Free Waiting for Spring by Amanda Cabot

Cheyenne’s wealthiest women, bought clothing for her son. A proverbial shoemaker’s child, she had declared. Be that as it may, David had worn holes in his socks, and while Charlotte might be an expert seamstress, darning was not one of her accomplishments. Fortunately for her, Yates’s Dry Goods occupied the northern half of the building that housed Élan. With the James Sisters Millinery just down the block, Charlotte and Mr. Yates had chuckled over the fact that the city’s women could clothe themselves from head to foot, all without crossing a street. Men who wanted custom-tailored suits had a slightly more difficult shopping experience, for the best tailors were more than a block away, but for those less particular customers, Mr. Yates offered ready-made trousers, shirts, and coats.
    Charlotte was reaching for the doorknob, preparing to enter Mr. Yates’s establishment, when the door swung open.
    â€œMr. Landry.” Though it was foolish in the extreme, Charlotte’s heart began to race. The man looked even more handsome dressed in his ordinary clothes than he had at the opera house. She had thought nothing could compare to the sartorial elegance of his evening coat, but the tweed sack coat he wore this morning was at least as attractive. Or perhapsit had nothing to do with the clothing and everything to do with the man inside.
    â€œMadame Charlotte.” He doffed his hat in greeting, then wrinkled his nose as he closed the door behind him and moved to her side, positioning himself so that the slight breeze would not chill her. “I suspect it’s very forward of me, but would you object if we dispensed with formality? My friends call me Barrett, and I’d like to count you among them.”
    It was a simple request, yet it warmed Charlotte’s heart more than the October sun. “I’d be honored if you called me Charlotte.” She paused before pronouncing the name that then lingered on her tongue. “Barrett.” She had called him that in her mind, but this was the first time she had spoken the word. It felt good and at the same time oddly unsettling to be so familiar with him. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, Charlotte gestured toward the package Barrett held in his left hand. “I see your shopping excursion was successful.”
    One of the crooked smiles that she found so endearing lit his face. “Promise you won’t tell Mr. Bradley I was here.”
    â€œThat’s an easy promise to make, since I have no idea who Mr. Bradley is.”
    â€œHe’s my butler. Richard and Warren convinced me that I needed one if I was going to live on Ferguson Street.”
    Charlotte raised an eyebrow. “I live on Ferguson Street,” she pointed out, “and I don’t have a butler.”
    â€œTouché. I should have said that they convinced me that if I was going to live in an excessively ornate house with enough rooms for a family of ten, I needed a butler. Now I find myself in a predicament, because that very same butler believes that he should be responsible for all of what he callsprocurement.” Barrett gave the brown-paper-wrapped package a rueful look.
    Charlotte couldn’t help it. She chuckled as she stared at the man who stood so close that she could smell the bay rum on his cheeks. Listening to Miriam’s description of him, Charlotte had believed Barrett to be like Jeffrey. He wasn’t. Jeffrey would never have mocked his station in life, especially if it was such an exalted one. Jeffrey would have found a way to ensure that everyone knew that he lived in a mansion, and Charlotte doubted that he would have done his own procurement, as Barrett called it.
    â€œI have to disagree with you. Your house is not excessively ornate,” she said firmly. “I find it tasteful and remarkably restrained.” Though the three-story brick building boasted four chimneys and an equal number of bay windows, not to