She glanced at Noel, who studied the papery husks surrounding a heap of gooseberries. “A face like his will have half the morts chasing after him like cats swarming at Billingsgate.”
“I’ve younger siblings,” Jess confided, “so I know how to throw a punch.”
“Right you are, love. Enjoy—the fruit and the bloke.”
With the vendor’s laughter ringing behind her, Jess tucked her purchases into her hamper before drawing Noel away. She offered him a strawberry, and when he took it, she plucked one for herself.
“A demon in the marketplace.” He took a bite of strawberry and made a hum of pleasure.
“I’m not to be underestimated.” She bit into the berry and the flavor was ripe with the season.
“I will never make that mistake.”
They walked companionably together up and down the market rows, eating strawberries and dropping the hulls to the ground. As they strolled, Noel pointed out sights to her, such as a dog sleeping beneath one of the vendor’s tables, and two children handing a peach back and forth between them as they took alternating bites.
It felt both comfortable and deliriously exciting to be with him like this. As if they were any couple doing a bit of shopping together for their evening meal, as if they could be any couple, with the possibility of a future together.
They had no future, but she clung to the pretense that, for a little longer, they did.
“Secondhand goods,” a man cried from where he crouched beside a gray blanket. “Only the best. Anything you want, it’s here.”
“A moment,” Noel murmured to Jess. He guided her to the man with his blanket covered in every variety of things. There were needle cases, shoes, scarves, poppets, and candlesticks. Turning his attention to the vendor, Noel asked, “How much for the pewter comb?”
“It’s silver, it is. Swell bloke like you can have it for a penny.”
Jess opened her mouth to protest the exorbitant price, but Noel gave a small shake of his head. He pulled a coin from his pocket and dropped it into the man’s palm. “Here’s a shilling.”
“A moment, gov, and I’ll have change for you.” The man counted out the change before handing the coins to Noel. “Take the comb, and bless you for a gentleman.”
Noel clasped the comb and made a shallow bow. “You’ve robbed me, sir, but I thank you for the privilege. Shall we continue?” he asked Jess.
“By all means.” She held his arm again as they walked away from the secondhand goods.
“A favor.” Noel handed her the comb. “Carry that for me?”
“Of course.” She started to tuck it into her hamper.
“Do you mind holding it in your hand?”
It was an odd request, but she dipped her head in agreement. They continued walking the market, listening to the costermongers’ and vendors’ shouts and witnessing the bounty of British produce in June, all available to Londoners in one central—though chaotic—place.
Noel stiffened as a duo of well-dressed gentlemen headed toward him and Jess. Judging by their rumpled finery, they hadn’t yet been to bed.
“Fuck,” Noel muttered. “I didn’t want to run into anyone I knew.”
“Because you’re embarrassed about your clothes?”
“Because,” he said fiercely, “right now, I don’t want to be a duke. I just want us to be the impecunious gentleman and his Wiltshire sweetheart.”
Jess’s heart squeezed—she wanted the very same thing. “Don’t make eye contact.” She pulled him toward a table laden with beetroots, and they both turned their backs toward the gentlemen.
Their cultured but insistent laughter sounded as they walked along the row. “Never tell me you can’t hold your wine, Ablemayne,” one of them brayed.
Noel picked up a head of lettuce and held it close to his face as he and Jess covertly watched the dandies. Only when the men moved on, oblivious to his presence, did they release the tension they held.
“Thank God they’re as unobservant as that lettuce.” He exhaled.
“Time’s moving apace,” she said, glumly observing the sun climbing higher in the sky. “We ought to go, since we’re expected at Lord Trask’s for luncheon and I am in need of a bath.”
He consulted his timepiece, which was decidedly not the variety a man in frayed trousers might carry. “Damn. There’s no help for it. Might I have the comb back?”
She gave it to him, and he slipped it into his pocket.
“You can’t mean to use that,” Jess said.
“Why not?” He looked surprised by her assertion.
“Surely you’ve got far finer ones. Ones actually made of silver.”
“True, I do, but,” he continued as they made their way out of