Chapter 5
Five
Evan strode briskly down St. James's Street. The streets were bustling with activity—vendors calling out their wares, the clattering of carriage wheels over the cobblestones, and the murmur of Londoners going about their business.
An older couple walked arm in arm down the street, passing him with a nod of their heads.
Their smiles seemed unrealistic. Evan’s jaw tightened as parents came to memory.
He could still hear the low, cutting arguments that had seeped through the walls late at night, their words sharp enough to wound even when he didn’t understand them fully.
He had learned young that love, marriage, family—none of it was what it seemed.
As quickly as the memory came, a flash of a woman’s black hair caught his attention. He thought for a moment he had seen Lady Minerva. However, he had been mistaken.
Yet, the thought of her lingered. Her rejection had stayed with him, a thorn in his side that he had not anticipated.
He quickened his pace, his polished boots striking the slick cobblestones with purpose as he headed toward White’s, the gentlemen’s club where he usually found a brief respite from his thoughts.
Nothing of importance happened. Her voice, cool and indifferent, echoed in his mind, far too loud for his liking. He clenched his jaw.
Nothing of importance? He’d kissed his share of women, and they’d all wanted more. Yet Minerva... she had resisted him..
It gnawed at him. No one resisted him. Not with any real conviction.
He could read people well enough, knew their tells, and had spent years perfecting the art of drawing out desire, of watching a woman melt under his gaze.
But Minerva had stood firm, her chin lifted defiantly, her rejection cool, as though he had not rattled her in the least.
But he had. He was sure of it. Even if she refused to admit it.
He shoved his hands into his coat pockets, annoyed that he was even still thinking about her. As he started to cross the street, he looked up for a passing carriage. Just as the carriage passed, though, he saw a flash of black hair again.
Just as soon as he thought he might be going mad, through the window of a modest glove shop, there she was—Minerva.
Evan paused mid-stride, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto her figure through the shop window.
Why did she linger in his thoughts, an uninvited guest that refused to leave?
He’d encountered dozens of women more charming, more amenable, and yet it was her cool dismissal that replayed in his mind.
She had reduced his advances to nothing—a wound to his pride that festered with every passing day.
And now, there she was, oblivious to his presence, her dark hair catching the sunlight filtering through the window.
She looked so composed, so unbothered, chatting with her chaperone, an older maid perhaps.
. The reminder of her snub rankled him. But then he saw it.
The moment she realized he was there. Her posture stiffened, and he watched, amused, as she ducked slightly behind one of the shelves, as if that could somehow shield her from view.
A slow smirk spread across Evan’s face. Totally unaffected, he thought sarcastically. Completely indifferent.
Without hesitation, he veered off the sidewalk and crossed the street with purposeful strides, his boots clacking against the cobblestones as he made his way to the shop.
There was something irresistibly satisfying about watching her try to hide, and he wasn’t about to let an opportunity for a bit of fun pass him by.
The bell above the shop door chimed softly as Evan entered, the warmth of the small store replacing the cool bite of the wind outside.
The shop was quaint and orderly, the scents of polished leather and lavender wafting through the air.
Shelves were lined with neatly folded gloves of every shade and texture, each pair meticulously arranged as if to promise elegance to their future owner.
A brass bell above the door chimed softly as Evan stepped inside, the sound almost swallowed by the thick carpet beneath his boots.
The shopkeeper, an older man with spectacles perched on the end of his nose, gave him a brief nod before returning to arranging gloves on the counter.
But Evan’s focus was entirely on Minerva.
She was standing by the shelves, her back still turned to him, though she had clearly realized he was there.
He could see the stiffness in her shoulders, the way she shifted slightly, clearly debating whether to bolt or try to endure it.
He watched her straighten, her cheeks flaming red when she finally turned to face him.
Evan took his time approaching her, his stride confident and unhurried. He let his eyes linger on her flushed face, taking in the slight tension in her jaw, the way she held herself as though bracing for battle. It was delicious.
Her black hair, neatly pinned but slightly wind-tousled, caught the light as she moved, and when she turned to face him, the cool blue of her eyes flashed with irritation.
Dressed in an expertly tailored gown that hugged her figure with understated grace, she looked every bit the composed lady of society, though the flush in her cheeks betrayed the effort it took to maintain her control.
Evan’s smirk deepened as he watched her fingers tighten around a pair of gloves, the white-knuckled grip betraying her composed exterior.
She was flustered, though she would likely die before admitting it.
It was all in the small details: the slight tremor in her hand, the way her head tilted just a fraction to the side as if debating whether to flee.
He almost wanted her to try. The idea of chasing her down the narrow aisles of the shop had an odd appeal, though he doubted she’d make it far.
Minerva Bellington wasn’t the type to run—not physically, at least. She preferred her battlegrounds verbal and strategic.
But here, in the quiet intimacy of the shop, she was at a disadvantage, and she knew it.
When she finally turned, her cheeks pink and her lips pressed into a tight line, he couldn’t resist the slow, deliberate smile that spread across his face.
When he was standing directly in front of her, he couldn’t resist the playful smirk that curled his lips. “Do you need assistance finding something in particular?”
Minerva’s cheeks flushed even more, but when she spoke, her voice was steady, too steady—betraying the effort she was putting into remaining composed. “No, thank you. I have already found what I was looking for.”
She made to walk past him, but Evan shifted just enough to block her way. He wasn’t about to let her slip away that easily. “Oh? Then surely you do not mind a bit of conversation while you finish your purchase. It is not every day one encounters a vision such as yourself in a glove shop.”
Her eyes darted to the door for a brief second, and Evan felt a flicker of satisfaction. She was uncomfortable, and she was trying ridiculously hard to hide it. But he wasn’t fooled.
Minerva’s eyes narrowed, the flush on her cheeks deepening. “If you think flattery will delay me, Your Grace, you are sorely mistaken.”
“Oh, it is not flattery,” he replied, his voice low and teasing. “Merely an observation. You do look quite stunning when you are trying not to throttle someone.”
Her sharp intake of breath was music to his ears. “That is completely untoward, Your Grace.”
“And yet, here we are.” He leaned in slightly, his grin widening as he added, “Is it my charm that keeps you lingering, or are the gloves really that interesting?”
“I really do not have time—” she began, her words coming out a little too quickly, her usual calm cracking under the pressure.
“Surely you are not in such a rush,” he interrupted smoothly, letting his voice drop to a casual, almost lazy tone.
His eyes flicked toward the shelves of gloves.
“From what I have gathered about your character, the selection of gloves warrants careful selection. It is imperative to not make the wrong choice.”
She stared at him, clearly at a loss for how to respond. Her lips parted, and for a brief moment, Evan thought she might actually attempt to brush him off and walk away. But then she squared her shoulders, the same infuriatingly composed expression crossing her face as she looked up at him.
“I am perfectly fine on my own,” she said, though there was a slight quiver in her voice that betrayed her.
“Perfectly fine?” Evan echoed, his brow arching. “You do realize you’re gripping that pair of gloves like they’ve committed a crime.”
Minerva glanced down at the crumpled gloves in her hand and quickly set them back on the shelf. “I am completely composed, Your Grace,” she said, her voice clipped. “Not everyone succumbs to dramatics as easily as you seem to believe.”
Evan chuckled, his smirk deepening. “Oh, I do not doubt your composure, Lady Minerva. It is your insistence on proving it that I find amusing.”
The effect was immediate. Her entire body stiffened, and her hands tightened around the gloves she was holding, her knuckles whitening with the pressure.
She looked up for her chaperone, but unfortunately for Minerva, the older woman was distracted in conversation with another maid in the shop. He almost chuckled aloud—caught.
“I am not flustered,” she shot back, though her voice had risen a touch, betraying her. She tried again to step around him, but he matched her movement effortlessly, keeping her in place. “I believe you are being much too forward.”
“Of course not,” he replied, eyes gleaming with amusement. “It is just that most people do not get so... worked up over gloves.”
Her mouth opened, as if to deliver a retort, but instead, there was silence. The color in her cheeks deepened, and her brow furrowed as if she was searching for a way to regain control of the situation, but the words simply wouldn’t come.