Chapter 11

The carriage rumbled away, and its occupant didn't even glance at the house, the window, the woman standing in it, peeking out. Just the same as all five mornings since Mr. Kingston had begun to bring Alex for lessons with the girls. The carriage arrived, Alex jumped down, ran inside and up the stairs—excited for company even if said company happened to be girls—and the carriage rolled off again.

And Andromeda stood at the window, feeling more… bereft than she had any right to feel. Her foot tapped as the carriage disappeared around a corner. Five days since Mr. Kingston had loaned her Pride and Prejudice, and he'd not checked on her once, not once to see how she liked it, if she'd even flipped past the title page. Surely her brother's courtship guide did not list neglect as a winning wooing strategy. But hadn't Kingston said it promoted distance? Perhaps that was his current strategy.

Distance.

Hmph.

She swept away from the window and stomped down the hall to her mother's parlor. Why did she care? She did not wish to be courted. She did not wish to be kissed. And she had a letter to write. Lord Bashton had never replied to the last one. It had been almost a month, too, and he had always been quite punctual in the past. She'd barely noticed, frankly, that he'd not replied, too busy avoiding a certain newspaperman and falling into a black hole of nothing opened up by Lottie's desertion of their mother's enterprise, their enterprise. Not Lottie's much longer. And who was this Lady Aphrodite the women at their last tea had discussed. They'd seemed enthralled by her, as if she could easily take the place of their mother's books.

She pushed into the parlor on a wave of disdain. Yes, disdain. Not panic at all. Paper and ink and quill sat nicely on her writing desk, and she sat with a huff to compose an epistle to her fake suitor. The fake one just as neglectful as the real one.

Was she that easy to forget?

Yes, she'd spent the last four years attempting to disappear, to go unnoticed. A necessity that allowed her to live as she pleased, do as she pleased.

But… when she'd begun the scheme, she'd wanted to disappear, to fade away to nothing so her grief would too and because her future had seemed an empty, black void without her mother.

Her eyes welled heavy with tears, and she closed them tight, snapping the quill to the desktop before she could even fix it for use. Where had she put that book? In the two days it had taken her to read it, her woes had disappeared instead of herself. She'd laughed and worried and flew through each page.

A candle to light up a room? Indeed. And she needed another. Were there others? Her years spent reading nothing but what her mother had already possessed now seemed a waste. So did every minute spent not knowing what Mr. Kingston's favorite parts were, what bits of it made him laugh. Had he been deceived by Mr. Wickham as she had been? Likely not. One bounder recognized another.

In a haze, she stood, donned her linen spencer, and called for a carriage.

Unfair to call Mr. Kingston a bounder. More accurate to call him confident. To the point of overbearing at times. And he possessed great determination. But then so did she.

"Fleet Street," she told the driver as a footman helped her into the waiting conveyance.

The driver scowled (her footman did too) but then tipped his hat and snapped the reins. Samuel would hear about this little excursion, no doubt.

A quarter hour later, she disembarked and stood at the bottom of what she'd heard Tristan call the street of ink. Looked rather non-inky, but she understood a metaphor when she saw one. Heard one? No matter. Both sides of the street were lined with printshops and newspapers, and men and boys bustled about as if their actions, their tasks, were of some consequence to the nation. The article from The Daily Current about climbing boys flashed in her memory. Perhaps they were of consequence. Great consequence.

"My lady." Her footman, Johnny, stood scowling a step behind her. She could not see the scowl, but she certainly heard it. "You should not be here."

"Nonsense. If we can find my suitor, we'll be perfectly safe. Mr. Kingston would never let a hair on my head come to danger." He was just that sort of gentleman. Arrogant, yes, but protective of what he considered his. But did he still feel proprietary over her? His sudden distance suggested he did not. Their kiss had finally scared him away when nothing else had.

Something like worry twisted her hands in her skirts. No, not quite worry. The pain of disappointment. Ridiculous.

The footman, a young, strapping fellow named Johnny Samuel assigned to follow them about, sniffed.

She sniffed right back. "Let's find out which shop is his. I'll just ask—"

"I'll ask," Johnny said, stepping abruptly to the side, right in front of a passerby.

"What in hell, man?" The passerby, a man with a rather large fluffy mustache of steel gray, rocked back several paces, huffing.

"I'm searching for Mr. Kingston."

"Don't know ‘im. Now let me pass." He pushed past Johnny and barreled down the street.

It took five more times before Johnny located Mr. Kingston's shop. One of them. Hopefully the one they needed. The man who had provided the information seemed confident he'd be there.

"The paper's floundering, and King's trying to put it to rights," the man said. "Just down the block. A fine bookshop up front, but he'll likely be in the back with the machines."

"Thank you," Johnny mumbled.

But she barely heard it because she was already on her way, dodging those strolling in the opposite direction, her eye on the shop fronts. There—just ahead. A small but lively bookshop. She pushed through and lost her breath a bit. Gleaming woods and soft upholsteries, displays for magazines and hanging papers for the taking. Rows and rows of books as well. Didn't he only dabble in newspapers? Apparently not. If the man from the street could be trusted, he owned this bookshop, too. She bit her bottom lip from squealing. It was, in a word, lovely. Terribly so. It made her want to cry.

"There you are, my lady!" Johnny appeared in the shop door, his hair standing straight up and his brows arching angrily toward one another. "Don't run off like that."

"Apologies, Johnny. I could not contain my curiosity. Now… where is Mr. Kingston?"

A woman nearby startled and ambled over to Andromeda with the sort of wide, welcome grin employed best by those intent on selling their wares. "You're looking for Mr. Kingston?"

"Yes. I'm his… friend." A safe word, a mundane one, for feelings that had begun to feel quite dangerous.

Her smile slipped a bit. "He's in the back and quite busy today. Who shall I tell him called?"

Hm. She wanted to surprise him. Didn't want him to run. He didn't seem the sort to run, but … "No, thank you. I'll return later." She would not. She'd see him now. She had to. For the book. To know what he thought. Absolutely not because of their last kiss. Not because her body reacted to the mere memory of it—heart racing, palms sweating, fingers itching to find that man and see if… She turned in the shop doorway. "Excuse me."

The woman looked up from some task.

"Was he wearing gloves? When you last saw him? Mr. Kingston."

The woman's face twisted into pure confusion.

"No, never mind. I'll find out for myself. Thank you for all your help. Come along, Johnny." She swept through the door and once more found herself on the street of ink.

"Home then, my lady?" the footman asked.

"Absolutely not. To the back of the shop. Quick. I saw an alley just"—she peeked around the side of the building—"ah, here we are." The space between the two tall buildings was cooler from the shadows but also slightly more odiferous. She wrinkled her nose but strode ahead.

"Your brother will not like this." Johnny followed closely behind. "And if you really are letting Mr. Kingston court you, and Molly says you're not, I'll have you know, then he likely won't like this either. He seems to be the overbearingly protective sort. Molly called him possessive, but it's one and the same, isn't it?"

Some might be shocked to have servants talk to them with such forthrightness. Andromeda welcomed it. It created trust, and those who trusted you kept your secrets. "Gossiping with my lady's maid, Johnny? I hope my life provides some amusement for you."

"Not usually, my lady, but lately—" He whistled.

She kept walking until she reached the back of the alley, then she peeked around the side. Loud voices echoed down the street, and she followed them as if drawn forward against her will by some enchantment.

Two doors, large as barn doors, were open, and two voices rose from them.

"I'm not saying we don't need new machines." Kingston's voice, and it sent shivers through her.

"Then what are you saying?" A flat American accent.

"That the Stanhope will do good enough for our purposes," Kingston declared.

"Bah. It's old and outdated."

Kingston scoffed.

Andromeda crept closer so she could see the verbal combatants. Kingston stood in a circle of men, his gloves, cravat, and waistcoat gone, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair dropping that rakish lock above his brow, and his swagger in full possession of Andromeda's entire awareness.

Hell and chaos. If he wished to, if Andromeda wanted him to, he could not just win her, but own her. The type of man she'd never have dreamed of attracting in her girlhood days. The only man she dreamed of attracting now.

Attracting?

She had not come here for attracting. She'd come for literary conversation.

"And there's a better, newer option," the other man said. He looked wild and familiar. One of Samuel's cronies with a ragged beard and too-long hair, a sharp nose and even sharper gaze.

"You mean an American option." Kingston rolled his eyes.

"If we're going to get new printers"—the bearded American sounded frustrated now—"we might as well get the best."

"Best my hairy arse." Kingston grit the words between white teeth that gleamed even from a distance. He'd scraped those teeth across her skin during their last kiss, and she lifted a hand to touch the ghost of that gesture. "It's garish. And it's expensive, and it's heavy, and there's no need for it. I don't wish to form a headache from its obscene opulence every time I step on the floor."

"Then don't step on the floor," the American said. Really… what was his name? "You have an office just up there, tucked away from any unwanted opulence." He waved to a door at the top of a tall set of stairs hugging one wall.

"And who is going to bring this newspaper back up to snuff?" Kingston asked, arms opening wide.

"Me. And all these men we hired."

Kingston laughed. "Them obviously, but you?"

The men surrounding them laughed, too, knocking each other's ribs with their elbows.

One man nearby whispered, "If they come to blows, my money's on Mr. Bailey."

"Naw," the man he spoke to said, "Kingston may look a proper gent most days, but those are the types who trick you into letting down your guard. My money's on King."

Hers was, too.

"I may be a bastard," the man they called King said, "but I know business better than you."

"And I know print shops better than you," the American, Mr. Bailey, apparently, replied.

Andromeda should probably leave. The woman in the shop had been right. Kingston, clearly, was quite busy. But she did not want to. First, she still did not possess his thoughts about the novel he'd leant her, and second… he proved a delicious sight, and she found herself starving. The cords of muscle in his neck tightened, the shadow of scruff across his jaw making her wonder about the texture of it beneath her fingertips. She'd not been brave enough to touch his skin during their kiss, had kept her clutching to his cravat and hair. So terribly silky…

"Ma'am, are you in need of anything?"

"Pardon?" She jumped a bit and wiped a drop of drool from the corner of her mouth. "Oh, my. You startled me."

"You lost?" the man who would put money on King—ahem, Kingston—said.

"No. I'm right where I am, which is where I intend to be."

He looked as if he doubted her need to be here very much.

"Andromeda?" Kingston pushed through the crowd. "It is you. What are you doing here?" He stopped before her, those corded forearms so close she could touch them, feel the crisp hair beneath her fingertips, the warm skin, the hard muscle.

Hell, she'd start drooling again. She swallowed hard and offered a bright smile. "I've come to tell you I've read your book, and you must discuss it with me." Blast, but that sounded like a terribly weak excuse to seek him out now that she said it out loud.

"You've come alone?" If language could be lava—dangerous and scorching—that sentence in that growling, gruff voice achieved it.

"Not at all. I've brought a footman with me." She cast an arm behind her to beckon him forward only to find him already right there. "Apologies, Johnny."

He wore a placid expression, impossible to read, but something of a warning appeared around the edges as he met and kept Kingston's gaze.

Kingston didn't shy away from the warning. He met it straight on. Hell and chaos, were they to stand there all day, looking daggers into one another's eyes? But then Johnny nodded, a minute concession, and stepped away from her.

Kingston quirked a grin. "Thank you for keeping her safe, Johnny. Next time, keep her at home."

"Mr. Kingston!" Andromeda would not stomp her foot. But she certainly wished to stomp on his.

"Are you sure you're not here because of Alex?"

"No. He's doing quite well I believe. He's not tried to bribe Mr. Bainbridge or Miss Marston yet. His coloring is better. Is he behaving similarly well at home?"

"Wonderfully well, so far as I know. Makes a fellow suspicious. I've only found one naughty drawing. It fell out of his coat. Usually, his pockets rain them in every direction. Cheroots, too, like tobacco-scented lint." He narrowed his eyes. "You came all this way to ask me about a book? You could have asked me about it this evening when I collected Alex."

"Yes, I could have if you would leave your carriage. But you do not. Are you following one of Samuels' cursed rules of courtship again?"

"No. I'm merely listening to my own body."

"And it's telling you to avoid me?"

He nodded. "Lest I grab you and not let go."

The heat in the room must have tripled. Where had she put her fan? She had no fan? Why had she no fan in a summer such as this? Sweat dripped down her brow, and she pushed her dratted bonnet back. Not good enough. She tore at the ties.

"Let me." His hands beneath her chin, efficiently pushing hers away, brushing against the heated skin of her neck, swirling heat through her as if she wasn't already boiling. "You make it quite difficult to do the right thing, Andromeda."

Oh, she'd read enough books to know what that meant. The right thing always led to frustration, and right now, she wanted a release for her frustration. She wanted him to flirt as he had been doing and to have a reason to kiss him. She'd run out of reasons to do so.

Made her bottom lip tremble and each breath feel like glass—fragile and thin.

No. He called her a captain, which meant she gave the orders.

Clutching that certainty, she straightened her spine, curled her fingers beneath the bottom edge of his partially buttoned waistcoat, and tugged just enough to stumble him toward her. Surprise in his eyes, confusion, too. Wariness as well. But she licked her lips, tilted her face up, and spoke the truth she could no longer hide even from herself.

"You're right. I did not come here for a conversation about a book. I came here for a kiss."