Page 6 of Love Thy Enemy (The Vaughns #4)

T he gentleman lunged forward, his hands moving to keep Tessa in her seat and restore her balance.

His fingers wrapped around her arm, halting her descent with ease, his other hand braced against the wall for support.

For a moment, they hovered in that suspended stillness, the closeness unexpected and unsettling, before he released her with quiet precision and sat back without a word.

“I never would’ve guessed that being crushed into a carriage would be a blessing in disguise,” she said with a self-deprecating laugh. “But when one is wedged between the wall and another passenger, such jostling is hardly noticeable.”

But Sir Stoneface returned to his quiet contemplation, leaving Tessa growling at herself for her previous misstep. Not every jest hits the mark, and there was nothing to be done but offer a bit of honesty to balance the scales.

“I meant what I said. You needn’t be embarrassed,” she said, brushing off her skirts and setting them to rights once more. “All jests aside, I am well-acquainted with having interests that do not align with expectations, and I learned long ago to give others’ opinions no weight.”

Wrinkling her nose, Tessa considered that. “Or rather, I attempt to do so. If I were to be entirely honest with you, I am not always successful.”

“Is this a situation of ‘do as I say, not as I do’?” he murmured, his eyes remaining fixed on the window.

Humming to herself, Tessa realized he wasn’t going to believe she was in earnest unless she confessed the whole of her sins. Though it mattered little whether or not he approved, she didn’t wish to subject herself to the condescension that usually followed.

“If you must know, I happen to adore ledgers, investments, and anything else to do with finance,” she said, lifting her chin.

Brows lowering, Sir Stoneface turned his attention to her.

Holding up her hands, Tessa hurried to add, “As a young lady, I never thought myself particularly interested in sums, but through a series of decisions and happenstances that are too numerous to discuss at present, I discovered I have a head for business and used that to build a bazaar in Leeds.”

Bracing herself, Tessa wondered what the fellow would say to that.

Heaven knew she had heard it all. In general, people greeted that information with polite but dismissive smiles as they immediately categorized her business as a mere hobby.

An eccentric manner in which to pass her time.

And of course, there were those who were shocked, horrified, or disbelieving.

“Is that so?” he asked.

Tessa’s breath stilled, her heart pleading with all its might that he wouldn’t prove to be amongst the worst set: those who belittled and condescended.

For some bizarre reason that she could not comprehend, those people viewed her mighty efforts as meaningless and insubstantial, yet they deemed it a good use of their time to ensure that she understood just how meaningless and insubstantial she was. Ignoring her wasn’t enough.

“I do not know many women who boast professions of any sort, let alone finance. How did you settle on that business?”

Brows rising, Tessa considered that question and the tone with which it was asked.

Sir Stoneface seemed genuinely interested in her answer, which made her reconsider it.

Speaking of money was gauche at the best of times, yet it was impossible to reply to his query without addressing that all-powerful resource.

“I found myself without an income, and in desperation, I sold some of my things to a stall in a local bazaar,” she said, forcing her hands to relax in her lap.

“Though there aren’t as many women in trade, it isn’t uncommon for stalls there to be owned by women, and I met a lovely widow who had begun selling there after her husband’s passing.

We became partners and built it into a thriving business, eventually expanding it into our own bazaar. ”

Such a succinct accounting of the last few years of her life, skirting around the strain and effort expended over the past few years with those restless nights and the nagging worry that rarely let her be.

“I imagine there is far more to the story than that,” said Sir Stoneface, the faintest hint of a smile showing at the corners of his lips.

“I oversee my family’s business, which was well-established before I took the reins, and my friends would say I spend far too much of my time fretting and fussing over it.

I cannot imagine the effort it took to build up such a venture on your own. ”

Something inside Tessa uncoiled, loosening so that she could relax into the seat once more.

“It has been an ordeal, to be certain, but it is exciting as well. Whenever I feel as though I have sorted matters, things change, leaving me to adapt to the new way of doing things. It’s like navigating a maze that is forever shifting. ”

Sir Stoneface’s brows rose at that. “I know precisely what you mean. I am a trained apothecary, quite able to manage producing whatever medicines our shop sells, but more and more, the business draws my attention. I cannot simply follow a recipe as I do with my tinctures and powders.”

And now Tessa’s expression shifted to match his, though for entirely different reasons.

Not only did his posture relax as he settled into the subject, but there was no judgment in his tone.

No wisdom he felt necessary to share. Simply an exchange of opinions and experiences.

It was rare enough to find anyone who wished to discuss the subject, let alone speak to her as though they were peers.

Equals. Not someone wishing to bestow his great intellect or show her the error of her ways.

The conversation unfolded like a dance. For all that men led and women followed, the best pairings required give and take on both sides. A perfect understanding as they moved through the steps with ease. A partnership.

Tessa found her conversation adjusting as she refined her arguments with each of the gentleman’s questions and verbal thrusts as he pressed her—not to dominate, but to understand.

To test the strength of her thoughts and offer his own in return.

It required effort to keep pace, but the challenge was invigorating.

There was something deeply satisfying in matching wits with someone who made her think more sharply, more precisely.

The gentleman didn’t speak over her or dismiss her thoughts; he listened, then countered with his own. Sometimes she held her ground. Sometimes she didn’t. And more than once, she was forced to reconsider her perspective, the shape of it shifting beneath his careful questioning.

It wasn’t a battle, but the same sort of energy thrummed beneath the words.

Rather than forging weapons, they forged ideas, striking at the other with calm consideration.

And when his head tilted to the side, his eyes falling away as he considered her latest point, Tessa knew he had conceded defeat.

Yet this wasn’t about victory. It was about discovery. Tessa’s heart lightened as they wandered deeper and deeper into the subject of finance, customers, and the art of the sale.

***

There were benefits and drawbacks to travelling by public coach.

Amongst the former, there was the joy of being conveyed about the countryside at a fraction of the price, and as Gregory considered that, he realized it was perhaps the only blessing.

The pitfalls, on the other hand, provided far more fertile ground.

Not only was one subjected to long bouts without food or drink, but one was battered by rain, nipped at by frost, and burned by the sun.

To say nothing of being crushed into a tiny box with the other passengers, many of whom gave hygiene a passing nod.

Then there were the snorers, the foot-tappers, the pokers, the loud chewers, the know-it-alls, the weak-stomached, and the busybodies who made the hours creep by until one was certain that walking was preferable.

And if all that was not enough of a megrim, there was the added frustration of being stranded on empty stretches of country roads or tossed into a ditch when the vehicle, tack, or animals failed—all of which were common enough occurrences.

Usually, Gregory despised the moments when passengers inside and up-top were forced to alight so that the luggage-laden carriage could make it to the top of a hill without the added weight to further fatigue the horses; the added time of waiting for all the passengers to make their way up the rise was highly vexing.

But now, Gregory found himself lingering at the end of a string of passengers, who waddled their way after the carriage like a family of ducklings, grateful to stretch their legs.

With plodding steps, he walked alongside his companion, his gaze more fixed on her than on the carriage that awaited them as the others crested the hill.

For all that she appeared to be of similar age to him, Mrs. Chatterbox had an energy that was far beyond anything Gregory’s forty-year-old spirits could muster.

Though some might consider her too plump for fashion’s sake, the fullness of her cheeks made her dimples more pronounced, which only enhanced the bright joy that sparked in her dark-as-night eyes.

And with that humming energy, she bounced from subject to subject with all the gusto of a puppy exploring its new home, sniffling about and pawing at topics here and there before darting on to the next.

Once the common interest of business had been broached, there was no stopping Mrs. Chatterbox. Even if he had wanted to.

Gregory supposed he ought to know her proper name by now, but enough time had passed since their first conversation that asking would be uncomfortable, as he hadn’t been listening when the lady had introduced herself to their other travelling companions at the very beginning of their journey.

Besides, he rather liked the moniker. It suited her.

Despite being a touch short, Mrs. Chatterbox carried herself as though meeting him eye to eye.

It was the sort of confidence that one could only attain after decades of experience.

The surety of someone who had carved out her place in the world.

Who knew herself and felt no need to twist into knots to please another.

“I am going on and on, aren’t I?” she asked with a wince.

Then, seeming to shake off that concern, Mrs. Chatterbox squared her shoulders and gave him another of her wry smiles.

“But I suppose it serves you right for broaching the subject of business. Few people ever wish to speak about such things, so when I find an eager listener, there is no stopping me.”

“Then I am the author of my demise?” he asked in a monotone.

“Do not feign injury, my good sir,” she replied with a laugh. “I saw you during the first leg of our journey. You are quite capable of avoiding conversation when you wish, so you needn’t act like the victim of my babbling.”

Gregory bowed his head in acknowledgment, and the amusement coursing through him drew forth a confession.

“In truth, I have enjoyed our conversation. Though my family adores the medical aspect of the business and will discuss it at great length, the rest is far less appealing to them. It is rare to find someone who is as intrigued by the whole thing as I am.”

“I know precisely what you mean.”

“Speaking of which, I know many swear by magazines and periodicals, but what have you found to be the most effective manner of advertising?” But when Gregory glanced at the lady, she was suspiciously silent.

“I own a small bazaar. I hardly think I am in a position to lecture an apothecary, with all your skills and learning, on how to best advertise your business,” she said, her eyes widening. “It sounds as though you are far more successful than I.”

“Nonsense,” said Gregory. “Though I have a hand in the production, at its heart, my business is selling a product—and that is no different than what you do. The core principles are universal.”

“Then I fear I have no good answer to give you, for I do not focus much on advertisements per se. I prefer to use my limited time and funds on improving the shopping experience for my customers, as they are far more likely to spread the word on my behalf—”

The lady’s foot slipped, and Gregory’s hand shot out to steady her. Mrs. Chatterbox graced him with another smile, and despite her handing them out at every opportunity, he found himself quite taken by the sight.

Tucking her hands into the folds of her cloak, Mrs. Chatterbox glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Please do not think me forward, but may I offer a piece of advice?”

A chuckle sounded in his memories. The sort Rodney had always given when he was being even more “Rodney” than usual—most especially when he asked just such a question, which was more a warning that he was about to say something irritating than it was a genuine request for permission.

The thought made the corners of his lips twitch upward. Before they fell again.

The moment passed like a shadow drawn over sunlight, leaving only the hollow behind. The sound wasn’t real. His friend wasn’t there. And no amount of imagined laughter would bring him back.

The ache that followed was sharp and immediate, stealing the warmth from the smile before it ever fully formed. Grief had a cruel way of threading itself through the ordinary, quiet moments in unexpected ways, and it didn’t matter how often it happened. The absence still landed like a blow.