Far from waiting for him as she'd promised, she'd married another bloke within months of his leaving. He was never going to see Rose again, and frankly, good riddance. Nine years had come and gone since he'd left tiny Ashby Croft. He scrubbed his hand over his eyes, dispelling the wild notion before his imagination grew to unrealistic proportions. What if, by some twist of fate, Rose had come up to London and.
And that golden hair-such a unique color. True, she'd been of similar height and build as Rose. Something about the stranger beckoned him to find her, but he remained in his seat, determined to shut her out with a stubbornness that bordered on vice. The list of figures blurred and the brisk activity all around him faded as his mind wandered to the taunting vision of the woman with blond hair. Not one to waste time when there was more wealth to be gleaned, he shuffled through the pages.
Sam consulted his pocket watch before extracting several reports from the leather portfolio he'd brought with him. The pungent aroma of horseflesh and smoke carried on the air. The coach finally pulled away from the curb. I 'spect there's nary a church mouse to be found indoors at present." "Beggin' yer pardon for the delay, sir," his driver, Gibson, said over the din of the busy street. He much preferred to spend his waking hours at the city offices of Stark, Winters and Blackstone or overseeing the firm's vigorous trade of commodities at the Exchange in Capel Court. The echoing monstrosity boasted every luxury and admirably performed its duty to impress, but the residence was devoid of human warmth or cheer. Sam climbed in and sat heavily on the black, embossed leather seat, impatient to get underway.Īs he waited, his gaze slid back to the Georgian edifice he'd acquired three years earlier. His advice on monetary matters was sought by everyone from potato farmers to Parliament members. Few rivaled his influence in financial circles. Far from going to bed with an empty stomach gnawing his ribs, sleeping in a drafty hovel and wearing itchy rags, he dined on delicacies, lived in a mansion and dressed in the finest Savile Row suits. He'd acquired more wealth than he'd ever dreamed as a young orphan in Ashby Croft.
In the past nine years, he'd played the game well and few challenges remained. Relying on the years of strict mental discipline he'd employed to rise from being a village ne'er-do-well to one of London's most prominent stockbrokers, he forced memories of Rose's betrayal from his mind and descended the wide front steps of his elegant Mayfair townhouse. The last thing he wanted or needed was a morning poisoned by memories of the past. As the blonde disappeared into the sea of pedestrians, his mood soured that same instant. The waterfall of gold tumbling down her narrow back from beneath a serviceable black bonnet reminded him of Rose Smith. It was the woman's hair that drew Sam Blackstone's full attention.
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