After that impromptu workshop tour, Mr. Trent stopped by the shop every day. It was the middle of December, the Yuletide hurtled closer by the hour, and Alec was up to his ears in work. Mrs. Laine arrived to run the shop, as she always did this time of year, so Alec could concentrate on the dozen commissions he’d promised to deliver by Christmas morning. This was the worst possible time of year for friendly visitors. Yet Alec tensed with nervous anticipation as late afternoon approached since Mr. Trent usually made his appearances then. His pulse quickened, and his mouth smiled of its own accord when Mrs. Laine stuck her head in the back to say that Mr. Trent had dropped in.
Alec would dust off his clothes, wash his hands, and go out to say hello. Trent never stayed long, but he always brought a gift, some small token. One day it was a nosegay made with holly, replete with blood-red berries, white variegated leaves, and a red velvet ribbon. “A bit of the season for your worktable,” he’d said. Another day it was a few cooked sausages, with a comment that he feared Alec was too busy to eat. A third, he presented a book of poems he thought Alec might like. On the fourth day it was a package of roasted chestnuts which made the shop redolent with their homey, hearthside aroma. It was quite the best smell in the world, Alec thought.
He was secretly disconcerted by the gifts, but Trent always made light of them, and Alec accepted them with what he hoped was good grace. They were such small things, he would feel churlish to refuse them, or be worried lest he appeared to read too much into it. Yet they meant something. Trent’s continued appearances meant something.
By the next Monday, on which day Trent appeared with some sugared almonds in a paper cone, Alec was alarmed enough to spend the evening after the shop closed looking around for some small item he could give to Trent in return. Then he remembered that he’d already given Trent the angel. Was that the reason behind the gifts? Did Trent feel a need to reciprocate? It was a disappointing thought. He’d rather think it was due to... to... what? Friendship?
Alec didn’t have many friends. He was friendly with his neighbors on both sides, Mrs. Lincoln, a milliner, and Mr. Wainwright, a clockmaker. He knew most of the tradesmen up and down the block and exchanged greetings with them on sight. He had a comfortable relationship with his patrons, some of which acted quite familiar with him. But they did not consider him their equal. It was as Trent had said—respectable but not desirable.
You’re entirely desirable to me.
So, er, yes, it was rare for Alec to have a friend. He hadn’t had that since he’d rubbed shoulders with a few apprentices while Mr. Ainsley had been alive. But they’d all moved on by now, taking posts elsewhere. That had been years ago.
Not that Mr. Trent was actually a friend. He’d grow bored with his visits. Or change his routine. Possibly he really did pass by the shop in the course of his work as a Bow Street Runner. Possibly he was a gregarious fellow and stopped in a dozen shops a day.
Yet Alec’s heart did not really believe that. Trent’s gray eyes were ever warm, and his gaze lingered on Alec’s face or hands in a way that was too intimate. His smile, too, had the bemused quality of a shared secret. There was even a hint, now and then, of nerves on the part of Mr. Trent, a slight stumble to his speech or a bow that was slightly awkward, as if Alec’s regard meant something to him.
As if Alec affected him too.
It almost felt as though Alec were being courted, courted like some country vicar’s daughter. He knew he was reading too much into things, yet once he’d had the thought, it was difficult to shake it. The very idea had him so discombobulated that he started losing sleep, finding his mind wandering at the worktable, thinking about Mr. Trent’s eyes or the way those full lips curved up more on one side than the other, the way his strong jawline looked a little rough by late afternoon. Remembering the caged vitality of him.
What would it feel like to wrap his arms around that body and let that energy shudder through him, give life to his own? To be trapped by that large frame against a door?
Held there while that laughing mouth stole a kiss?
He was incorrigible for thinking such things. He felt guilty and disgusted with himself, at the way his body and his fevered imagination ran roughshod over his nobler intentions. Trent probably had no such designs on his person. And even if he did, what would William say? Was his heart truly so fickle as to think of Mr. Trent when he’d promised his heart to another long ago and, so he’d believed, forevermore? Yet it had been two years since William had last had any kind word for him. William was married and, for all Alec knew, had a child on the way. And he’d discarded the angel as if she meant nothing to him.
Was it wrong of him to be unfaithful to William in his heart when William had long been unfaithful to Alec in word and in deed?
But even putting William aside, Alec had plenty of reasons to reject Mr. Trent’s attention—if, indeed, those attentions were of a carnal nature. It was dangerous, it was illegal, and, if he allowed himself to be swayed by a handsome smile, he would very likely end up with his heart broken again by a rogue who would take what he wanted and be on his way. No. He could not. Even a hint of scandal could ruin his shop. He daren’t chance it.
Yet as soon as Trent came in the door, Alec’s stomach would flutter, and he’d smile and stammer his thanks for the gifts. Trent’s appearance was like a breath of fresh air off some wild, windswept moor, and it blew away the cobwebs of his musty old routine. Alec couldn’t help it if it made his heart sing with gladness.
On Tuesday, Mrs. Laine used Trent’s visit as an excuse to “pop round the green grocers for a tick” and left them alone. They exchanged the normal inquiries about each other’s day, and John presented a perfect, rosy red apple, which Alec thanked him for and tucked into a pocket. Then they stood there for an awkward moment.
Alec was about to mention the weather, which had been uncommonly fine that day, when Trent spoke up.
“Do you care for walking?” he asked, hands clasped behind his back.
“Yes. I go out most mornings before the shop opens.”
“Would you be interested in a stroll this evening? The weather is relatively balmy. After the shop closes, of course.” Trent’s tone was light, but he licked his lips in a manner that betrayed some nerves.
Alec felt he should decline. He’d have to work late tonight on his commissions. But it would be a pretty evening, and it would feel good to stretch his legs after a long day at the bench. Surely, it would do no harm to break his work for an hour or so. It might even do him good.
But you must not encourage him, said a voice in his head. What if he is attempting some sort of courtship? You can’t let him think you’re game for that sort of thing.
But there was a reckless spark of rebellion in Alec’s chest that flared hotly. He didn’t care.
“Yes, all right. A brief stroll. If you’ll be in the neighborhood,” Alec said, in too rushed a voice.
Trent smiled. It was a soft, affectionate smile. “I’ll make sure of that, Mr. Allston.” His gray eyes lingered on Alec’s face, his eyes, his mouth.
Alec looked away, unable to bear the intimacy of it. He felt his face burn. “Oh. Very well, then. We, uh, stay open late this time of year. I hope you won’t be disappointed to set out after sunset.”
“I’d be perfectly delighted. I shall call on you then.”
“Yes. Yes. Have a pleasant afternoon, Mr. Trent.”
Mrs. Laird returned, and Alec spent the next few hours sitting at his worktable, tools in hand, staring into the distance. He longed for everything he shouldn’t want, and he wished, most of all, that he was wise enough, and disciplined enough, to feel nothing at all.