Page 2 of Sir Hugo Seeks a Wife (Cinderellas of Mayfair #1)

Ivor regarded him with galling pity. “You still haven’t got it, have you?

Which is strange. You were a regular Aristotle at school.

Nothing wrong with your brainbox there. If you can win the prize for Latin translation, working out how to shine in elevated company should be a mere doddle. Even dunderheads like me manage it.”

“Latin translation follows logical rules.” Hugo sighed. “I’m starting to think society makes no sense at all.”

“If you want to make a splash, you need to put in a bit of an effort, that’s all.”

He made a sweeping gesture. “By buying sweets and hiring poets to do the pretty.”

“That’s the idea.” Ivor didn’t pick up on Hugo’s sarcastic tone. Of course he didn’t. Irony was always wasted on Mr. Bilson. “Now we need to send a note around to Madame Lebeau to reserve a time for you to call.”

“I need to go cap in hand to a damned shopkeeper?”

“Of course. With every fribble in the ton trying to employ her services, Madame Lebeau is much in demand.” Ivor paused. “She’s another fine-looking filly and possessed of an elegant manner. Word is she’s a Frenchie aristo fallen on hard times with the hullabaloo over there. You’ll like her.”

“I don’t need to like someone to buy a blasted sugared violet from them.”

“No, you don’t.” Ivor’s pitying expression intensified, damn his eyes. “But the tattle says if you win Madame Lebeau’s favor, your wooing will go smooth as silk.”

“But I’m not wooing Petronella Fitchett.”

“No, she’ll look higher than a baronet. But it’s a good chance to get all your chickens lined up, so when you do decide on your Lady Brinsmead, you can go straight to work on her. Think of this as a practice run.”

“If you’re sure,” Hugo said reluctantly.

“That’s the ticket. Knew you’d see yourself clear.” Ivor responded to the agreement, not Hugo’s grudging tone, with a smile of approval that brightened his good-natured features. “There’s pens and paper in the library. We’ll shoot Madame Lebeau a note straightaway. No time to be lost.”

Hugo came to his feet and trailed his friend into the corridor. It seemed that he was committed to the campaign, even if right now, he wished he’d stayed up north and never left.

***

“Bonjour, monsieur,” a woman said, as Hugo entered the pretty little shop on one of London’s most fashionable streets. A pretty little shop called Sweet Little Nothings. He’d written requesting an appointment and received a time in response, no questions about what day might suit him.

Although it was difficult to hold onto his pique when he surveyed his surroundings and the woman behind the counter. Ivor had described Madame Lebeau – Hugo assumed that this must be the shop’s proprietress – as a fine-looking filly.

Ivor had been guilty of vast understatement. Sylvie Lebeau was a beauty, a spectacular blonde with delicate features and a figure to make Venus weep with envy.

“Madame Lebeau, I’m Hugo Brinsmead.” He swept off his high-crowned hat and dipped his head in a short bow.

One didn’t as a rule offer such courtesies to tradesmen.

Or tradeswomen. He’d been skeptical of Ivor’s tale that Madame Lebeau was a French aristocrat forced to open a shop to keep body and soul together.

Every damned Frog who came to England claimed to be as blue-blooded as Marie Antoinette and a victim of the Revolution or Napoleon’s depredations.

But now he was in her presence, Hugo immediately recognized that the woman wasn’t in the common line at all.

“Ah, Sir Hugo, bienvenue to Sweet Little Nothings. You are a friend of Monsieur Bilson, je crois.”

Hugo found the mixture of French and English charming. As he was sure had every other gentleman who ventured into this opulent temple to the confectioners’ art. “Yes, he recommended ordering some bonbons for a certain lady.”

Madame Lebeau stood behind a glass display case packed with sweetmeats of breathtaking daintiness and intricacy.

Around him, the shelves were stacked with glass containers full of delights like sugared almonds in every color of the rainbow.

The décor featured the lavender and silver familiar from the shop’s distinctive packaging.

“The popular Lady Petronella, you said.”

“Yes. I’ve heard she has a great fondness for your wares.”

“Lucky for us.” Wry amusement tugged at the woman’s lips. “The lady’s penchant for my candied violets has been excellent for business.”

Hugo could imagine. “I’m told that in order to gain favor with Lady Petronella, I also need to include a verse.”

“It’s become a charming addition to my bonbons, monsieur.

” Madame Lebeau emerged from behind the counter.

She was dressed in a modest green silk dress that even a fashion ignoramus like Hugo could tell had cost a small fortune.

Business must indeed be thriving. Unless Madame Lebeau – a widow, he assumed, as he’d heard no mention of a husband – was a rich man’s mistress.

If so, the rich man was fortunate indeed.

Madame Lebeau cast Lady Petronella’s vaunted attractions into the shade. “ S’il vous pla?t, come with me.”

Intrigued despite himself, he followed the shopkeeper down a narrow corridor.

“I hope he’s feeling inspired,” Hugo said, as she knocked on a closed door.

With a knowing smile on her lips, madame opened the door. “I’m afraid you have it wrong, sir.”

Hugo found himself entering a small office, featuring a tidy desk and several crowded bookcases. Behind the desk was a woman with smooth black hair pinned back in a severe knot. Her flashing dark eyes lifted from what she was writing to regard him with a coolness that challenged everything he was.

Hugo always responded to a challenge.

“Sir Hugo, this is Aphrodite de Smith. She is responsible for composing the verses that accompany the orders from my shop.”

Only when Sylvie Lebeau spoke did Hugo remember that she was there, too.

The proud insolence of the brunette’s expression made him forget anything but her.

Heat zapped through his veins, thundered in his ears.

His gloved hands clenched on his fashionable cane as he fought the urge to reach over that orderly desk and seize her.

He wanted her in his arms. It was as simple and as insane as that.

“Aphrodite de Smith?” he repeated. He was in such a tizz that his doubts about the name’s veracity were audible.

“Yes, that’s right, Sir Hugo,” the woman replied in a voice as clear and bracing as cold water. Unlike Madame Lebeau, the poetess had an English accent as crisp as his own. “I believe you would like to order a poem to accompany a gift for the much-admired Lady Petronella.”

Nothing in the woman’s words indicated her contempt for that idea, but nonetheless Hugo felt the faint whiplash of disdain. The irony was that if anyone asked him right now what Lady Petronella Fitchett looked like, he’d have trouble answering.

“I believe it’s customary to express one’s admiration with such a token,” he said in a neutral tone, even as his mind roiled. “Mrs. de Smith—”

“Miss.”

He shouldn’t care that she was unmarried. But he did.

His hungry eyes devoured her. Aphrodite didn’t suit her at all, conjuring visions of easy sensuality and ready pleasure. Not virginal Diana either, even if this woman radiated “don’t touch me.” Perhaps stern, clever, commanding Minerva might match her.

She made no effort to attract male admiration. No trimming softened her somber gray frock. It was buttoned up to her chin and was almost as forbidding as her expression.

Except that he wasn’t convinced. Every masculine impulse shouted that if a man gained her surrender, she’d reward the lucky fellow with unforgettable passion.

“Sir Hugo?” Madame Lebeau asked.

He realized that the silence extended to a point where it was noticeable. It took a devil of an effort to tear his attention away from Miss de Smith. “Your pardon, madame. I assumed your poet would be a man.”

Even without looking at Miss de Smith, he knew that she bristled at that statement.

“Aphrodite is highly skilled, Sir Hugo. I’m certain you’ll be pleased with her work. All her other clients are.”

“I’m sure I’ll be delighted.”

He cursed himself for behaving like a complete hobbledehoy.

So far, he’d managed to avoid acting like a yokel in society’s ballrooms. But something about Miss de Smith’s calm, assessing gaze made him feel like he had straw sticking out of his hair and clods of thick Yorkshire mud flaking off his boots.

Madame Lebeau cast him a hesitant smile. Odd to think that ten minutes ago, he’d thought her one of the most attractive women he’d ever encountered. Now he could barely bring himself to look at her.

Even stranger when Miss de Smith’s looks were unconventional in the extreme. Marked dark brows. A nose verging on the aquiline. Olive complexion. Cheekbones so high that her remarkable eyes took on a slight slant. A hint of squareness to her jaw.

The angular features might be off-putting, were it not for the generous pink fullness of a mouth a trifle too large for her features. That mouth promised that beneath the straitlaced exterior, there was a wealth of sensuality to discover.

Miss de Smith would never be counted a fashionable beauty like Lady Petronella or the other chits fêted as diamonds of the first water.

But her appearance was striking, appealing because it was so out of the ordinary.

Hers was a face that he’d never find boring.

Perhaps because she made no pretence to hiding the probing intelligence behind that piercing dark gaze.

“I’ll leave you with Aphrodite to discuss what you’d like to say,” Madame Lebeau said, still with that tinge of doubt. Something told Hugo that this was a woman who rarely questioned her decisions.

Miss de Smith tilted one expressive eyebrow at him. “Or perhaps Sir Hugo is thinking better of his impulse.”

Dear God, the gorgeous impudence of her. She was altogether irresistible. Hugo was accounted an even-tempered man of regular habits, but he came from a long line of border reivers who saw what they wanted and took it.

To date, life had provided him with comfort and prosperity. He hadn’t needed to exert himself to achieve any of his aims. If truth be told, he’d always taken the easy road and hadn’t found himself desiring more than a kindly fate already delivered.

Until now.

Now, by Jupiter, he wanted. He wanted with a ravenous hunger that made his very blood churn.

He knew enough to hide the sudden craving that shook his existence to its foundations. As he spoke, his voice emerged steady and pleasant, despite his world shifting in a blink. “No, I’d like to proceed.”

“Very well,” Miss de Smith said, as Madame Lebeau retreated down the corridor and left them alone.