Page 4 of Sir Hugo Seeks a Wife (Cinderellas of Mayfair #1)

Petronella is so pretty,

Loveliest in all the city.

What joy it is to dance with her.

Such bliss that I’m a happy sir.

The next day, Athene was still wincing over her poor effort with Sir Hugo Brinsmead’s poem for Lady Petronella.

Even if in her defense, she’d never before had to create a verse under a patron’s watchful gaze.

Nor had she ever been so conscious of a man’s attractions, as she fumbled after rhymes.

How could she concentrate on praising another woman’s charms, when her mind was focused on the picturesque brute sprawled in front of her?

Shakespeare himself would have balked at the challenge.

Once she’d finished her uninspired effort, Sir Hugo had cast a quick look at the fair copy of the verse – blast him, she’d spoiled three cards trying to make a presentation version – and the dimple in one cheek suggested that he wanted to laugh. She couldn’t blame him.

She was less worried about Lady Petronella’s reaction. From what she could gather, the chit always threw away the poem unread and just devoured the sugared violets. If her ladyship wasn’t careful, that curvy figure was going to turn to fat.

Athene told herself not to be such a nasty cat. If she was honest with herself – and she generally was – she was green with jealousy. Not that Lady Petronella was so universally admired, but that she’d attracted the attention of one particular baronet.

Who had been cad enough to invite Athene to a rendezvous while he courted another lady. Athene should despise him. At the very least, she shouldn’t be thinking about him this afternoon. Not with half a dozen urgent commissions awaiting her attention.

Sylvie appeared at the door. “Sir Hugo is back.”

It was a rainy day, and the shop had been quiet. A perfect chance for Athene to get on with her work. Whereas she’d been sitting in the gloom, remembering a pair of bright blue eyes and how a set of impressive shoulders filled out a fashionable coat.

“Already?” she squeaked, surging out of her chair.

Sylvie cast her a curious glance. “Yes, he’s bought more violets for Lady Petronella and wants to request another poem. I told him I’d ask.”

She sank back into her chair. “I’m busy.”

“Are you? I’d have said you were sitting around in the dark, staring into space.”

“I’m thinking up some new rhymes.”

“Hmm.” Sylvie’s murmur conveyed skepticism. “Shall I send him in?”

Athene wanted to slap her dearest friend. Sometimes it wasn’t comfortable for someone to know one so well. Now that she thought about it, Sylvie had been very quiet about Sir Hugo. She usually had plenty of gossip to share about the gentlemen who came into the shop.

“If you must,” Athene muttered, watching Sylvie light a lamp. As the year drew in, nightfall came early.

“I think I must,” Sylvie said, and before Athene could question that annoyingly knowing statement, her friend had gone and Sir Hugo stood in front of her.

“Sir Hugo.” Athene rose and performed a curtsy. She was mortifyingly aware that yesterday she’d acted like a rag-mannered hoyden. Her only excuse was that the sight of so much delicious male had chased every sensible thought from her mind.

No wonder yesterday’s poem had been so limp. Which wasn’t an adjective she could ever imagine applying to Sir Hugo Brinsmead.

Burning blue eyes focused on her face as he bowed.

She’d spent far too long last night trying to define the precise shade of blue.

Cornflowers? Sapphires? The Mediterranean at noon?

Now she found herself staring into those eyes and admitting that none of those descriptions did justice to the rich color.

“Miss de Smith, I trust you’re well.” That deep rumble of a voice startled her as it had startled her yesterday.

She’d never known a man with such a basso profundo note to his speech.

It resonated in her bones in a most pleasing way.

And made her stomach twist with longing.

That was pleasing, too. Or it would be, if she didn’t know what it meant.

She blinked to break the spell of his gaze and noticed that Sir Hugo carried a bunch of violets in one large gloved hand. “Are you about to call on Lady Petronella?”

“She likes violets.”

Athene didn’t have the heart to tell him that Lady Petronella preferred her floral tributes large and bright and blowsy. At this time of year, he must have paid a fortune for the delicate little flowers. “The sugared ones at least.”

He stepped forward and set the bouquet on the desk.

Yesterday the sheer size of him had made her office feel uncomfortably cramped.

That hadn’t changed. Nor had the way that he seemed to bring the freshness of the outdoors inside with him.

He didn’t strike her as a city kind of man, despite the fashionable clothes that adorned his imposing frame.

He belonged in the open air, striding across wild hills on those long, powerful legs.

Athene, stop spouting this revolting romantic drivel.

“The flowers are for you.” Humor warmed that remarkable voice in a way that she found hard to resist. “I thought after yesterday’s poem, you might need some extra inspiration.”

Dear Lord, was she blushing? No man had ever given her flowers. George wouldn’t have declared his interest with anything so innocent.

Sir Hugo’s amusement deepened. “Cat got your tongue?”

She stared at the rich purple flowers nestled in their dark green leaves. A sweet perfume drifted on the air, the scent of spring on a wintry day. “I don’t like sugared violets.”

“Neither do I. Filthy things. Set my teeth on edge. I took yesterday’s box home with me and tried them to see what all the fuss was about. Never again.”

That surprised her enough to gain her full attention.

Then she wished that it hadn’t. Today, she noticed how handsome he was, now that she was more accustomed to his physical impact.

The ideal Englishman. Golden fair. Clear-skinned.

A square, determined jaw. Not to mention those mesmerizing eyes.

“You didn’t give them to Lady Petronella? What about my poem?”

When the smile turned positively conspiratorial, Athene found herself responding before she could remind herself that her partiality for a good-looking scoundrel had only ever caused her heartache.

“I thought you might be able to do better.”

So did she. “Yet you paid me a guinea.”

“You’re not upset I didn’t like it?”

She gave a short laugh. “I told you I wouldn’t do my best work under observation. Anyway, I write on demand for money. Artistic temperament is a luxury I can’t afford.”

“You’ll be more relaxed today, now you’re used to me.”

She doubted it. “So you’d like another poem for Lady Petronella?”

“Yes, please. But perhaps you should put the flowers in water first.”

“Of course.” She was blushing again. Plague take him. She wasn’t a silly ingenue. Anything but. Yet Sir Hugo Brinsmead had her all aflutter. “Thank you.”

She should refuse the bouquet. A small minority of the gentlemen who used her poetic services had assumed that she was available to buy as well.

Most of them had taken her refusal in good spirit.

She feared that Sir Hugo might be just such another troublesome client.

He’d asked her to dine. Now he brought flowers.

Her acceptance of his gift offered him an opening that she really couldn’t allow.

Which meant it made no sense to fill a glass with the water that she kept for drinking. She plopped the pretty nosegay into the makeshift vase. The vibrant color added a touch of glamour to her workaday surroundings. The delicate scent still made her think of spring.

Which wasn’t unalloyed joy. Because by spring, Sir Hugo would no doubt have chosen a bride.

Lady Petronella or someone else. He and his new wife would have retired to his estates in the country to raise beautiful children.

While Aphrodite de Smith stayed behind in London to rhyme “moon” and “June” and promote other people’s matches.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself, my girl. Remember what life was like in Vienna and how much better you’ve got it now.

He watched her as if she were the source of endless fascination. “I wasn’t sure if you’d kick up rough about accepting them.”

“I should. But they’re much prettier as flowers than as bonbons. Thank you.”

He looked pleased, which shouldn’t matter, although of course it did. “I imagine they might taste better, too.”

She made a face before she remembered that she never, ever flirted with her patrons. “Don’t you dare try to find out.”

He spread his hands in a show of innocence. “Your violets are safe.”

There was no reason that should sound salacious.

But somehow it did. A sign of quite how far Athene had traveled down the path of sinful imagination since she’d met him yesterday.

The worst of it was that she didn’t recoil in horror at the thought of Sir Hugo Brinsmead touching her.

When for ten years, she’d shunned any hint of dalliance.

She subsided into her chair, reminding herself of the price of recklessness. A price that she still paid. “Please sit down and tell me what you’d like in the next poem.”

He took the seat in front of the desk, and the glance he cast her was sharp. “What did I say wrong?”

She frowned. “Nothing.”

“Then why have you gone as stiff as a board all of a sudden?”

“I…” Desperate, she searched for an explanation that didn’t involve divulging the sorry tale of her life. Then she raised her chin and glared at him, although she was angrier with herself than with him. “Shall we proceed? Perhaps we could praise Lady Petronella’s complexion?”

Something about his expression warned her that he wasn’t ready to let his question go. He had an appealing face. Kind eyes. Laughter lines. But that chin said that he could be stubborn, too.

Athene braced for him to hound her, but after a second, he relaxed back in his chair. “Pink and white.”

“What?”

“Lady P.’s complexion.”