Chapter 3
A little bell above the door tinkled as Joan stepped into the cramped bookshop.
She paused on the threshold to take a deep breath in delight.
It wasn’t just the smell of books—that dry combination of paper and printing ink—that reminded her of the library at Helston Hall, her family’s Cornish estate.
The library had been the only place she was free to indulge her passion for adventure and scandal, even if only in her mind.
Today it was more than that; today it was the smell of freedom.
For the next hour, she was free to wander where she liked.
True, Bond Street was hardly a wild and dangerous adventure, aside from the risk of being spotted by one of her mother’s friends.
But in the confined life of a wellborn spinster . . . any escape was intoxicating.
Especially when one had a particular errand one was quite keen to fulfill. Keeping her eyes discreetly lowered, she found the shopkeeper and quietly cleared her throat.
“Yes, madam, may I help you?” He smiled and bowed, patting his hands together. “Are you looking for something special?”
There was a reason she had come to this shop; the proprietor didn’t blink an eye at her request, nor cavil at all. In fact, he might have winked at her. “I just received several copies this morning. Shall I wrap one up for you in the back room?”
“Yes, thank you.” Joan resisted the urge to twirl around in glee.
A new issue, just in this morning! It must be fresh from the printing press.
She’d have time to read it at least once before handing it off to her friends the next night.
Abigail and Penelope were expected at the Malcolm ball as well.
The only thing better than reading the latest issue was discussing it in exhilarated whispers behind their fans.
Balls had become quite tolerable since 50 Ways to Sin had appeared.
The shopkeeper disappeared through the draped door behind his counter, and Joan walked further into the store, piously stationing herself in front of a shelf of thick, dull-looking books with a thin rime of dust. To wander too near the novels at the rear of the shop would be dangerous.
She would only end up pining for a book she could neither buy nor sneak into the house.
Thankfully, 50 Ways to Sin was printed as a pamphlet and could be concealed under a shawl or even—as Joan had once done in desperation—inside her garter.
The bell above the door tinkled again, and she hurriedly faced the shelf, tilting her bonnet brim to hide her face.
For a moment all was silent, then slow, measured footsteps sounded, heading right for her.
Joan pressed her lips together and sidled a few steps to the side, keeping her eyes glued to the shelves without registering any titles in front of her.
It was a man’s tread, which meant she should be well nigh invisible to him, unless by some hideous mischance he was a friend of her parents.
Somehow her mother was acquainted with every prying busybody in London, and word of Joan’s illicit visit here would wend its way back to Lady Bennet’s ears sooner or later.
The steps came nearer, pausing at the end of the aisle where she stood.
Hastily she plucked a book at random from the shelf and opened it, at the same time she casually turned her back to him.
Even though she told herself she had every right to visit a bookshop, her heart thudded hard and fast against her ribs.
Visiting Hatchard’s would not alarm her mother overmuch; visiting this bookshop, on the other hand, let alone in search of the contraband she wanted, would see her locked in her room for a month.
She made herself breathe evenly, listening with every fiber of her being for those footsteps to turn and walk away.
Instead they came closer, one loud echoing step at a time. Joan turned a page in the book she held, as nonchalantly as possible. Where was that shopkeeper? She would be wildly irked at him if he turned out not to have 50 Ways to Sin after all.
“If you give back the paper Bennet signed, I won’t tell anyone I saw you reading prurient poetry in here,” murmured a terribly familiar voice.
Joan froze. Her heart jolted into her throat for one terrified moment.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, turning another page.
This time she forced her eyes to read a few lines; it was not, thank the Lord and all his saints in heaven, prurient poetry.
“And it’s rude to interrupt someone reading. ”
“No?” A long arm reached past her, above her head, and drew a dusty, battered book from a shelf. “Isn’t it rude to accost someone in his bedchamber and blackmail him into sacrificing his freedom?”
“How dare you accuse a lady of such unspeakable crimes.” She turned another page. “It would be quite slanderous of you to say such things.”
Lord Burke leaned one shoulder against the bookcase in front of her and flipped open his book. “I saw it with my own eyes, not half an hour ago.”
“Indeed?” She batted her eyes at him. “When you tell the tale, be sure to mention your own shocking state of undress. My brother will demand satisfaction before the end of the day.”
He gave her a slow, simmering smile. As Joan had feared, the dratted man cleaned up very well.
His bright green eyes glinted with deviltry, and when he smiled like this, a dimple appeared in his cheek.
She’d forgotten the dimple. “He already demanded satisfaction. Why do you think I’m here?
Hand over the paper and we’ll go our separate ways with no one the wiser. ”
“Lord Burke, my actions are none of your concern. My brother is a grown man, in body if not in mind, and I daresay if he needs a keeper, you are the last man in England fit for the post. He signed the paper of his own free will.” She gave him a smile of her own, rather smug and superior.
“And you shall hand it right back to me, of your own free will.” He continued smiling at her in that wicked way that hinted of languid seduction.
She had dreamed of a man looking at her this way, as if he meant to pursue her to the ends of the earth, only she hadn’t thought it would be over a silly piece of paper.
She snapped her book closed and replaced it on the shelf. “I don’t think I’d give you anything of mine, of my own free will.”
He raised one eyebrow. “No?”
“Never.”
“Never?”
She tipped back her head and widened her smile. “Never.”
He leaned forward, lowering his face until they were mere inches apart. “I could change your mind,” he whispered.
Joan heaved a sigh, even though her pulse jumped at the way he was looming over her, almost as if he meant to kiss her senseless.
One part of her was strongly tempted to goad him into doing it.
Shouldn’t every girl be kissed senseless by a dangerous man, just once in her life?
But on the other hand, it was often better not to know what one was missing, so as not to feed sinful longings.
Why hadn’t Tristan Burke’s dissipated lifestyle ravaged his looks?
This would be much easier if he were fat or pockmarked.
“Never,” she repeated, telling herself it was true.
Even if he did kiss her—which she doubted he could bring himself to do, no matter what he’d promised Douglas—it wouldn’t change her mind, because she would know it was only to win back that paper.
If Joan were to let herself fall into a swoon over a kiss, it would be a proper kiss, given in passion and meant to seduce, not to trick.
For a moment he didn’t reply. His gaze narrowed and roved over her face. “You’re still too impertinent for your own good.”
“Why, thank you!” She batted her eyelashes at him. “I have achieved my life’s ambition.”
“And you’re too much trouble to be let loose on the poor, unsuspecting men of London.”
Her own eyes narrowed. He trod on shaky ground now. “You seem to be the only one troubled. Even Douglas will get over his fit. The paper means nothing, you know; my mother will have him at that ball one way or another, and he knows it.”
“Then give it back.”
“No.”
“I could take it from you.” Again his eyes drifted down, his long eyelashes dark against his cheeks. His gaze seemed to sweep over her figure like a cool breeze, and she fought off a shiver. “No,” he murmured. “I’d much rather you give it to me.”
“Not as long as you live, Lord Burke.” Her dratted voice broke on his name, so it came out breathy and soft. “Besides,” she quickly added to cover it, “the ball is tomorrow night. If it means so much to you, I shall send it to you the day after next, done up with a bright pink bow.”
His mouth curved again. “I imagine you have quite a lot of pink ribbon. Pink isn’t your color at all, though.”
“That is none of your concern,” she said coolly.
“Well, I must confess it made you easier to track just now. I could see those stripes from two streets away.”
Joan knew she wasn’t pretty. Her dress had looked so fetching in the dressmaker’s sketches, and then somehow so ordinary on her, no matter what her mother said.
But it was the height of indignity to have him point that out.
Never mind her previous fascination with his bare chest, or the way he loomed over her like a lover.
He was an ass. Even worse, he had spoiled all her joy at being free for a few stolen moments.
The shopkeeper had vanished, and not even 50 Ways to Sin was worth spending another moment with Lord Boor—and for costing her that, she could have smacked him.
“Thank you for that unsolicited and unwanted observation,” she said through her teeth.
“I hope you and Douglas drive each other mad. And you may tell him I will see him at the Malcolm ball tomorrow evening.” She turned on her heel and stalked out the door, pulling it shut with a slam behind her.