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- Herausgeber: NYLA
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
A smoldering Scotsman sets Emma's heart aflutter in a curiosity shop. A few public meetings (Tuesdays only), and a friendship ensues, though her days of relative freedom are dwindling. Her parents want her married, and she wants the Scotsman, Mr. Ramsay. But an air of mystery—and a few stolen kisses—may be all she'll get...until Lord and Lady Whitwell's ball when Emma learns stunning truths about the man—and he discovers stunning truths about her. ***Please note: UNTIL YOU was previously published in the anthology A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S ROMANCE***
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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UNTIL YOU
GINA CONKLE
This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.
This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Until You
Copyright © 2021 by Gina Conkle
Ebook ISBN: 9781641971911
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
NYLA Publishing
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http://www.nyliterary.com
NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s [and publisher’s] exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Other Books by Gina Conkle
About the Author
CHAPTER1
May, 1814
On Thursdays, Miss Emma Middleton browsed Chancery Lane’s shops with a nose for adventure. She hunted the unpolished and imperfect, à bric et à brac as the French would say, and there was no better place for it than Hexham’s House of Curiosities. A fanciful name, that. London’s rough and respectable gathered at Hexham’s, bringing whispers of fenced goods. More likely debt-riddled patrons spread the scurrilous gossip to soothe their pride after selling prized possessions. The circumstances which brought the goods didn’t matter.
Emma perused treasures of all kinds: dusty clocks, foreign coins…the enticing man beside her.
She set a steadying hand on the counter and breathed his scent. Plain soap, richly lathered, as if he’d shaved before setting foot in the shop. His arm, sleeved in black wool, was near hers. She stared at it under her lashes, a skill proper young women perfected.
His hand was just as intriguing. Large, well-fleshed, a dusting of black hair at his wrist.
Excitement spooled inside her. An adventuress would lift her chin and smile at her fellow browser. Smiles invited polite greetings, and polite greetings invited discourse.
Flirting with a nameless stranger…
The idea was not without merit.
She smoothed her pelisse and reached casually across a tray of sparkling gem intaglios. Her gloved fingers collided with his. Her gaze shot up and up and met stygian eyes.
Heat snapped her skin as if she’d touched a Leydon jar.
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“The pardon is mine to beg for poaching on yer tray.”
His Scots brogue was unexpected. Polite. Rustic, the Rs and Os seeming to grow and catch in the middle of his mouth, and what a fine mouth indeed. The shape curved sensually with a thumbprint-sized indent on his lower lip. The Italian masters could not have produced finer work or set it in a more square and perfect jaw. But his mouth was his sole embellishment. His wide cheeks and thick eyebrows belonged on a bruiser. Or a rebel knight, for no gentleman owned such sin-black eyes. Eyes that would peer from an iron helm before tossing a woman over his shoulder.
“It’s my accent,” he said. “Hard to understand. I doona know how to lose it.”
“Don’t. It’s perfect.”
A genteel, if awkward, silence expanded.
He smiled, a handsome dent of his mouth, while a curmudgeon trundled by, his walking stick thumping the floor. Conversation hummed as patrons poked and prodded well-traveled goods, her chaperoning maid, Headington, among them. Without a proper introduction, Emma was swimming in dangerous waters.
Rustic or not, the stranger had to know this.
“I noticed ye studying these trinkets a good long while,” he said.
He noticed, did he?
She tore her attention from all six feet and more of him. “Mr. Hexham has the best collection of gem intaglios in the City. One is sure to find the rare treasure or two.”
“A treasure, ye say?” He picked up a pink medallion etched with two harvest maids.
“Well, not that one.” She breathed his pleasant, soapy scent.
“What’s wrong with it?”
“See the edges?” She dragged her fingertip over the trinket’s side, carefully avoiding his thumb. “They are scratched and peeling. A glass intaglio, probably made here in London. I would say ten or twenty years old. Twenty-five at the most.”
Brows slashing, he studied it. “How do ye know that?”
“Some women collect vases, books, figurines.” A feminine shrug and, “I collect gem intaglios.”
Her galloping heart eased its race. The diverting topic had the same effect as wrapping herself with a favorite shawl. Three years she’d saved her allowance and scoured shops while cultivating knowledge through correspondence with antiquarians and a carefully curated library. Little by little, she’d bartered and sold simpler gem intaglios to the less discerning—and stashed her earnings. Not a ladylike pursuit, but it put freedom within her grasp.
“Only a fool would pay more than a shilling or two for what you’re holding,” she said.
His chuckle rippled seductively. “Consider me warned, lass.”
The stranger returned the pink medallion to the tray, his sleeve brushing hers. He was an exotic species—big, brawny, and dark in a land of men who were slim, limp, and pale. His inquisitive glances owned her, made her want to nurse their fledgling conversation.
“I suppose I do get carried away. Their history fascinates me.” She plucked a cracked carnelian gem and raised it to the light. “This one is Etruscan. It predates the Roman Empire.”
“Worth some quid, is it?”
“More than a hundred pounds. Mr. Hexham ought to keep it under lock and key.”
“Except people won’t buy what they canna see.”
She traced the fracture in the carnelian, wistful and wondering. If only stones could talk…
Holding older gem intaglios was like touching rare and distant kingdoms. Greece, Assyria, the Indus Valley. Kings and viziers commanded unique engravings on gemstones and wore them as rings, their seal, a luxury of art and status in the ancient world. Colored glass eventually replaced costly gems when humbler households needed a seal’s binding signature. Even those middling treasures met the same fate as many other antiquated rings: taken apart, the gold melted, and the glass medallions turned into necklaces or household trinkets.
The stranger held up an agate etched with a lion. “What about this one?”
“Late seventeenth century, Venetian,” she said, returning the carnelian piece to the tray. “I’d pay thirty-five pounds for it. Possibly forty, but no more.”
“And this one?” He showed her a satyr etched in glass. A lazy phallus rested on the creature’s thigh.
She refused to blush. “Two shillings, if that. Hawkers sell them outside the British Museum.”
He grunted, twirling the naughty medallion between big fingers. His hands belonged to a man who earned his coin by hefting heavy things.
Eyes sharp, he scooped medallions off the tray. “What about all of these?”
Gem intaglios gleamed like plunder in his fist.
“Are you testing me?” she asked.
“Call it what ye like.”
A thrill coursed her veins. The dark-eyed stranger had tossed a gauntlet on the floor of Hexham’s shop.
“By all means, sir.”
He held up one gem intaglio after the other, almost daring her to fail.
Shoulders back, she fired crisp replies, “Five shillings… A popular design during Queen Anne’s reign… That one is ten pounds… A Persian design made in Venice… A glass piece made last year, hardly worth a farthing because of the crack down the middle…”
On it went until his hand was empty and her inquisitor hip-cocked against the counter, a pile of medallions twinkling on red velvet beside him.
“I ken ye know about these things.”
A glower climbed over his visage, and he crossed beefy arms clothed in a plain coat favored by men of meager circumstance. The whole of him was dressed in black wool, save his white shirt and cravat. Possibly castoffs, for their fit bordered on too tight.
She savored her victory and matched his hip-cocked stance. “I collect you are dismayed.”
“I didna believe Hexham, but he was right.”
“You and Mr. Hexham talked about me.” She shifted off the counter. “Why?”
Stygian eyes narrowed. “Because I want to hire ye.”
CHAPTER2
Miss Middleton fanned fingers-to-chest. “Hire me?”
She wore the finest pale-green kid gloves, their cost equal to a month’s wages for some. A tall redhead with wild ringlets, Miss Middleton was not a delicate piece, but she was gently bred. Women of her ilk did not earn their coin. They married into it.
“I ken ye doona labor as other folk do.”
She was subdued, as if letting the wedge he’d planted between them grow.
“Indeed, I do not,” she said softly.
Was there a note of regret in her voice? What a startling discovery, if true. Nor did his bluntness send Miss Middleton into a fit of vapors. She was quiet and steady as still waters, a woman of substance. He liked that. He also liked her bold chin and azure eyes with a hint of green and smoke.
Hexham had been spare in his description of Miss Middleton. Colum expected a plump, boring spinster of middling years, not the fascinating morsel standing before him.
“Mr. Ramsay.” Hexham’s singsong tenor severed the moment.
Colum jolted off the counter, irritated.
“I see you’ve met Miss Middleton,” Hexham said.
“Unfortunately, we’ve no’ had a proper introduction.”
“Then allow me to correct that.” A dramatic huff and, “Miss Middleton, it is my pleasure to introduce Mr. Colum Ramsay, formerly of Aberdeen.” To Colum, he offered a pompous sniff. “Miss Middleton’s father is the principal agent of Middleton Insurance.”
Colum bowed to her, reading layers of privilege and warning in Hexham’s sniff. The wily shopkeeper had demanded half of Colum’s purse to make this introduction happen. Of course, he wouldn’t befoul it, yet, Hexham was organizing the tray as if he planned to shepherd their little gathering.
“Mr. Ramsay shares your, shall we say, zeal for gem intaglios.”
“Does he?” Azure eyes lit with curiosity.
“Yer enthusiasm, yes, but no’ yer wealth of knowledge.”
Hexham managed a fawning grimace. “I beg your tolerance, Miss Middleton, but I did mention your good name to Mr. Ramsay…as an expert eye to these trinkets. I hope I didn’t presume overmuch.”
“Not at all. You have been a saint, allowing me to dawdle many an afternoon in your shop. It is a privilege to pass the time with someone so…” She eyed Colum, her feline smile curving prettily. “Ardent about gem intaglios.”
He quirked his mouth. He might’ve been a tad intense, but he had to be sure of her.
“Well,” Hexham began, “I’m pleased to hea—Oh dear...”
The shopkeeper’s gaze darted to a woman violently shaking a bronze-plated table clock. Hexham dropped the medallion in hand and dashed off.
“Madame! That is a sixteenth-century Hamburg clock.”
Miss Middleton watched his departure. “Some men can be so particular about a woman touching their goods.”
Colum swallowed a laugh. “Only if she manhandles them.”
She pivoted to him. Her chin dipping, she fought a smile and lost.
Well, isn’t this interesting.
“Yer no sheltered innocent.”
She set her gloved hand on the counter near his. Her mischievous smile and the nearness of her fingers poured something akin to warm honey in his veins.
“What I am, sir, is interested in your offer.” Miss Middleton’s voice was hushed for his ears alone. “But you must be quick because my maid, Headington, is about to stop flirting with the clerk, and when she does, she’ll realize I have conversed too long with a strange man.”
“We just met.”
“Yes, we have, but Headington will surmise that you are not an acquaintance of my mother and father. Nor can one mistake you for the harmless male one usually finds in these shops.”
“Harmless?” Mirth tinged his voice.
Her brows arched tellingly. “Come now, Mr. Ramsay. I hope you don’t expect me to elaborate.”
