Lady of Shame. Ann Lethbridge

better. Had learned if he didn’t take care of himself, no one else would. Bitter experience had made it second nature.

      And yet here he was playing in the snow with a child, to please this woman.

      Whatever it was that drew him to her, it was not something he could or would do anything about.

      Tomorrow was his day off. He would go to town and be rid of his excess energy in the boxing ring. And afterwards, if he still felt the need, he would find a willing woman. Then this little brown mouse would have no more effect on him after that. None at all. He wished he believed it.

      ‘There,’ he said to Jane, forming the shoulders. ‘Scoop some grooves to make his arms and then go to the kitchen and tell Mademoiselle Becca you are to have some coal for eyes and a carrot for a nose.’ He glanced at her mother, who was smiling admiringly. ‘Perhaps one of the other servants has an old hat he would be willing to donate.’

      Mrs Holte nodded. ‘I expect we can find something.’

      ‘Then I bid you good day, madame, mademoiselle.’ His bow was jerky, as if his body wanted to refuse the instruction from his mind.

      He strode away, angry at himself for wanting more than life permitted.

      A man’s prick could land him in all sorts of trouble. He’d seen it time and again. He had no intention of losing everything he’d worked for in the hope of making a quiet woman smile.

      He groaned out loud as he felt a surge of warmth in his veins at the memory of her smile. A soft tender warmth that made no sense. The woman was of the nobility. Not for him, a servant, even if he could ever be interested. Which he could not. He knew that kind of woman and did not like them at all.

      He smiled ruefully. He had his life. His passion. He didn’t need a woman to complete him. He didn’t need anyone.

      What he needed was eggs.

      Buxton was the same thriving market town Claire remembered from her youth. It had not taken her long, after descending from the duke’s carriage, to remember her way around. Now Joe had an armful of parcels and she had depleted most of the money Mr Everett, the Castonbury steward, had given her from the duke’s strongbox.

      She’d done well with her money. A couple of ready-made gowns for her and Jane to be going on with until the seamstress came by to measure her for gowns in the lovely material she’d picked up from Ripley and Hall in Castonbury village. She’d bargained well for her items as she’d learned to do over the past years and now she was exhausted. And cold. Her toes were numb in her worn boots where the slush on the pavement had seeped in, dampening her stockings.

      Opposite her was the Bricklayer’s Arms. A coaching house boasting a coffee room, a taproom and private parlours for gentry, but it would not do for her to be seen there. Hard up against the inn was a gymnasium through whose portals men were to be seen coming and going singly and in groups.

      But there was one place she could go to warm up without embarrassment. She turned back to Joe. ‘Take those to the carriage and wait for me there. I am going into the lending library.’

      She pointed to the building opposite the market cross. She couldn’t remember the last time she had borrowed a book. Goodness, she couldn’t remember the last time she had read one.

      A bell jingled as she walked through the library door and a clerk at the counter looked up with a smile. She nodded as only the daughter of a duke could do.

      ‘Can I help you, madam?’ the clerk asked.

      ‘What do you have that is new?’

      The clerk handed her a sheet. She could have asked for every one of the titles listed. ‘Waverly, please. Oh, and these two, if you have them.’ She pointed to a couple of names she thought she knew.

      ‘Yes, madam. Right away. If you would care to wait in the reading room, there are newspapers and magazines. The girl will bring you a pot of tea while we find your items.’

      Claire had left Jane with one of the parlour maids, who Mrs Stratton had said was to be trusted. The girl had younger siblings and the family was known to the housekeeper. While Claire didn’t like leaving Jane for too long, a hot cup of tea would warm her inside and out before the cold journey home.

      Claire sat down and picked up a copy of La Belle Assemblée on the side table.

      ‘Tea or coffee, madam?’ a young woman asked.

      ‘Tea please.’

      ‘And a cream cake?’

      Claire raised her eyebrows.

      ‘Many of our customers come from far afield,’ the girl explained. ‘So we provide refreshments.’

      What a good idea. ‘Yes,’ she said in a rush. ‘I will have one of your cream cakes, if you please.’

      The clerk nodded and moved away.

      It must be the Castonbury chef’s cooking making her feel hungry all the time. There had been an excuse for her devouring her dinner last night; first it was delicious and secondly she’d spent a good deal of the day outside with Jane. And the exercise seemed to have helped with her appetite at breakfast this morning too. Along with the pleasurable thought of shopping, no doubt. But cream cakes? Wasn’t she being just a little greedy?

      She looked around to call the girl back, but she was nowhere to be seen and a gentleman sitting on a sofa on the other side of the room caught her eye.

      Blushing, she quickly turned away, staring out of the window to collect her composure, barely noticing the people passing by. Perhaps coming in here hadn’t been such a good idea, after all. She certainly didn’t want to cause any kind of a scandal, not now when there was every chance that she was to be accepted back into the family.

      Perhaps she should leave.

      A man walking along the street outside glanced in. He stopped and raised his hat.

      Monsieur André. Oh, bother, what was he doing in Buxton, and looking positively elegant in his dark overcoat and beaver hat?

      She nodded slightly and he moved on, but the bell tinkling above the doorway and a quick glance confirmed her worst fears. The chef had entered and was making straight for her table.

      She gripped her hands together. It would be stupid to flee without her tea. And terribly rude. But surely the man understood they could not be friends. He had been charming with Jane yesterday out in the snow. The child had obviously adored the attention, but it just couldn’t be something they allowed beyond that very casual meeting.

      Oh. He wasn’t trying to join her. He had taken a table near the window and had opened a newspaper he must have picked up on his way in. He didn’t even try to catch her eye.

      Disappointment made her feel hollow. She ought to be disappointed. In herself. Apparently she still had the impulsive streak that had sent her galloping off into the night with George. She must quell it or everything she’d sought by coming here would be ruined.

      She stared blindly out into the street, trying to pretend she hadn’t even noticed he was there, despite her racing heart and dry mouth. What was it about the man that made her so nervous?

      She knew. Of course she did. It was the little thrills that raced through her body when his hand accidentally touched her skin. Like in the kitchen, and again making the snowman. Just thinking about it made her insides flutter and clench. Could she be more wanton?

      It was the loneliness these past few years, the lack of any warmth in her marriage, making her want things she had once glimpsed with her husband, until he discovered she was not the path to gold and fortune.

      The waitress arrived with a tray of tea and a cake on a small plate. It was a flaky confection decorated with white icing. It looked delicious, but there was no way Claire could eat a bit of it, not now.

      She poured the tea and took a sip. It was hot. Too hot. She risked scalding her tongue if she tried drinking