“Unrequited? But I thought it was a romance. Romances are supposed to have happy endings.”
“So it does, eventually. Too happy for the Heliosphere. The reviewer didn’t like the romantic elements. Compared them to treacle.”
She frowned as she flipped through the pages. Tripe. Treacle. “The reviewer must have been a man. Only a man would describe a romance in such a way.”
The clerk nodded. “He is, miss. He goes by the name of Bilgewater.”
Her mouth quirked. “Gracious. Is that a nom de plume?”
“Expect so. He wouldn’t want any angry authors coming after him. Not after some of the things he’s written about their books. Marshland isn’t his first victim.”
“Poor Mrs. Marshland. I’m sure she doesn’t deserve such censure.” Julia tucked a copy of The Garden of Valor under her arm. Impulsively, she selected three more.
Mary approached, curious. “Four of the same book, miss?”
“One for me, and one for Lady Anne, Miss Hobhouse, and Miss Maltravers.” Julia crossed the short distance to the wood counter near the shop’s front window. She set the books down on it in an untidy stack. “It will be my gift to them when they return to London.”
It wasn’t completely altruistic. Julia was in the mood for a bit of treacle. If she could support a lady novelist while she was at it, so much the better. Besides, she liked to discuss books with her friends, and how could she discuss The Garden of Valor if Anne, Stella, and Evelyn hadn’t read it?
The clerk beamed. “Excellent, excellent.” He darted behind the counter to tally her charges.
As Julia fumbled in her reticule for the coin to pay for her purchases, the shop bell rang, signaling the arrival of another customer. She cast a distracted look at the door.
And then she froze.
Captain Blunt did the same. He stood inside the entrance, his black hat in his hand. His usually unreadable expression betrayed a faint flicker of surprise.
If not for that flicker, Julia might have suspected that he’d followed her here. That he hadn’t respected her wishes at all. That he was continuing to pursue her despite the objections she’d voiced to his suit.
But no. The sight of her had set him back on his heels.
He recovered quickly. “Miss Wychwood.”
“Captain Blunt.” She stared at him for a long moment, her heart thumping with an odd mixture of anxiety and excitement.
The clerk gave a discreet cough. “That will be one pound six, miss.”
“What?” She turned back to him, flustered. “Oh yes. I beg your pardon.” She pushed a one pound coin and six shillings across the counter to him.
“Shall I wrap them, miss?” he asked.
“Please.”
Captain Blunt approached the counter. His gaze dropped to her stack of books. A strange stillness came over him.
“Yes, I know,” she said. “They’re for me and my friends. We’ve enjoyed Mrs. Marshland’s work before.”
“Have you.” His voice was peculiarly flat.
She sensed judgment in his words. “You sound as though you don’t approve of her.”
“On the contrary.” He leaned against the counter. He was wearing a black three-piece suit, impeccably tailored, but plain to the point of austerity. A faded gold pocket watch chain glinted at the front of his single-breasted waistcoat. “Marshland’s prose can be very affecting.”
“Then you’ve read her? And liked her?”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” he said. “But I’d be interested to know your thoughts on the novel once you’ve read it.”
“Of course. I daresay I shall finish it before this evening.”
His mouth curved. What might have been a smile in another man appeared more like a snarl because of his scar. “So quickly?”
She managed a sheepish smile in return. “I’ve never been successful at postponing my pleasures.”
“I trust it will be a pleasure.”
“I have reason to hope. The plot points the critics complained about are the elements I like best.” She paused, explaining, “The romance.”
Her words were met with silence.
Awkward silence.
She felt a rush of self-consciousness. Some gentlemen didn’t approve of romances. But Captain Blunt wasn’t one of them, surely. After speaking with him at last night’s musicale, she’d been left with the impression he had some interest in the genre.
Looking at him now, it was hard to believe it. He appeared so fierce and formidable. A gentleman impervious to finer feeling. A man with ice in his veins.
It must be nice not to feel things. Not to stammer and blush in the presence of the opposite sex. She couldn’t imagine Captain Blunt blushing over anything. He seemed invulnerable.
She wished she could say the same about herself.
Mere proximity to him was enough to set her stomach fluttering. To make her insides quiver and quake.
She had felt just the same when he’d approached her at Lady Arundell’s ball. At the time, she’d mistaken the sensation for fear.
But it wasn’t fear. She realized that now, much to her chagrin. It was something else. Something worse.
It was attraction.
Despite all she knew of him—despite the warnings of her friends, and of her own mind and conscience—her body was disposed to like the man.
More than like.
She wondered if he felt it, too; this low thrum of physical awareness. It was impossible to tell. His scarred face was wiped clean of expression.
“You must be shopping for a new book yourself,” she observed for lack of anything better to say. The stupidity of the remark struck her the instant she uttered it. “But of course you are. Why else would you be here?”
“Why indeed?”
The clerk eyed them with thinly concealed interest as he finished wrapping her books in brown paper.
Mary eyed them, too, her broad face etched with disapproval. No doubt Julia would get an earful when they returned to the carriage
“Any book in particular?” she asked.
Captain Blunt hesitated a fraction of a second before answering. “A new adventure story for my eldest boy.”
Understanding came over her. Embarrassment swiftly followed. He was talking about his child. His illegitimate child. One of the many he housed at his estate.
Julia supposed she should be offended. A gentleman wouldn’t speak of such things in the presence of a lady.