The rogue’s unrepentant gaze raked down the length of her once more, making her conscious of the fact that she’d set her hands on her hips, her cloak parting like a display curtain in a shop window. Instantly, she huffed and lowered her arms, letting him know that she was not offering up her wares. No, indeed!
“Yes. But I paid him first, love. Besides, I do not imagine you would have any difficulty procuring another hack. No doubt you are quite accustomed to obtaining whatever you wish by way of your feminine wiles.”
“My . . . my wiles? How dare you, sir! I practice no such arts. When I procure another cab, it will be from pure determination and nothing else.”
He clucked his tongue in an outrageously familiar manner while his hand absently brushed leftover flecks of pearlescent powder from his lapel. “We are strangers and as such, there is no cause to deceive the other. You’ve clearly adorned your entire person in artifices that would gain admiration. After all, you could have worn a black cloak that would have made you less conspicuous on these streets. Yet you chose one that would highlight the golden color of your tresses, and the peaches and cream of your cheeks.”
“You know nothing of the sort,” she snapped, seething.
The fact that the thought had crossed her mind—though briefly—was completely irrelevant. Besides, black made her look far too pale. She simply had not wanted to meet a potential new client while resembling an ashen-faced ghoul.
“Even your sash is the same cornflower blue as your eyes. And the rouge on your lips is designed to capture a man’s undivided attention.”
Rouge! She’d been accused of being many things—naive, dramatic, and overly romantic, just to name a few—but never in need of enhancement.
Affronted, she lifted her hand, swiped her kid glove across her mouth, then thrust out her arm showing her unblemished fingers. “Sir, you have insulted my honor.”
He dared to look surprised with a quick lift of his dark brows, his eyes narrowing in scrutiny as he stroked a hand over the shadow of stubble along the razor edge of his jaw. Then, apparently finding the entire episode amusing, his lips quirked. “Shall it be pistols or swords at dawn, love? I imagine you’re a fair shot with a pistol. Why, I can see murder in those fetching eyes right now.”
“Make light if you wish, but this is not the moment to underestimate me. Had I such a weapon, you would be clutching your heart this instant and dropping to your knees. Fortunately for you, I do not have time for murder this morning.”
She pivoted on her heel and faced the street, hoping another hackney would emerge through the veil.
“Do you always take offense when a man pays you a compliment?”
“From a man such as you, it was most unwelcome.”
Behind her, he answered in a low, husky laugh that tunneled through her in a decadent rush of warm tingles, effectively proving her a liar.
She’d never encountered anyone like him, so bold and flirtatious, inciting her blushes as well as her ire as no true gentleman would have done. Her family had always endeavored to keep her in the company of those who understood the rules of propriety and lived by them. Yet this man was unfettered by such restraints. And the strangest part of it all was her own reaction to him.
She was speaking her mind as she never would have done if he were a gentleman. In polite society, she embodied decorum and affability in every word and gesture. But here, cocooned in fog on the pavement in front of a gaming hell, she was rather shocked by her own impudence.
“And what do you know of me?”
She answered without hesitation. “I’ve heard that those with sinful natures prefer the cover of darkness. Frankly, I’m surprised you are about at this time of day. Shouldn’t all rogues and roués be abed by sunrise?”
“Only the fortunate ones,” he said in an even lower tone that altered the meaning of her statement, turning it decidedly risqué. “Men such as I, however, never sleep. It’s just a constant parade of sin all day long.”
Part of her—and she would reprimand herself for this later—wondered what a parade of sin might look like. With such limited knowledge, her imagination didn’t even know where to begin. The notion was intriguing to say the least.
But Briar had no time for murder or for random titillation.
A carriage approached and she lifted her arm automatically. But instead of seeing a cab for hire, a noisy landau lumbered past, shades drawn.
Another spear of disappointment pricked her. She needed to hurry or she could miss her opportunity, and all her careful planning would come to naught.
Where was a hackney when she needed one?
The answer was obvious. Her hackney was a good distance away, and all because this man had appropriated the one that had rightfully been hers.
She whirled around to face the culprit. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you never sleep, considering your tawdry public exhibition. It shocked me to the very core of my being.”
“It wasn’t shock you were feeling in your”—he leaned in, his voice dropping to a seductive murmur—“core, but something else altogether, love.”
His sinful gaze gleamed at her. This close, his irises were not simply a dark ebony, but woven with slim striations of amber that gave them a lustrous sheen. Being snared by them, her skin grew taut, prickling with gooseflesh down her arms.
“You really shouldn’t say such things,” she admonished on a breath, a wayward pulse fluttering at her throat.
She felt her nostrils flare as she caught the cloying odor of a woman’s perfume rising from his black wool greatcoat—something dreadful with hyacinth and gardenia. But there was another fragrance, too—something richer, deeper, and entirely masculine. The musky aroma reminded her of leather boots warming by the fire, and of autumn leaves baked in the sunshine. An unexpectedly appealing combination.
“Gee—o!”
The call broke through the haze surrounding Briar, bringing her focus back to her purpose. Intent on one goal, she whirled around. She didn’t even bother to bid farewell to the stranger. It wasn’t likely she would ever see him again, regardless.
Slipping her fingers into the special pocket of her cloak, Briar grasped a coin. She held it aloft like a trophy as she stepped onto the street . . . and directly into a pile of horse dung. There was no denying that terrible, warm squish.
No! This couldn’t be happening. Not now.
And yet, it was. Lifting the hem of her skirt, she saw that her slipper had made a perfect impression in the brown-green muck. An involuntary whimper escaped her but she quickly shook herself free of dread. There was still hope, after all. If she managed to raise her foot at the correct angle, then she might be able to save her lucky slipper.
Distracted by her task, she didn’t realize the yellow carriage bearing down on her had no intention of stopping.
* * *
Nicholas didn’t have a chance to call out a warning. One minute, he was enjoying a morning’s flirtation after a lackluster tryst, and the next he was dashing into the street, hellbent for leather.
He caught her just in time. Roping an arm around the young woman’s slender waist, he hauled her against him and stumbled back to the pavement before they were both flattened by the hackney.
“You little fool!” His heart battered against the cage of his ribs where the wall of his chest met the delicate wings of her shoulder blades. Still in the grip of icy panic, he couldn’t even take pleasure in the soft curves fitting perfectly against him. Instead, he had the urge to shake her until her teeth rattled. “Are you in such a bloody rush that you would risk your life to hail a cab?”
“I wouldn’t be in a bloody rush if you hadn’t appropriated the only one! I must get to the . . . Oh, look what you’ve made me do to my slipper.”
Her lithe body jerked forward as if she expected him to release her so that she could run into the street. Again.
Unbelievable. “You’re worried about a shoe?”
Tightening his grip, he drew her further ba
ck onto the footpath. Not wanting to give in to the temptation to throttle her, he bid her to hold on to the lamppost, then released her.
“It isn’t just any ordinary shoe.” She pointed toward the pale slipper left behind in the street, the heel arching aloft while the toe was inches deep in shite. “That is one half of a pair of lucky slippers, so be careful how you extract it.”
Nicholas had not been accustomed to taking orders for many years now. And if it wasn’t for the sweet, airy sound of her voice—holding no more of an edge than a toasted meringue—he might have left the shoe in the gutter.
He was no hero, after all. He was a rake. And rakes did not rescue damsels in distress or their wayward apparel. At least not until this moment, apparently.
Scrubbing a hand over his face, he expelled a tight breath and tromped into the street.
“Whenever I wear them, something momentous happens,” she continued, her tone lilting with encouragement. “Like the day a duchess became the patroness of my sisters and me. The day I arrived in London. And even last week when the clerk in the confectionary shop put four ginger comfits in my parcel when I’d only had coin enough for two. And just now, they saved me from a dangerous encounter with a carriage.”
Nicholas headed back to her, soiled shoe in hand. “I believe I was the one who pulled you to safety. Not the slippers.”
“Yes, but if I hadn’t been wearing them, then you wouldn’t have needed to save me. Therefore, they are lucky.” Glancing down, her wispy brows furrowed and she tsked. “And now you’ve ruined them with your willy-nilly extraction.”
“Willy . . . nilly? I could just as easily toss it back into the street and see how you fare on your own.” He turned, making a show of doing just that.
She hopped forward and seized his arm with both of her dainty gloved hands. “There’s no call for barbarism. I was only pointing out that if you’d paid attention to the weave of fabric, then it wouldn’t be caked with so much . . . so much . . .” She pursed those harlot red lips as if searching for a proper word.
“Horse shite?” he supplied, believing there was no reason to put a coat of varnish over it.
“Yes, that.” Pink tinged the crests of her cheeks as she held out her hand for her shoe.
Instead of giving it back, however, he reached into his pocket, prepared to set matters aright.
“If you’re looking for your handkerchief, I believe you lent it to the woman you were devouring a few moments ago.”
Hmm . . . yes. He’d already forgotten about her. Which was the point of random encounters, he supposed. After attending a masquerade last night, he’d forgone the company of his usual paramours in favor of the anonymous woman in scarlet, hoping the novelty would break him out of his ennui.
It had not.
Of course, it wasn’t the woman’s fault. She’d been comely enough, lively, even if too clingy for his tastes. She’d kept inviting him to spend the day with her, intimating a desire to become a permanent fixture in his life. Though, like he’d told her, he had no need for a mistress because he was heading to the country in a day or two. Rendezvous were solely for pleasure, not attachment. So he’d done his best to send her off with a fond memory, even if he’d been left unsatisfied.
He patted his empty pocket. “It would have been ungentlemanly of me to leave a task only half-done. Though the farewell I was bidding my companion seemed to hold your undivided attention.”
She sniffed, straightening her shoulders. “It is rare in polite society to witness an act of cannibalism. I was merely astonished by the spectacle.”
He laughed, knowing she was deluding herself. From the first glance, she’d been just as intrigued by him as he’d been by her. And his own reason wasn’t because of her flawless beauty, for he’d been with many such women. What struck him was the openness in her rapt expression, as if the world were bright and new and every part of it fascinating.
In his circle, everyone was guarded and jaded. Usually for good reason. They tupped to pass the time, filling empty hours. They gambled fortunes on bad cards, hoping to feel something of the thrill they’d once had, long ago. When that didn’t work, they tried other ventures—traveling and whatnot. Yet it would all end the same. None of those in his circle could ever capture the guileless animation in this young woman’s countenance.
As for her, if she found comfort in self-deception, then he would not deny her. After all, in a moment from now, he would never see this fresh-faced miss again. And all the better for her.
“In regard to your shoe,” he said with a glance over his shoulder toward the glossy black carriage that waited, “I believe my driver can assist us. A splash of whisky from his flask, a quick wipe of a tack cloth, and it will be good as new.”
She snatched the slipper out of his grasp and glared at him. “That has been your carriage all this time?”
“Of course, how else would I find my way home after a night of debauchery?”
“You are about to discover that answer,” she said with resolute calm.
Before he could ask what she meant, she hopped away from him, holding her skirts in one hand and her shoe in the other. Then she reached out and took hold of the door. “I am appropriating your carriage, sir.”
“Indeed? And how do you expect to do that without my permission? I’m afraid Adams is rather loyal to me.”
She pointed her soiled shoe at him. “You owe me recompense.”
A peculiar thrill sprinted through him. He wasn’t certain if the quickening of his blood was a warning to steer clear of this young woman and her absurd sense of logic, or an inducement to stay the course. However, since the previous hours had afforded him nothing by way of genuine entertainment, he chose the latter. A few more minutes in her company could hardly damage a devout rake’s sensibilities, after all.
“You heard the lady, Adams.”
She extended her arm, wiggling her fingers impatiently. “And I’m going to need that flask as well.”
Amused, Nicholas obliged her and closed the carriage door. Then he launched his frame up into the driver’s seat, hip to hip with Adams.
Under the brim of a coachman’s hat, brown eyes squinted in disapproval.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Nicholas said. “It’s clear as the nose on my face that she’s out of her element here, gadding about the degenerate streets in the early hours like a country lass. She’s far too young and likely to get herself into trouble.”
“And perhaps for that reason we should see her home, my lord.”
Nicholas grinned. “But where would be the fun in that?”
Chapter 2
“And then, he saved her life. Did you ever hear of that?— A water party; and by some accident she was falling overboard. He caught her.”
Jane Austen, Emma
“I’m ever so sorry, Miss Bourne, but his lordship just left.”
No. Briar shook her head, the quick, desperate motion causing the narrow alleyway and the freckled coffee shop maid to blur out of focus.
Then again, another cause might have been the few sips from the driver’s flask on the way here. “Becky, I cannot be too late. My entire existence is depending upon this morning. Lord Hulworth is the one bachelor who will entice the ton. My success depends on him.”
“Like I told you, his lordship comes here early every Monday for his breakfast takeaway pot. But don’t fret, for it’s only a week, after all.”
To Briar, that was no consolation. “Do you know what could happen in seven whole days? He might drop dead from a heart seizure—he is five and thirty, you know—or worse, he might decide to find a bride without our assistance.”
Becky knew all about the Bourne Matrimonial Agency. Until a month ago, she’d been living on a tenant farm at Uncle Ernest’s estate in Hampshire. But when he’d let the place to start the agency, Becky had packed her things and taken a chance on a new life in London, too. And better still, with her job in this shop, she’d introduced Briar to the wonders of sippin
g chocolate.
She laid a comforting hand on Briar’s shoulder. “Fear not, for I took that calling card you gave me and tied it with a string to his parcel. It won’t be any time at all before he’s reading your name and wondering all about the Miss Bourne it belongs to. He’ll be knocking on your door for calling hours tomorrow, mark my words.”
“I shall wish upon an eyelash that it comes true.” Briar heaved out a sigh, wavering a bit on the uneven cobblestones beneath her feet. She was thankful that when the driver had helped her down from the carriage he’d told her he would take her home after her errand. “At least the day is not lost, however. I still have chocolate to look forward to.”
It was a wonder what this shop could do with a humble bean. Dried and crushed into a silky powder, the cocoa was combined with pepper and cinnamon, almonds and aniseed, then formed into cakes. Mixed in a copper pot with sugar and milk, the rich brew was whipped by the cook into a frenzy that resulted in a thick viscous drink with mountains of divine froth rising to the top.
“I’m afraid I have bad news,” Becky said warily. “Lord Hulworth had the last cup.”
Briar blinked. She was speechless for a full minute, waiting for Becky to crack a smile and say she was teasing. But she never did.
“No chocolate? If it’s a matter of preparation, I’m willing to wait.” Briar knew that it took a long time for the cocoa to blend with the milk. It was a most delicate and delicious process.
“Mr. Studgers got into a row at the market for the high price. Said he refused to buy any more until they were reasonable again.”
“Surely you have some in a tin that I could purchase and have Mrs. Darden make at home.” She fumbled with the coin purse tucked inside her cloak.
“Lord Hulworth took the last cake, too.”
Briar winced, the statement effectively cutting her hopes twofold. Not only had her lucky slippers let her down, but this? At once, she understood what Caesar had felt the moment of Brutus’s attack. Et tu, chocolate?
“Here, now. I can’t have you despairing. Let me check the pot one more time.” Becky held up her index finger and disappeared through the door.
Ten Kisses to Scandal (Misadventures in Matchmaking) Page 2
