London, England, 1852

Emma hummed as she flipped the sign on the door over from 'shut' to 'open.' She loved coming to work every day, especially since Carter's bookstore was now hers alone. The scent of books, along with the lemon oil she used to keep the shelves shiny soothed her as if it were a fine perfume. She'd worked side by side with her father for years, and he managed to teach her every aspect of the business before the good Lord took him away, leaving the shop for her to run. So far, she'd been successful at keeping a roof over their heads, and providing enough of an income for herself and her mother to get by.

To keep their modest lifestyle, she needed to sell at least twenty books each month. So far this month, she had made it to seventeen. A quick glance at the calendar assured her she still had a few days left to make up the difference. She progressed to the rear of the little store, turning on the Argand oil lamps as she wended her way through the familiar aisles. She had purchased a fair number of books yesterday at auction and needed to sort through them and assign a price to each before placing them on the shelves.

She had just picked up the first book when the little bell over the door rang, signifying a customer. Emma glanced up and stared at a man she knew well. At least by name and reputation. Whatever was the Duke of Ravenswood doing in her little shop?

She took a steadying breath before she stepped forward. "Good morning, Your Grace. You are out and about quite early this morning. May I help you find something?"

His intelligent brown eyes raked over her, and he brushed away the lock of dark hair that had fallen over his forehead when he doffed his hat. Emma's skin prickled at the intensity of his gaze and her mouth suddenly went dry. The Duke of Ravenswood was, if the scandal sheets could be believed, a rake and a scoundrel, bedding every woman in his path and often not rising until nightfall to hunt for the next woman to fall victim to his charms.

He blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and cleared his throat. "Yes, you may, Miss...?"

Emma extended a hand to him. "Emma Carter, Your Grace, proprietor of this shop."

He took hold of her hand and leaned over it, brushing his lips against her fingers. Then, he straightened and stared deep into her eyes. "It's lovely to meet your acquaintance, Emma Carter. Is it Miss Carter, or Mrs.?"

"Miss Carter is fine." She found her voice again.

"I'm Paul Beckinsale. You can possibly save my skin today." His voice was a deep baritone and reminded her of fine whiskey.

She stumbled over her words as he finally relinquished her hand. "How...how might I do so, Sir? I mean, Your Grace. What in particular are you searching for?"

"I'm here to purchase a gift for the only woman I'd get out of bed before three in the afternoon for." He grinned at her, and Emma's knees threatened to buckle. The man had certainly earned his reputation, since even she was not immune to his striking good looks and his magnetic personality.

"And who might this lucky lady be?" She closed her eyes momentarily, mentally kicking herself for asking such a forward question.

He laughed, the deep sound sending shivers throughout her body. "It's not at all what you think. I need a gift for my mother."

Paul nearly laughed again as he caught the play of emotions on Emma Carter's face. What did she think? It seemed his mere presence made her jittery. His reputation preceded him into every drawing room in London, so he should not be surprised that it preceded him into this little bookstore, with its dusty labyrinth of aisles and books stacked every which way.

His gaze fell to her lips as she took a deep breath. Beautiful lips, he had to admit. There was something different about this one. The way she carried herself. Her smile. The way the light from the lamp reflected off of her hair.

She glanced up at him; her blue eyes grazed over his face before she quickly lowered her gaze and became enamored with the knot in the floorboard beneath their feet. "I have a collection of books that appeal to the ladies over here." She pointed a finger to the far wall and took a step forward.

He reached out a hand and laid it on her arm. Her body went rigid, and she stopped, glancing at him questionably. She gently removed his hand and gave him a warning look.

"What appeals to most ladies is mundane to my mother." He flashed his trademark grin at her, knowing the dimples in his cheeks would emerge. "She wants The String of Pearls in its entirety. I've been told if any bookstore in town has the complete eighteen-part story, it would be you."

Her gasp was audible, but he couldn't tell if it was a reaction to his dimples or the subject matter that enthralled his mother.

"Sweeney Todd?" she squeaked. He had his answer. She was immune to his dimples, it seemed. The first lady in a long time not to swoon when he flashed his grin. Miss Emma Carter presented a challenge, and he was ready to play this game. He shifted his eyes away from her. His immediate knee-jerk reaction to make her a conquest was nothing more than being momentarily mesmerized by her rosy lips, which reminded him of raspberries. And her large, expressive blue eyes. Her obvious intelligence was a refreshing change, as well.

But she was no trifle to be toyed with and then gently set aside when he tired of her. Trifles were the only type of woman he deserved, the only type he desired. He did not want to have Emma Carter as his next fallen woman. His behavior was reprehensible, and he had best finish his business and leave, before he lost his better sense.

"Yes, Sweeney Todd. My mother has very eclectic tastes. Do you have it? All eighteen parts? She doesn't want me to scurry all over town searching for the remainder of the story while she waits with baited breath for a climactic scene." He smiled at her again.

Emma ran a hand over her perfectly coiffed deep brown hair. "I believe I have the complete set. Let me check." She moved out of his gaze and scurried over to the far wall, removing books from the shelf. "Ah, yes, as I thought. I am missing one part of the story. The seventeenth." She lifted her gaze from the stack of pamphlets and met his. "But I can retrieve it and have it here tomorrow, if you'd like."

"Are you certain you can lay your hands on it?" He glanced at the stack of literature she'd compiled.

"Yes, Your Grace, I remember exactly where it is." The blush in her cheeks became more pronounced. "You see, I have it at home. Your mother's not the only one mesmerized by such stories, it would seem." She smiled slightly.

He nodded at the stack. "Perhaps I could return tomorrow, to retrieve the entire set. You need to read the eighteenth part after you finish what you have at home. Will one night be enough time?"

She hesitated, brushing her fingers over the stack of pamphlets. "One night should suffice, Your Grace, thank you. I am a fast reader."

Her hands were still on the pile of literature, hesitating as she met his gaze. She must want payment for the purchase, even if he wouldn't pick it up until tomorrow. He'd be gracious and be the one to bring up the subject of payment. "I don't want anyone else coming in here today and buying the odd one from the stack, so I'm prepared to pay for all of them now." He reached into his waistcoat for some coin.

"There's no need to pay now. I can put them under the counter for a day, and keep them safe for you. I trust you will return." She picked up the stack and tucked them away from prying eyes.

Paul stared at her delicate features as she moved to hide his purchase. No one had said they trusted him since Margaret. And he remembered, every day of his life, what her trust in him had cost her. "No, please, let me pay you for them now. It's only fair, since they're now out of circulation in your shop."

She pondered his suggestion momentarily before lifting her head. "Only half. You can pay me the remainder when you pick up the entire set."

"That is most fair." She quoted him a price. He passed over the coins to her and then bowed to her. "I shall return on the morrow, at which time I will assume you and Mr. Todd will have come to a satisfactory conclusion."

Her raspberry-colored lips curled up into a smile. "A satisfactory conclusion for Mr. Todd is not necessarily a satisfactory conclusion to my way of thinking. I'd like to stay alive for a while longer."

Paul's cravat suddenly became very constricted around his neck. He tucked away the receipt Emma had given him and scurried out from the shadows of the shop as if past discretions were chasing him. Perhaps they were.