Cinderellas of Mayfair Book 1:
Clever, independent Aphrodite de Smith earns a meager living, scratching out verses to accompany boxes of bonbons that gentlemen send to ladies they’re courting. However lonely this life may be, it allows her to hide from her scandalous past. But what happens when one of those gentlemen decides that the poetess is a beauty ripe for wooing?
Forthright Yorkshire farmer Sir Hugo Brinsmead comes to London to find a bride among the beau monde. Except the woman who takes his fancy isn’t a society belle. Instead, she works at a fashionable sweet shop. Not to mention she’s as full of secrets as his broad acres are full of prize sheep.
Aphrodite might reject the handsome baronet’s proposals – for his own good! – but she can’t resist the searing desire that flares between them. When she offers Hugo a temporary affair, he agrees against his better judgment. He wants a wife, not a mistress. Yet even as their passion blazes, shadows from the past threaten their union. Can the gallant baronet convince his headstrong lady to defy the world and seize a happy ending?
Buy ebook from: Amazon US; Amazon Australia; Amazon UK; Amazon Canada; Kobo US; Kobo Australia; Apple US; Apple UK; Apple Australia; Barnes and Noble; Smashwords
Paperback coming soon!
Sweet Little Nothings, Bond Street, October 1819
Athene* laid her hands flat on her desk to conceal how they shook. She studied the man lounging in front of her and told herself that she imagined his effect on her.
Except she didn’t.
She supposed that he was handsome, but the strongest impression – the overwhelming impression – was one of unquenchable masculine vigor. She’d been writing verses for Sylvie for the last three years. In that time, she’d met most of the ton’s eligible bachelors. Not a one of them set the air crackling with energy. Not a one of them caused a heart armored against desire to skip a beat.
Her heart had moved beyond skipping a beat to performing acrobatics.
Yet this splendid male was courting spoiled, brainless, shallow Petronella Fitchett? What a travesty. What a catastrophe. What a sinful waste.
Sir Hugo was large and muscular and looked strong enough to uproot an oak tree with one hand. Athene hid a shiver of purely female awareness. She was a tall woman and very few men made her feel fragile and feminine, but she could already tell that if Sir Hugo Brinsmead enfolded her in those brawny arms, she’d feel safe from any threat.
As if that would ever happen!
Athene reminded herself that she wasn’t here to find a beau. She was here to earn a living. She forced herself to meet eyes as blue as a summer sky in a face that belonged to a knight of old. Granite jaw. Straight, imperious nose. Noble brow. “Have you thought what you’d like to say, Sir Hugo?”
“Don’t you look after that?” He observed her from under a thatch of guinea-gold hair as if he’d never seen such a creature before. If his taste ran to voluptuous blondes, she supposed that he must wonder at Athene’s plainness. Even if her income permitted her to aspire to fashion, her Friday face would never let her achieve it. She was the sort of woman men called handsome if they were feeling generous, and formidable if they weren’t.
Since she’d been left to make her way alone in a hostile world, her imposing looks had served her well. No point now in wishing that she were as coy and kittenish as the current reigning beauty.
Even if men felt the urge to flirt – and most didn’t – one of her fearsome scowls almost always put them in their place.
“I’ll take care of the wording, but I need to know what message you’d like to convey. Admiration? Interest? A proposal?” Although the idea of this superlative specimen tying himself to featherbrained Petronella for life made Athene want to punch her fist through a window.
His lips twitched. “A proposal is a little premature. I only met her three nights ago when we danced together at Lady Plunkett’s.”
She didn’t take too much comfort from his answer. He said a proposal was premature, not out of the question. Anyway, what did it matter? As if such a man as this would even consider marrying a plain long Meg past first youth who worked for her living.
If Athene had been wise instead of headstrong, she’d be invited to balls where dashing young bucks like Sir Hugo Brinsmead paid court to society belles. Then she reminded herself that even at her best, she’d never hold a candle to an acclaimed beauty like Petronella Fitchett. “Admiration then?”
“Yes.”
She pulled a sheet of paper from the drawer and picked up her pen. “So?”
He watched her with an interest that she urged herself not to misunderstand. After all, he was here to order a verse in praise of another woman. He wasn’t concerned with Athene Colton-Heath. Or even exotic Aphrodite de Smith. A name he clearly doubted was real. “So?”
Athene strove to keep a note of impatience out of her voice. Not every scion of the ruling class was gifted with either intelligence or eloquence. If they were, she’d be out of a job.
But the strange thing was that despite his mostly monosyllabic replies, she wouldn’t have said that Sir Hugo was particularly thick. Those blue eyes didn’t seem to miss much.
***
What did Hugo admire most about Lady Petronella? Her bosom?
He might disparage the lady’s conversation, but he hadn’t missed how she’d filled out her white satin bodice. He’d immediately noticed that Miss de Smith was built on less overflowing lines. Although he suspected that austere gown did no justice to the poetess’s charms. He was already sure that he’d have plenty to keep him entertained, should he ever be fortunate enough to undo the daunting row of jet buttons descending from the high collar.
“Sir Hugo?” Miss de Smith prompted.
God help him, he’d drifted into a delightful daydream about unbuckling the lady poet’s armor and discovering what lay beneath. She dressed to downplay her attractions. Given that she dealt with men all day, he supposed that she needed to look like a dragon to discourage unwanted advances.
“She’s…pretty?” he said and wanted to kick himself. He couldn’t blame Miss de Smith for looking less than impressed.
“Pretty,” she said with a tinge of flatness. “That doesn’t give me much to work on.”
“I’m sure other chaps have said the same.” Because Petronella Fitchett was pretty, if as it proved, completely forgettable.
“Yes, they have.”
“Pretty Petronella has a ring to it.”
“If you say so.”
“I gather you have an opinion on this,” he said.
“I have no right to an opinion.” Even when Miss de Smith firmed that luscious mouth, he still thought of kisses. “You’re paying me five shillings for four lines of verse to make your mark with a lady you fancy.”
“I’ll give you a guinea if you speak frankly.”
She straightened in her wooden chair. Which was a surprise as he’d have said that she was already sitting as straight as humanly possible. “You’ve come to the most fashionable confectioners in London and you’re commissioning a verse to flatter your lady love. I assume you’ve noticed more about her than that she’s pretty.”
The truth was that he hadn’t. And Petronella wasn’t his lady love or ever likely to be. He supposed he could tell Miss de Smith that he was only here because Ivor Bilson had insisted it was the thing to do, not because of any particular yen to court the diamond.
He owed old Ivor a case of good claret.
Hugo’s hands curled around the brim of his hat and he battled an unaccustomed nervousness. He’d had his share of flirtations with ladies in York and Harrogate. His looks and manner found favor with the fair sex. But an approach to a lady had never mattered before – not at a visceral level. Making an overture to Miss de Smith felt like seizing his destiny. “Perhaps I could offer you dinner so we can work out just what to say.”
The expressive dark eyes went as cold as ice. If he’d thought her manner cool before, he’d had no idea how frosty she could become. “That won’t be possible, I’m afraid.”
He suppressed a shiver. “You never fraternize with the clients?”
“Never.”
Hugo should take the hint. The most compelling woman he’d ever met was out of bounds. Or not interested. Or perhaps already taken.
But how could a red-blooded Yorkshireman ignore the charge in the air between them? He didn’t imagine that. And a woman in her situation needed to be careful.
He ventured a smile. “I mean to take you somewhere public. My intentions are respectable.”
At least for their first meeting.
The frost didn’t melt. “As you can imagine, I need to maintain an unsullied reputation. My work requires me to be both discreet and untainted by scandal. If I start meeting clients outside the shop, I’ll lose my name for being trustworthy.” She paused. “In fact, I’ll lose my good name altogether.”
He spread his hands in an appealing gesture. “But how am I to get to know you?”
Something that looked like fear flashed in her eyes. As if he’d threatened her, when that was the last thing he intended. “You don’t. This is a purely commercial transaction. Anyway, aren’t you wooing Lady Petronella?”
He bit back a denial. In part because he worried about looking like a liar. Also because if Miss de Smith refused to see him outside Sweet Little Nothings, his only choice was to see her here. That meant purchasing more verses. He intended to win this prickly, intriguing creature in increments of five shillings.
“Of course,” he said smoothly and watched the polite mask descend again. But it was too late for her to hide from him. For a second there, her expression had betrayed genuine terror.
She might state her resolution to remain a stranger, but so far this conversation had proven remarkably enlightening. The lady had secrets. The ridiculous alias proved that, if nothing else. She’d also learned to withhold her trust.
He couldn’t blame her. She didn’t know him from Adam. But she would come to trust him, or his name wasn’t Hugo Brinsmead.
She straightened the pen and adopted a businesslike attitude that would be more convincing if she hadn’t lost her composure a moment ago. “What would you like me to say?”
That you are as meshed in this attraction as I am. “What have you said before?”
“That she’s pretty.” He could see that Miss de Smith didn’t mean to help him. Or perhaps this was part of the discretion that she prided herself on.
“There’s a start. Just do what you always do. I’m sure it will be grand.”
“You don’t want to stand out as special?”
Not for Petronella Fitchett. “Let me see what you come up with.”
“So you expect to wait here to read it?” The resentment in her voice made him want to laugh. He wasn’t impressing her as a passionate suitor, which was hilarious when right now he felt as passionate as he could remember.
“Of course.” He intended to spend every second that he could with his mysterious poetess.
“If that’s the case, I’d rather you waited outside. Have you chosen your bonbons yet?”
“No, but I’m sure Madame Lebeau is familiar with what Lady Petronella likes. That’s a few seconds’ work.”
“I become self-conscious if people watch me compose.”
Rather, she’d like to get rid of him, he thought. Good luck with that. “I’m a big lad. I’m sure Madame Lebeau doesn’t want me cluttering up her shop. Sweet Little Nothings is both sweet and little, after all.”
That miracle of a mouth pursed. The urge to lunge across the desk and snatch her into his embrace became nigh irresistible. His grip on his hat tightened, as he fought his unruly impulses. The memory of her quickly concealed fear was too fresh for him to risk frightening her again.
“You’re very demanding, Sir Hugo,” she said in a dark tone. “I’m not sure I can meet your requirements.”
He struggled not to dwell on his requirements. “It would be a pity for Madame Lebeau to miss out on acquiring a regular client, just because you don’t feel you can write me a suitable verse.”
The eyes were back to flashing. He liked that. Her vulnerability had tangled his gut into knots. “I can write a verse standing on my head.”
He laughed, partly because he was just so damned delighted to discover that a woman like this one existed in London. So far, none of the ladies he’d seen had struck him as suitable brides for a Yorkshireman. They were compliant and they were decorative and they were all frightfully well-bred. And every single one of them would melt away like sugar in the rain if transplanted to the rocky, windy wilderness of Hampden Crags.
Hugo didn’t need a dear little poppet to share his life. He needed a strong woman who could meet him as an equal, a woman with a soul as indestructible as the granite tors on his estate.
Praise be, he might have found that woman.
Writing poetry in a bonbon shop, of all places, of all things. Fate had a sense of humor.
Miss de Smith wasn’t yet ready to hear any of this, so he kept his tone urbane. “No need for you to break out the circus tricks. You can do your writing on the desk like a Christian.”
She didn’t smile. Right now he could tell that she didn’t like him much. But that would change. He’d make sure it did.
“You’ll be bored.” She cast him a rankling look. “Watching someone scribble isn’t a spectator sport.”
His careless smile made her eyes narrow. The smile was a lie. He’d never cared more in his life.
With a casual air that was also totally manufactured, he lolled back in his chair. Bored? Not bloody likely. His veins buzzed with life. “Wake me up if I go to sleep.”
*Athene is Aphrodite de Smith’s real name.