“Good morning, Mr Hemming,” she said, succeeding in banishing her nerves. “Thank you for seeing me.”
Mr Ashwood did not follow her into the room.
“Everett. Call me Everett. How many times must I tell you, Evangeline?” Mr Hemming stood. His wicked grin matched the suggestive look in his eyes as his gaze caressed her body. “After our last little interlude, I think we’ve moved beyond the use of formalities. Obviously, you’re just as keen to continue our stimulating conversation.”
The man made her skin crawl.
“You speak of our misunderstanding.”
“Was it a misunderstanding, my dear? I think not.”
The lying toad. “You cannot think I welcomed your advances.”
Mr Hemming moistened his lips. “You came here alone at night. Invented a tale of blackmail to gain my attention. What else is a man supposed to think?”
“It wasn’t a tale.”
“Well, let’s continue our discussion away from Smith’s pricked ears.” Mr Hemming moved to close the door, but Mr Ashwood blocked it with his booted foot.
“Miss Dunn is here in a professional capacity.” Mr Ashwood’s stern voice echoed through the musty space as he pushed open the door and strode into the room. “She has no desire to hear more of your pretentious claptrap.”
Mr Hemming reeled from the insult and shuffled back. “Who the devil are you?”
“Someone keen to protect Miss Dunn from lecherous leeches.”
Mr Hemming stared. Open-mouthed shock turned to seething arrogance. “Miss Dunn and I have been friends for three years. If the lady needs protection, the responsibility falls to me.”
“You’re only her publisher.”
Bristling, Mr Hemming puffed out his chest. “I’m a damn sight more than that. What gives you the right—”
“The lady has agreed to be my wife. I believe that gives me a greater claim.”
His wife!
Mother of all saints!
This wasn’t dangling bait in the hope of trapping vermin. This was a pistol shot between the eyes.
Shock didn’t even begin to define the look on Mr Hemming’s face. His cheeks turned deathly pale. He shook his head repeatedly as if attempting to dismiss the last words spoken from Mr Ashwood’s lips.
Guilt and pity fought to conquer Eva’s resolve. But that was her problem. Mr Hemming had a way of making her feel responsible for their frequent misunderstandings. He often accused her of being too familiar—reminded her of promises never made.
No one spoke.
The heavy sound of Mr Hemming’s ragged breathing disturbed the deafening silence. His gruff gasps became snorts and then loud, hearty laughter.
Eva glanced sideways and met Mr Ashwood’s calm, reassuring gaze.
Play the role, came his silent plea.
Indeed, she could not let her soft heart rule her head. She had given Mr Hemming too many chances, and the devil knew how to play to her weaknesses.
Mr Hemming clutched his abdomen as he continued to find Mr Ashwood’s declaration amusing.
“Oh, I have to admit you had me fooled for a moment,” the publisher said before letting out another loud guffaw. “My dear, if this is a ploy to make me jealous, I must say you succeeded.” He exhaled to gather his composure. Then, mimicking Mr Ashwood’s deep voice, he said, “The lady has agreed to be my wife.” He laughed again. “Oh, for a second, I was floundering.”
“What is it about our betrothal you find hard to believe?” Mr Ashwood said in a manner so cool, so composed.
“Anyone who knows Evangeline would find the suggestion of marriage highly improbable.” Mr Hemming dabbed the corners of his eyes. “Marriage! Ha!”
Mr Ashwood cleared his throat. “Why is that? And before you answer, I must warn you that I will not tolerate your blatant use of her given name.”
Mr Hemming’s smile fell, but then he laughed again. “Very well,” he said, taking time to get his emotions under control. “No doubt Evangeline wishes to bring me up to the mark, so I’ll play this game.”
“Trust me. This is by no means a game.” Mr Ashwood’s voice held a sinister edge, though her publisher was too full of mirth to notice.
“Then tell me how and where you met. Evangeline rarely leaves the house these days and has made no mention of you before.”
“I shall let Miss Dunn explain.” Mr Ashwood gestured to her, and with remarkable poise added, “The next time you use her given name, I shall grab you by the throat and knock that arrogant smirk off your face.”
Mr Hemming’s eyes narrowed as he struggled to know whether to take the threat seriously.
“I met Mr Ashwood three months ago,” Eva lied. Still, it felt like she had known him a lifetime. “In Vincent and Teale’s book shop in Bedford Street.”
“We share a love of poetry,” Mr Ashwood said, his tone soft and warm as if recalling a treasured memory. “She is, without doubt, the only woman ever to hold my interest. I found myself desperate to deepen our acquaintance.”
Oh, he was so convincing.
So good at this.
“We meet in the park every Wednesday, take a picnic and discuss a particular poem.” Creating a romantic fantasy proved easy when Mr Ashwood was the object of one’s desire. It occurred to her that she would like to stretch out on a blanket in the sunshine and have him read poetry.
Mr Hemming seemed unconvinced. “What was the last poem you discussed?”
Eva smiled, grateful for the recent conversation in the carriage as it would add authenticity to their tale. “We spoke about how the metaphor of a nomad failing to drink from an oasis relates to a man’s fear of commitment.”
Mr Hemming focused his attention on Mr Ashwood. “What’s the poem called?”
“The Journey. Last week we discussed her godfather’s poem, The Wanderer. We share an interest in Norse mythology, too.”
Mr Hemming’s gaze hardened. “And what if I told you Miss Dunn promised to marry me? That we agreed to announce our betrothal.”
“Then I would call you a liar. You’re her publisher, nothing more. She has no interest in pursuing a relationship with you when she is in love with me. Indeed, I have come today to return your advance and to inform you that she has found another publisher.”
Mr
