close to hers. “The carriage failed its duty.”
Only then did he release her, slowly, as if reluctant. The ghost of his touch lingered, warming her through layers of wool.
“Thank you,” she forced herself to say.
“You are welcome,” he replied, voice low enough to curl around her like a forbidden thought. Then he tipped his hat with maddening precision and stepped away.
The cold rushed back, leaving her cheeks stinging and her pulse thundering.
She delivered the parcel to Mr. Carter with perfect composure. She only dropped it twice.
When she returned to the shop, Gracie looked up over her spectacles. “You’re pink as a Valentine. Did the apothecary propose?”
“No,” Vicky snapped, shrugging off her cloak. “Mr. Stouts kept me from being drowned in slush, that’s all.”
“Ah,” Gracie said, eyes gleaming. “The bow straightening was only the beginning.”
“Don’t be absurd. He remains insufferable.” Vicky rearranged pamphlets with unnecessary force. “Insufferable and tall.”
“Tall,” Gracie repeated, as if noting it in her ledger.
“And broad-shouldered,” Vicky muttered, traitorous tongue running ahead of her sense. “With… capable hands.”
Gracie closed the ledger with a snap. “I’ll order more ribbon.”