Page 25 of To Wager with Love

Minerva wished she had that kind of strength of character. She had always feared she was shallow, and rather silly, and had always known that she wasn’t terribly clever, not like her cousin Prue, who was a writer. That had rankled so much that she’d been quite foul to Prue, who’d always made her feel such a ninny, but only because Minerva feared she was right. Happily, they were close now, all such misunderstandings quite forgotten. Prue had even asked her husband, the duke, to give Minerva a handsome dowry and an allowance for both herself and her mother, such generosity that Minerva could never repay.

Before, she’d only had her looks to rely on, as she’d never been witty or popular, but at least now she had that to help things along. It was actually rather depressing, wondering if some chap would marry her for her money if nothing else, but… oh, well, her looks would fade one day, and she didn’t want to live as her mother had for so long, scrimping and saving and worrying about bills. Her mother appeared blithely unconcerned by bills, but… one could never know if that was the entire truth. Minerva knew how to act, how to smile and laugh, and pretend one was having a jolly time when in truth you were tired, wretched, and wanted to go home.

She turned her attention back to Ruth and Bonnie and smiled. It was so lovely to have friends. Prue had done her the greatest kindness of all by inviting her to join the Peculiar Ladies, and Minerva felt a little rush of happiness as she watched Ruth and Bonnie laughing over Ruth’s appalling aunt.

“I think we deserve a treat for withstanding such a dreadful ordeal,” Bonnie said, looking out of the window as they passed through the smart and fashionable town of Tunbridge Wells.

“What did you have in mind?” Ruth replied, her eyes lighting up.

“Cream cakes,” Bonnie and Minerva said in unison, Minerva knowing Bonnie well enough by now to know that was her idea of heaven.

Ruth laughed and gave a decisive nod. “Cream cakes it is, then.”

***

After putting away a delicious and self-indulgent amount of tea and cakes, they pottered about the lovely shops on The Walks. Ruth bought a new bonnet, trimmed with fake cherries, which Minerva had tried tactfully to talk her out of as she thought it rather vulgar. Bonnie had been gazing so longingly at a length of dark blue ribbon that she could not afford but which Minerva, flush with her new allowance, had happily bought for her. There had been nothing that caught Minerva’s eye, which struck her as odd as, previously, when she’d had very little spending money, there were always a dozen things at once that she’d longed for.

“Oh, a book shop,” she exclaimed, tugging Bonnie by the hand.

“I never took you for a reader, Minerva,” Bonnie said in surprise, hurrying behind her.

“Oh, I’m not,” she said cheerfully. “I’m asleep after a couple of pages, but Prue adores books, and I’d like to get her a present.”

“A lovely idea,” Ruth agreed, as the three of them gathered to look in the shop window.

“Oh, look at that one. What lovely illustrations,” Minerva said, pointing at a small book in the window, propped open to show the colourful pictures inside.

“A poetry book, I think,” Ruth said, peering for a closer look. “Oh, drat. Look, that fellow is asking to look at it too. Come along, let’s go in.”

The three ladies hurried inside, just as the shopkeeper put the book into the fellow’s hand.

“Oh, well,” Minerva said. “I’m sure there’s something else just as lovely. She turned quickly and walked straight into another customer who was balancing an uneven stack of books in his arms. He was a small, dusty looking man with the appearance of a scholar. Perhaps it was the books.

“Bloody hell,” the fellow exclaimed, loud and irritated as the books in question tumbled to the floor, a rather large encyclopaedic looking volume hitting him square on the toe. “Damnation. You silly chit, don’t you ever look where you are going?”

Minerva felt her face flame and gasped in shock, the sound echoed by Ruth and Bonnie behind her, all three of them too stunned to respond for a moment.

“That’s enough,” came a sharp voice from behind Minerva. “I saw what happened, and it was quite accidental. You’ve no business carrying so many books if you’ve not the wit to balance them properly, and certainly no business abusing this young lady.”

Minerva turned and looked up… and up, at her defender. Her heart fluttered. Good heavens. She stared, astonished, not so much surprised at the rapid beating of her heart—which had never acted in such a peculiar fashion before—but by the cause of it.

He was as far from her vision of a romantic hero as she could imagine. Immensely tall and a little too lean with a sharp profile, he was certainly not handsome, until perhaps you got to his eyes. Those eyes were a deep slate grey with odd patches of green and utterly compelling. Minerva thought he was likely in his mid-thirties, an age she had previously considered ancient, but there was such vitality burning from this man that she shelved the notion at once. His coat was a little baggy, making her suspect he’d recently lost weight, and he needed a haircut.

Her heart did the odd little fluttering thing again.

How very strange.

Forcing her eyes away from the stranger lest she be seen to be staring, she turned back to the man who had abused her to discover he had turned a startling shade of white. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. Her saviour had a rather forbidding aspect that would give any man pause.

“Forgive me, M-Mr de Beauvoir,” the fellow stammered, looking up at the tall man with an almost deifying reverence. “I… I had no idea that… that…. Sir, please may I say how very much I admire and—”

“No, you may not. Go away.”

Mr de Beauvoir made an impatient shooing gesture and the fellow flushed, mortified, before gathering up his tumbled books and hurrying away.

“Sycophantic fool,” de Beauvoir muttered, irritated, before turning back to Minerva. “I’m sorry for any upset he may have caused you, miss.”

“Oh, Miss Butler,” Minerva said at once, though he’d not actually been soliciting her name. “And there’s not the slightest need for you to apologise. I thought you were rather wonderful.”