Page 17 of Wicked with Him

Fletcher let her go without another word and Amity let out a soft sigh of relief. Not having a husband underfoot, even a pretend one, was proving more of a problem than she’d anticipated it could be.

As a married woman who’d abandoned her husband after a terrible fight, she was somewhat scandalous, though she made sure to never let the proprieties lapse around any man. Unfortunately, she now seemed to have become a target for many gentlemen hoping to enliven their quiet lives with a clandestine affair. Amity rebuffed them all, but at least Mr. Fletcher might have honorable intentions toward her. She couldn’t imagine his mother would allow him not to. He was quite under her thumb, in her opinion.

From the gossipy baker, she bought fresh bread; the barrel-sized butcher sold her a large joint of smoked ham to make into broth or soup; and from the flower seller, a posy of violets to put on her neighbors’ sickroom side tables. She moved past the sweet maker but paused at the stall of a bookseller. The Misses Beamish were bored with their illness, and she’d promised them a new story if she could find an affordable volume.

The old man’s eyes lit up with recognition and not a little hope. “Can I help you, madam?”

“Perhaps.”

She perused his collection, noting many of the same books he’d had on display last time remained on sale again. But she spied a book of poetry she’d admired before and purchased it, mostly to give him at least one sale today. The locals were not much for reading but the Misses Beamish liked to listen to her read aloud to them often. This small book of poetry would be perfect for many occasions.

She thanked the bookseller, told him she hoped to see him again next time, and turned away, only to run into a broad, manly chest clad in rich blue velvet.

The man mumbled an immediate apology—and she looked up into Roman Crawford’s laughing eyes.

“Roman!”

He stepped back and offered an elegant bow. “Miss Sweet.”

“Shh,” she hissed, praying no one had heard him speak her real name. She lived here under an assumed one, mostly for the fun of it but also to throw her brother off her scent, should he ever stir himself from London to look for her here. She’d wanted to cut all ties with her family, even with Fairbridge, who’d generously offered her the cottage to live in with no strings attached. “Mrs. Jane Standish.”

Crawford’s brows drew together. “Who the hell is that?”

“Me. Now.”

He rolled his eyes. “Of all the ridiculous choices you might have made. You are most definitely not a plain Jane.”

“Keep your voice down!” Face heating a little, she hastened to move away from the bookseller, who’d started watching them too closely for her taste. The trouble with being a stranger in a small town was that everyone wanted to know everyone’s business, especially hers.

Crawford hurried to catch up with her. “Where are you going?”

“I was intent on enjoying market day until you arrived. That is what village women do on days like these, you know.”

“Ah,” he said slowly, then surprisingly offered to carry her basket for her.

Amity handed it over, planning to make good use of the scoundrel by purchasing more than she could reasonably carry by herself in one outing. Since coming here, she’d been very frugal with her funds. Fairbridge had added a generous sum of money to her traveling trunk before she’d left London but had sent no more, although he’d promised to continue funding her living, provided she cause no further trouble for the family.

At the time, she’d easily accepted his terms, and the cottage to live in, because her brother had been a beast she feared going back to. So, she’d lived here anonymously for the last weeks, striving to make a home and new friends, using an assumed name and invented past while making sure every penny spent was on necessities only.

Books were surely a necessity for living happily anywhere.

That might all unravel too easily, now that Crawford had come. Had he reconsidered the appeal of her dowry? Had he told Fairbridge he was the one to ruin her and been sent here to fetch her back and marry her?

Amity increased the distance between herself and Crawford, glancing discreetly about them to see who was near enough to listen in. “What brings you to this part of the countryside, sir?”

His brow rose. “Concern.”

“Concern? For whom?”

Crawford smiled tightly and looked around them, too. “For you, of course. You disappeared without a trace.”

“Not well enough, it seems, if you found me so easily,” she muttered under her breath.

He shrugged. “It’s been weeks. It took time, and a great deal of ale poured down your cousin’s throat.”

“Which cousin?”

“Stratford first, and the others to a lesser extent later.”