Page 23 of The Spinster’s Secret Stake (Ladies of Opportunity #2)

TWENTY THREE

The cottage entrance

A minute later…

Shelby sensed eyes boring into him as he rapped upon Roxina’s cottage door.

Half-turning, he glanced past his gleaming curricle parked before the cottage to the lane beyond. The morning sun bathed the street in golden light, illuminating a row of modest cottages, some of brick, others timber-framed with whitewashed plaster. The scent of freshly turned soil drifted from a nearby garden, where a hawthorn hedge, heavy with tiny white blossoms, hummed with fat bees.

Whistling a lively tune, a butcher’s boy trotted past, balancing a parcel wrapped in brown paper. Nearby, a door creaked open, followed by the scolding voice of a woman chiding a child for some mischief.

His curricle, an elegant vehicle, straight from the best coachmaker in London, shone with the unmistakable essence of wealth. The deep-green lacquered body gleamed, slightly blemished by road dust, its brass fittings polished to a shine. The black leather upholstery bore the faint scent of saddle soap, pristine and untarnished by age. His horses, a sturdy yet elegant pair of chestnuts, shifted impatiently and flicked their tails against flies.

Shelby adjusted his cuffs, the crisp linen peeking from beneath the sleeves of his tobacco-brown coat. The finely tailored garment fit him with a precision he had never enjoyed. His buff pantaloons, smooth and expertly cut, did not wrinkle at the knee, and his new Hessians bore a mirror-like glow. Even his gloves, crafted from the finest kidskin, flexed easily around his fingers, a stark contrast to the worn pair he once owned.

Across the lane, Mrs. Beale stood on her stoop, a friendly smile curving her wrinkled face, though her sharp eyes gleamed with curiosity.

Behind her, a fat orange cat sprawled in the parlor window, one paw dangling lazily over the sill. It blinked slowly at Shelby, its expression both indifferent and vaguely judgmental, as if it had already determined he was not worth getting up for.

Giving a jaunty wave, Mrs. Beale called, “Please stop by and have a chat, Mr. Tellinger.”

In other words— What are you doing here, and what has occurred since we last met?

“I shall do my best, Mrs. Beale.” He tipped his new beaver top hat, offering no promises. Depending on the outcome of his conversation with Roxina, he might not be inclined toward a cozy chat with the kindly but inquisitive widow.

Mrs. Beale tapped her broom against the stoop as if to say she would wait.

Facing Roxina’s cottage door again, he turned his mouth down.

Why hadn’t she answered?

He knocked once more, this time harder.

Perhaps she tended the garden in the rear.

Or was she out?

Just as he prepared to walk to the back of the cottage, the door creaked open a couple of inches—just wide enough for Roxina to peek out.

“ Shelby ?”

“Who were you expecting, Roxina?” Waggling his eyebrows, he could not prevent a mischievous grin. “A troll? The Night Coachman or The Lantern Man?”

Her doe-like eyes widened, and her pretty mouth parted in a breathless exclamation.

“I take it you’re surprised to see me?”

But was she pleased?

She curled her fingers around the edge of the door until her knuckles whitened. A dozen emotions flickered across her face—too fleeting to name—but none suggested outright displeasure.

That, at least, boded well.

Though her abrupt departure from Fernleigh House had initially crushed him, over the past weeks, Shelby concluded Roxina’s flight had less to do with him and more to do with confronting and accepting new and foreign emotions. Of course, he had thought of her often— constantly —but circumstances had prevented him from seeking her sooner.

First, it had taken days to deal with the legal aspects of shooting Desmond and his hireling. The authorities had an insufferable fondness for documents, statements, and official inquiries, despite the obvious villainy of the men in question.

Then, much to his relief and delight, Neptune’s Providence had sailed into port, her hold heavy with the goods Shelby had invested in. Now, he claimed wealth that would turn many of the upper ten thousand green with envy.

No longer was he the man who scoured docks and back alleys for bounty work, hoping to earn enough to keep his creditors at bay. He no longer stretched coins between meals nor haggled over a worn coat at a second-hand shop to ensure he had enough to send anonymous funds to Roxina.

News of his good fortune had spread faster than drawing room gossip amongst the ton .

Now, Shelby’s name carried authority beyond the taverns and shipping yards. Merchants sought his favor, men who had once looked upon him with disdain tipped their hats in greeting, and he had standing—true standing—not merely that of a man scraping by on wits.

His bank account boasted sums he had once only dreamed of, and he had spread his investments to other trade ventures, promising even greater returns. What was more, he had purchased property—an actual estate—rather than merely renting rooms.

Had it truly been less than three weeks ago that he had barely a half-penny to his name, wore second-hand sailor’s garb, and collected bounties to keep the moneylender off his back?

Paying Mitchel’s debt to the backstreet banker had topped Shelby’s list of tasks, and it had taken two days to locate the foul fellow. The man had the disposition of an irate polecat and the hygiene of a muck-stained street hawker.

At least the transaction had been quick and final.

The recollection of Merciless Morgan’s beady eyes gleaming with avarice stuck in Shelby’s mind.

“A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Tellinger,” the odious man had wheezed, pocketing Shelby’s payment with fingers as gnarled and grimy as tree roots.

Shelby had resisted the urge to douse his hands in a bucket of turpentine.

With that weight off his shoulders, he could face his future unfettered by the past—by another’s bad choices.

By Mitchel Danforth’s poor decisions, to be precise.

Now free and unshackled by another’s debt, Shelby could forge a new life.

And he must know if that life included Roxina.

He wouldn’t consider another course until he had spoken to her. He swore love had glimmered in her eyes as she stared at him, facing down the barrel of Desmond’s gun.

Why else would she have used herself as a human shield?

“I am surprised.” Roxina gave a slight nod, bringing Shelby back to the present.

“Or…” Shelby leaned in and whispered sotto voce , “Are you avoiding your busybody neighbor? What would Mrs. Beale do if I swept you into my arms and kissed you soundly? Swoon? Run screeching down the street again? I’m curious to know how the citizens of Blackheath would react to another such episode.”

“You are ridiculous.” Opening the door wider, she chuckled at his antics.

Shelby stared at Roxina, thunderstruck.

God, how he loved hearing her laugh—seeing her happy.

Even in her disheveled state, never had she looked more beautiful.

Dirt smudged her gown, and she must have rubbed her face because soil marked one ivory cheek. Wisps of silky sable hair framed her sun-kissed face.

His heart swelled with love for this incomparable, unique woman.

“I had accepted that you weren’t coming.” Her whispered words held a thread of reverence and awe. Heartbreak and resignation.

“How could you ever doubt it?” Shelby pulled his brows together as he gently brushed dirt from her shoulder. “I told you, I would always be here for you, Roxina, should you ever need anything. I do not make vows lightly.”

Lifting one shoulder an inch in an unconvinced shrug, she schooled her features into a benign expression. The one she had presented to him dozens and dozens of times before when he accompanied Mitchel to his house or social gathering.

Coolly polite but absolutely impenetrable.

Shelby’s heart sank to his shiny new boots and flopped there like a banked trout.

Roxina didn’t believe him.

He couldn’t catch his breath.

Had a horse gut-kicked him, the pain couldn’t have been worse.

The notion that she doubted him—even for a moment—cleaved his chest.

Had he truly given her cause to question his devotion?

He thought back to the last weeks, to the time and space that had separated them.

To her, his absence might have seemed neglectful.

But to him, every day without her had been an aching, unbearable time, filled with thoughts of her, of them, of what he had nearly lost—could still lose.

He had worked tirelessly to ensure he could return to her, free from the burdens of the past. And yet, she stood before him now, guarded, her expression carefully measured, as if bracing for disappointment.

A pang of frustration rippled through him, but he crushed it down. He would prove himself, not with words, but with actions.

“We are being watched,” she murmured, beneath her breath.

Relief washed over him.

Roxina’s bland countenance wasn’t due to what he said but because Mrs. Beale, brazen as brass and apparently without a jot of remorse, watched them.

Sweeping her lips upward at the corners, Roxina peered past him and gave her prying neighbor a little wave before perusing Shelby inch-by-inch from his beaver top hat to his boots, then back to his face.

He felt her visual touch, no less powerful or arousing than if she had brushed her fingers over him. Desire slammed into him, causing his knees to tremble and other parts of his anatomy to behave less gentlemanly.

“My, I must declare, you are quite handsome.” She arched a winged eyebrow in approval. “A regular tulip of fashion.”

Shelby wanted to crow at the appreciation in her gaze, thrust his chest out, and strut about like a cockerel. Instead, he glanced downward at his new tobacco-brown coat, cream-and-gold waistcoat, and pantaloons tucked into gleaming Hessians.

Touching her chin with her forefinger, she angled her head. “ Hmm , not quite a dandy, but assuredly dressed in the first stare of fashion.”

Fingering his coat lapel, he searched her face. “I chose this fabric because it reminded me of your eyes.”

A pleased blush tinted her cheeks.

“Why, I never took you for a poet, Shelby.”

Was she flirting?

God, he hoped so.

She pointed her pretty gaze toward his curricle. “Your curricle is quite something.”

“It reminded me of our flight to Robyn’s with you sleeping against my shoulder.”

“Oh.”

He wanted to tell her she had changed him, that he was no longer the man she had first met. That his wealth, his success, meant nothing if he could not share it with her. But the words lodged in his throat, too fragile to utter just yet.

She glanced over his shoulder again, and her mouth tightened the merest bit.

“I take it Mrs. Beale is still unabashedly and unashamedly observing us?” Shelby refrained from glancing behind him.

“Indeed,” Roxina agreed, mirth sparkling in her gaze. “Good morning, Mrs. Beale.”

“Good morning, Miss Danforth. Won’t you and Mr. Tellinger come for tea this afternoon?” Mrs. Beale called. “I baked a seed cake.”

Roxina nodded. “We shall do our best, Mrs. Beale.”

A moment later, the distinct click of a door closing announced Mrs. Beale had finally entered her cottage, though she probably peeked out the curtains.

Dash poked his head between the doorjamb and Roxina’s skirts. Releasing a happy whine, he wagged his tail furiously in canine greeting.

“Hello there, old chap.” Bending, Shelby scratched behind the dog’s ears. “Have you been keeping our girl safe?”

“ Our girl?” Roxina repeated, her voice tight with wonder.

Did hope glisten in Roxina’s eyes?

Shelby swallowed hard.

He had spoken without thinking—the words slipping out in an unguarded moment.

Regardless, he did not regret them.

Not one iota.

The ache of weeks apart pummeled through him, overwhelming and unrelenting. How had he survived without her?

Her eyes softened at the corners, and the emotion Shelby had longed to see shining in their depths shone for all the world to witness. She hadn’t said the words he longed to hear, but she did not hide her love, either.

Emotion choked him, and he cleared his throat.

“Aye, our girl.”

He had always considered himself a man of action rather than sentiment, but at this moment…

This was everything.

More than words, more than vows.

His pulse raced when she looked at him, his entire being attuning to hers. Even if she never spoke the words aloud, he would still know.

And yet…

He yearned to hear them. Needed to.

His hand tingled as he trailed a fingertip down her petal-like cheek.

Her lashes fluttered low over her eyes before she popped her eyelids open wide.

“Please do come inside, Shelby, before the gossips start wagging their tongues.”

Probably too late for that.

She glanced up and down the street, her cheeks turning a becoming pink before grabbing Shelby’s hand and practically hauling him into the entryway.

At her innocent touch, an electric jolt zipped to his nether regions.

Control yourself, Shelby Doran Elliot Tellinger.

You’re not a rutting stag.

The cottage smelled of cinnamon and fresh bread.

Shelby drew in a slow breath, grounding himself. The warmth of the space, the comfort of her presence, wrapped around him like a healing, comforting balm.

This was home.

Not the walls, not the furnishings, not even the delicious aromas.

Wherever Roxina was, that was home.

He had never belonged anywhere—not truly—until now.

Until her.

And if she would have him, if she would trust him, then no force in England or beyond would tear him from her side.

Appearing slightly flustered, Roxina gifted him a beatific smile.

A smile that held an unspoken promise. The winsome smile a woman bestowed on the man she adored and who held her heart.

Shelby’s heart skipped a beat, then accelerated into an irregular cadence.

She loves me. She loves me. She loves me .

When would he hear those coveted words from her sweet lips?