12. Two Strangers, One Bookshop #2
He shook his head. “No. I actually learned of it…” Here he paused and swallowed, a look of guilt appearing on his features. “A few days ago, I was in the Temple of the Muses.”
Catherine inhaled softly. “Oh?”
“I believe you were speaking with the manager there? About a position?” he guessed.
“You were there?” she asked in surprise.
He nodded. “I didn’t mean to… to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help my curiosity.”
“What are you saying?” she asked, her nervousness apparent.
He shrugged, his broad shoulders drawing her notice. “You were so passionate about whatever it was you were talking about with the manager. You had me dying to know what you were about.”
Catherine felt the heat of embarrassment and knew her cheeks were red. “It’s true, I was seeking a position there at the Temple,” she admitted. “Mr. Allen eventually agreed to hire me, although he would only commit to a fortnight. I have to prove myself, you see.”
Mr. Higby lifted his head and said, “Ah, the three pounds is what he agreed to pay you, and the fortnight was your probationary time,” he reasoned. When he saw her look of dismay, he added, “I only heard ‘three pounds’ and ‘a fortnight.’”
Catherine’s eyes rounded. “Oh, dear.”
“What?”
“You must have thought we were negotiating something quite different.” Her cheeks burned hotter at the thought that any others paying witness to her discussion with Mr. Allen might think he was arranging for her to be his mistress.
For a moment, confusion crossed Matthew’s face and then he suddenly reddened. “Oh, no. It—I mean, that—never crossed my mind.” He winced. “And now you have me experiencing jealousy and the profound desire to pummel Mr. Allen with my fists.”
Catherine’s brows shot up, possibly to her hairline, if she were any judge of it.
“Jealousy?” she whispered. She watched as Mr. Higby used his thumb and forefinger to tug one of his earlobes.
A thought of what it might feel like to nibble that curved, tender flesh had her remembering she had read about it in a book.
A young lady had grasped a man’s earlobe between her teeth in an effort to bite him, and instead it had rendered her—and him—to the vagaries of their forbidden desires.
The most amazing sensation cascaded through Catherine’s abdomen, and she gasped softly.
“Is there something wrong with my ear?” Mr. Higby asked, his forefinger tracing the whorl before he used the flat of his hand to cover it completely.
Shaking her head, Catherine returned her attention to his face. “Nothing at all. Your… tugging on it had me wondering if it was bothering you is all.”
His brows furrowed, as if he was considering how to respond. “Old habit,” he admitted. “From when I was younger.”
“You experienced aches in your ears?” she guessed.
He nodded. “Just this one,” he said, waving to his right ear. “And only in the winters, or when it was wet and rainy.” He dipped his head as if embarrassed by the admission.
“Oh, dear. Then almost all the time?”
He chuckled, his expression displaying joy that had her heart hammering in her chest and flutterbies dancing about in her stomach. She was so intrigued by the dimple that appeared at the base of his right cheek, she nearly lifted a finger to poke at it.
Slowly sobering, he regarded first her left ear and then her right with a critical eye. “Something tells me you never suffered an earache,” he guessed.
She shook her head. “I did not, but then I wasn’t a sickly child.”
“Well, neither was I,” he claimed. “Well, except for the earaches.”
“And now?”
He continued to stare at her, as if he were memorizing every feature of her face. “I cannot remember the last time I experienced one.”
“I’m very glad for you.”
“Glad enough you might consider allowing me to court you?” he asked.
Catherine couldn’t help the unexpected thrill she felt at hearing his words. “How could I turn down such a request from a bookworm?”
He displayed a grimace. “How, indeed?” he countered.
“Using the term ‘bookworm’ was not meant with any sort of disrespect,” she hurried to say.
“Quite the opposite. And you shouldn’t be concerned if your only reading is of novels.
Contrary to what my father believes, fictional tales are every bit as important as the books written to inform or educate. ”
“You read novels?”
“I do. Although I occasionally read those published by Minerva Press, I am not particularly taken by gothic novels,” she replied. “I am not fond of horror.”
“Neither am I. Receiving the daily post is enough horror for me,” he claimed.
She tittered. “Oh, dear. Your news is always that bad?”
He dipped his head. “Only the invoices,” he admitted. “Which are the majority of what is delivered these days, I fear.”
They stared at one another for a time before he asked, “Did you come here by way of your own equipage, or…?”
“My town coach is parked out in front of the shop,” she said. “And you?”
“Mine is out there… somewhere…” he hedged. “Hopefully my driver has found someplace to stay dry.”
“Mine as well,” she murmured.
“May I take you for an ice at Gunter’s? Tomorrow afternoon? At say… two o’clock?” he asked suddenly.
Catherine blinked several times before she winced. “I’d like that very much,” she said. “But I cannot, at least, not in the afternoon. I work every day but Sunday.”
He displayed a grimace. “Tomorrow evening, then?”
Surprised he would be so quick to offer an alternative time, she straightened in her chair. “All right,” she agreed. “Perhaps it won’t rain.”
“Oh, it won’t,” he stated. “It will probably snow, though.”
She tittered. “You seem terribly sure.”
“Well, I am. There were no bubbles in the puddles out there,” he said, motioning toward the front of the shop.
“I hadn’t noticed,” she replied, amused he would believe the old wives’ tale that claimed bubbles in puddles foretold of more rain the following day.
“I’ll come to the Temple at seven o’clock tomorrow evening,” he offered before straightening from the chair. He turned and offered his hand. “We can ride together to Berkeley Square, and I can see to escorting you to your home afterward?”
“The Temple of the Muses,” she agreed. Better he not come to Kingston House. She wasn’t ready for him to meet her father.
Aware he was staring at her, she wondered what he was thinking. Wondered if he was considering kissing her cheek. She inhaled softly at the thought of feeling his firm lips pressed to hers.
Any part of her.
A shiver shook her entire body, leaving behind a sensation of very welcome warmth.
When it felt as if he were about to kiss her lips, the sound of the bell at the front door had them both giving a start. “I… I should probably leave first,” she stammered.
“Of course,” he agreed. He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it, never taking his eyes off hers.
“I look forward to tomorrow evening,” she whispered before she managed a quick curtsy.
Hurrying out of the reading room, Catherine made her way down the right aisle and to the door, remembering at the last minute to grab her umbrella and pull on her gloves. She was barely out the door when she noticed her driver hurry up from a neighboring coffee shop to open the coach door for her.
Gathering her skirts, she bounded into the coach and quickly settled into the squabs. Despite the drizzle beyond the coach windows, she felt the oddest sensation.
Elation.