Page 63 of The Wallflower Takes All

Gabriel adjusted his grip on the papers.

Miss Montfort recovered herself and turned to the tradesmen. “Mr. Vale, Mr. Greaves, I have not forgotten either of you.”

The taller tradesman shifted. “Begging your pardon, miss, but it has been several weeks.”

“I know.” Her voice gentled. “And I am sorry for it. Mr. Greaves, I can give you something on account today. Mr. Vale, I must ask until Friday.”

“Friday,” Mr. Vale repeated, with the dreary patience born of hearing Friday promised often and paid seldom.

“This Friday,” Miss Montfort continued. “Not Friday as a philosophical concept.”

Gabriel lowered his gaze. He was not certain whether he was hiding amusement or admiration. Perhaps both.

Miss Montfort moved to a small writing table in the corner and began sorting coins from a purse. Three piles. No, four. Household, tradesmen, servants, and what appeared to be nothing at all.

Gabriel watched her fingers hesitate over the smallest pile.

Then, with a barely perceptible tightening of her mouth, she moved one coin from that pile to the tradesman’s portion.

Something in him resisted the motion.

It was foolish. The coin was not his. The debt was not his. The household was not his affair beyond the limits of his professional duties.

Still, he saw what she had done.

She had paid someone else with money meant for herself.

Lady Viva saw none of it. She had turned to the soprano and was earnestly asking whether her health was improved by singing in Italian. Mr. Loxley had pulled himself up now that cake had been mentioned.

Freddie, having devoured a biscuit, slipped beneath the writing table and emerged with a folded glove in his mouth.

“Freddie,” Miss Montfort said without looking up.

The puppy froze.

“That is not yours.”

Freddie sat.

“You cannot keep it merely because you have sat politely.”

Freddie dropped the glove, then rested his paw upon it.

“I am sorry, but touching it does not make it yours,” Miss Montfort added.

Gabriel stepped forward, retrieved the glove, and held it out.

Miss Montfort looked up.

For a moment, her fingers brushed his. This time there was no glove between them.

A small thing. Skin to skin, no longer than a breath. It was worse than the ribbon. The ribbon had been an accident disguised as assistance. This was nothing at all—only the brush of fingers over a stolen glove—and yet awareness moved up his arm with such force that Gabriel nearly closed his hand around hers.

She looked down at their hands.

So did he.

Gabriel should have stepped back at once.