Second Chance Cinderella. Carla Capshaw

Sir Percival was bowing and scraping around him you’d know you needn’t fret.” He tucked the handkerchief in his coat pocket and cupped her shoulders. The threadbare gloves she’d darned for him too many times to count did little to protect his callused hands from the late-autumn chill.

      A gust of wind tugged at the brim of Rose’s worn brown cap, exposing her golden-blond hair. Having grown up as orphans, neither of them was used to the fineries of life, but if he had his way, it wouldn’t be long before she was turned out in the softest linen and richest silks. She deserved jewels and servants to see to her every whim. He was bound and determined to give them to her.

      “I’ll be back from London within a month...afore the trees are bare. I’ll save every ha’penny and the minute I come back we’ll get married just as we always said we would.”

      A ray of sunlight pierced the gloomy morning. A tremulous smile turned her soft, pink lips. “I like the sound of that. It’s about time I brought you up to scratch.”

      “And here I was thinking I’d finally be making an honest woman of you.” He grinned. “Jus’ proves how much we need each other.”

      Her faint smile faltered. “I can’t help feeling something bad is bound to happen.”

      “Worrywart.” He tweaked her chin and laughed, despite the tightness banding his chest. How he dreaded leaving her when she was so afraid. They’d never been parted more than a day or two, but there was no help for it if they were ever to be more than a pair of bootlickers. “I’m going to town, not to war, sweetheart. Besides, even if I turned up my toes—”

      “Don’t say that!” She leaned back in the circle of his arms, her stricken gaze pinned to his face. “I couldn’t bear it if you were taken from me forever.”

      “You could never be rid of me for good. We’re a pair, you and me—the sand and surf, the moon and stars—”

      “A goose and ’er gander?”

      “Exactly.” He chuckled, relieved to see her smile. His thumb brushed tenderly across her wind-reddened cheek. He pulled her back against his chest, pleased by her wish for him to stay. His mother, whoever she was, had discarded him on the steps of the orphans’ asylum and no one else had ever cared a whit about him, except Rosie. “You have to know you’re all that matters to me. All I’ll ever care about.”

      She sniffed against the rough wool of his shirtfront. “You say that now, but you might meet someone, a pretty London miss who—”

      “Silly girl.” He squeezed her, snorting at such nonsense. She was as irreplaceable to him as his own heart. He’d been a lad of three the first time he saw her, a red-faced infant who’d been dumped on the orphanage doorstep. Even then he’d known she’d be important to him. In the sixteen years since, they’d become inseparable. She was everything to him, the reason he breathed and dreamed.

      He nuzzled her ear. Squeezing his eyes shut, he missed her already. “I love you,” he said gruffly.

      Her arms tightened around his waist. “You know I love you, too. More than anything.”

      A few feet away, the coach’s door swung open. The forbidding presence of Ezra Stark remained out of sight inside the magnificent conveyance, but there was no mistaking his tone. “It’s time, Blackstone. Or have you reconsidered my offer?”

      Sam stared at the tufted, burgundy velvet lining the door. The luxurious fabric probably cost more coin than he managed to scrape together in a year. How grand it would be to be like Ezra Stark who, according to the lads down at the pub, had more wealth than he could spend in ten lifetimes.

      The shadowed figure moved within the coach. “The day is wasting, man. Make your choice.”

      Now that the moment of reckoning had arrived, Sam wondered if he was making the biggest mistake of his life to leave all that he knew and everything he held dear. His hand still clasped in Rose’s tight grip, he took a step forward then stopped. His gaze darted back to Rose. Her chin quivered.

      If she asks me to stay once more, I won’t go. I won’t rest till I find a position in service somewhere and—

      “I sketched this for you.” She reached into her dress pocket, extracted a small roll of paper and handed it to him. “Don’t look at it until you’re gone. Promise you’ll come to fetch me as soon as you can, Sam. I know you want to find us a proper place to live, but I don’t need anything grand. I only need you.”

      An ache swelling in his chest, he ignored Ezra Stark’s silent demand for him to hasten and accepted the gift. He leaned forward and kissed Rose’s cold lips, committing their softness and her warm response to memory. “You have my word as long as you promise you’ll wait for me.”

      “Now who’s being a silly gander?” She pasted on a brave smile. The rain began to fall, helping to disguise her tears, but he wasn’t fooled. Pulling her crocheted shawl tighter around her shoulders, she hugged her small waist. Deep-blue eyes watched him with equal parts of uncertainty and trust. “Never doubt me, Sam. I’ll wait for you forever if need be,” she promised as he climbed into the coach.

      Chapter One

      London, England

      September, 1842

      It was the woman’s hair that drew Sam Blackstone’s full attention. The waterfall of gold tumbling down her narrow back from beneath a serviceable black bonnet reminded him of Rose Smith. As the blonde disappeared into the sea of pedestrians, his mood soured that same instant. The last thing he wanted or needed was a morning poisoned by memories of the past.

      Relying on the years of strict mental discipline he’d employed to rise from being a village ne’er-do-well to one of London’s most prominent stockbrokers, he forced memories of Rose’s betrayal from his mind and descended the wide front steps of his elegant Mayfair townhouse.

      In the past nine years, he’d played the game well and few challenges remained. He’d acquired more wealth than he’d ever dreamed as a young orphan in Ashby Croft. Far from going to bed with an empty stomach gnawing his ribs, sleeping in a drafty hovel and wearing itchy rags, he dined on delicacies, lived in a mansion and dressed in the finest Savile Row suits. Few rivaled his influence in financial circles. His advice on monetary matters was sought by everyone from potato farmers to Parliament members.

      His driver opened the coach’s door. Sam climbed in and sat heavily on the black, embossed leather seat, impatient to get underway.

      As he waited, his gaze slid back to the Georgian edifice he’d acquired three years earlier. The echoing monstrosity boasted every luxury and admirably performed its duty to impress, but the residence was devoid of human warmth or cheer. He much preferred to spend his waking hours at the city offices of Stark, Winters and Blackstone or overseeing the firm’s vigorous trade of commodities at the Exchange in Capel Court.

      “Beggin’ yer pardon for the delay, sir,” his driver, Gibson, said over the din of the busy street. “Oxford’s in a tangle. The fine weather’s drawn everyone out. I ’spect there’s nary a church mouse to be found indoors at present.”

      The coach finally pulled away from the curb. The pungent aroma of horseflesh and smoke carried on the air. Sam consulted his pocket watch before extracting several reports from the leather portfolio he’d brought with him. Not one to waste time when there was more wealth to be gleaned, he shuffled through the pages.

      The list of figures blurred and the brisk activity all around him faded as his mind wandered to the taunting vision of the woman with blond hair. Something about the stranger beckoned him to find her, but he remained in his seat, determined to shut her out with a stubbornness that bordered on vice. She was nothing and no one to him. True, she’d been of similar height and build as Rose. And that golden hair—such a unique color. What if, by some twist of fate, Rose had come up to London and—

      He scrubbed his hand over his eyes, dispelling the wild notion before his imagination