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sensitive financial information. So Anthony had found other ways to be useful. By the time he turned twenty, he had found half a dozen small businesses that needed help keeping their accounts. They couldn't afford a full time clerk, but they needed someone to keep track of their money in an organized fashion. Someone to show them where they spent too much or too little. Someone who understood numbers. Someone like him.
    It took him years to establish himself. As a rule, people had to be convinced they needed help. But in time, it had worked. He had worked. A lot.
    Perhaps the independence had gone to his head. Perhaps he had started getting ideas above his station. That's what his father would say, so Anthony resolved not to say anything at all to his father. And truthfully, what was there to say? He'd spent an evening at a party with Miss Richards.
    Tomorrow, he would go to work in the usual fashion, apprenticing beneath his father at Mr. Richards's store though he was six and twenty. He would continue to handle his other clients on his off-hours or when he could squeeze in the time. And he would think no more about Miss Francine Richards of the beautiful voice and the alabaster skin.

 
     
     
    Chapter 5

     
    Anthony couldn't stay away. It took him four days to create an excuse to go to the house to see her. Four days spent reliving every second they were together. Four nights aching with a hunger for her that would not leave him. Four eternities of useless longing, when he was not a man who longed for anything. He planned, he plotted, and he worked, but he did not long.
    And finally, today, he could see the woman for whom he pined.
    His steps were embarrassingly quick as he rushed to the kitchen. He had timed it for the exact same hour of the day that he had seen her before. Except—to his horror—she was not there. Instead, he found a ruddy-faced man with a huge mustache and absolutely no patience for him. Anthony hadn't even crossed the threshold into the kitchen before the man started bellowing at him.
    "Who are you? You don't belong here! Get out! Get out!"
    He had no choice but to back out of the room, all his questions unanswered. Where was Francine? She couldn't possibly have been married already, could she? Surely she wouldn't have left for Lincolnshire.
    Anthony grimaced as he looked about the hallway. He would be spotted in a moment. In a house like this, there were always servants running around. He couldn't very well ask anyone where Francine was—that would betray his interest to everyone in the household, Mr. Richards most especially. Nor could he wander about the house looking for her. What—
    He heard it. It wasn't her laugh, but he recognized her voice. Low and sweet, a murmur that tasted like chocolate, though he had no idea how that was possible. He followed it like a man mesmerized.
    She was sitting in a back salon. She wore another one of her shapeless gowns, this one with big bows along the bodice and skirt. And she was laughing as the ginger kitten chased a tiny wad of paper across the floor, batting it around with his paws.
    She looked sad, he thought. Though she smiled at the kitten's antics, her shoulders were stooped, her body lay slack on the couch, and there was an empty plate beside her. A crumb of something had fallen onto her bodice, and he had the strongest urge to lick it up. Then to lick her up and down.
    He was still wrestling with his thoughts when she noticed him. He watched in dismay as her mouth dropped open in shock. Her eyes widened, and her skin flushed pink. He hoped to see joy on her face, and he did—or he thought he did—but a moment later, her eyes shuttered. Her gaze dropped down to her empty plate. And she bit her lip.
    "Good afternoon, Miss Richards."
    "Good afternoon, Mr. Pierce. Have you come to see my father? He's in his office. That's at the front of the house."
    He nodded stupidly, because indeed he was there to see her father. That was the excuse, at least.