Under An English Moon by Bess McBride

first step without incident.
    “That went well,” Phoebe breathed.
    “But of course, Phoebe. I am not a child. I can race a stallion over miles of rough terrain. I can certainly negotiate moving iron stairs.”
    “I know, I know. I just worry.”
    “Do not.” Reggie, on the step below Phoebe, took her hand and pressed it to his lips. Phoebe drew in a sharp breath. She could hear the “ooooh’s” of the ladies just above them as they watched.
    “Oh my,” she echoed their early words. Mesmerized by his gesture, she failed to see that they had reached the top of the escalator. The front of her sandals jammed against the immobile lip at the top of the stairs, and she pitched forward with a cry.
    Strong arms caught her from behind, wrapping themselves around her waist. She looked up from an awkward position precariously near the floor to see Reggie holding her. He pulled her up and set her on her feet. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the two little old ladies watching with concern.
    “Are you injured?” Reggie asked in a rough voice. He bent his head to peer into her face, his breath fanning her cheek in an intimate way.
    A faint sound like mice clapping caught her attention, and she turned toward Mary and her companion who patted their hands together in admiration of Reggie’s gallant catch before moving on.
    “I’m fine, I’m fine,” Phoebe murmured with a shaky laugh. “I can’t believe that, after worrying about you, I was the one to fall on that thing.”
    “I can see that it does have the potential for danger,” he said with a look over his shoulder toward the escalator. “You were right to be concerned.” Reggie straightened and removed his hands from her waist. Phoebe wondered idiotically if she could repeat the event on the way down, if that would guarantee him placing his hands around her waist again.
    “Well, let’s head for the men’s clothes,” she said. She avoided grabbing his hand as she had that morning, shyly keeping her hands to herself. He did not offer his arm, and she thought it best given the crowded store. People continued to stare at him, especially his top hat, but she was rapidly growing used to it. She would have stared too...happily.
    “Well, here we are,” she said on arrival in the men’s department. She checked her watch. “We’ve got about thirty-five minutes. I don’t know a thing about men’s sizes. I’d better get a salesperson.” She flagged down a saleswoman who came over to assist. The bored-appearing, middle-aged woman eyed Reggie with a raised brow, her eyes blinking when she looked at his top hat, but she said nothing as she fished a tape measure out of her pocket and ran it around his neck and then his waist. He threw Phoebe a harried look when the saleswoman wrapped the tape around his waist but said nothing, and raised his arms accommodatingly.
    “Sixteen,” she saleswoman said. “Thirty-two.”
    The saleswoman reached down to measure Reggie’s inseam, and he jumped back.
    “Madam! Enough! Is there no proper tailor who could attend me in private?”
    The saleswoman straightened, her cheeks red. “Well, we could go into the dressing room, of course, but there are no men working the floor if that’s what you mean by a ‘proper tailor.’ This is a ready-to-wear store, you know.”
    “Reggie, it’s all right. She’s just trying to help. We really don’t have time for a tailor this morning, and I don’t know if they make complete suits anymore. How about if I measure your inseam? Unless you know your size already?”
    Reggie eyed her, a little wildly in Phoebe’s opinion, and he shook his head. “I do not. My tailor has my measurements.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “If you must, then I prefer you take the measurements, Phoebe.”
    The saleswoman thrust her arm out with the tape measure, and Phoebe gave her an apologetic smile and a shrug disowning Reggie’s tone of martyrdom. She bent, quickly placed the tape measure