“Can’t but admire the girl’s eagerness, sir.”
Mr. Adamson offered no reply.
The problem for Gabe was that he admired a great deal more than Clarissa Ruthven’s eagerness.
The lady got under his every defense. This morning he’d arrived early, vowing to take a new tack, to remember when he caught sight of her that this was a place of business. Her brother had entrusted her mentoring to his care.
But she’d come in humming merrily and drawing that damned cluster of pretty flowers from her bag. The minute their gazes clashed across the office, every vow he’d made shattered, and he’d only wished to see her smile.
In the ring, he’d quickly learned that taking every opening to throw a punch took too much energy. He’d learned the power of feint, flight, defense. How to keep light on his feet, to anticipate his opponents’ moves, ducking and weaving to tire them out.
But there was no ducking away from what Clary stirred in him. Nor was there any escape from the disaster that would result if he gave up his defenses and let her in. He would hurt her, and she would end up loathing the very sight of him.
“Thank you for these, Daughtry,” he said, dismissing his assistant. After lowering himself into his chair, he planted his elbows on his desk and steepled his fingers in front of him. How had a plan with such promise—minding his employer’s youngest sister for an increase in pay—come to this?
She and her cheery blooms had gone, but he was still drowning in her scent, ruminating on her smile, wishing she was buzzing around his office again.
Work. That had been his salvation years ago. He’d been awful at managing Ruthven’s at the start. Only by applying discipline had he been able to succeed. Surely he could do the same now.
Turning his attention to Daughtry’s reports, he found details missing, especially particulars about inventory. He took the folder and a fountain pen and headed for the storage room, managing to avoid a glance Clary’s way. Time passed quickly as he recounted ink supplies and began comparing the various brands they’d purchased against Daughtry’s reports. He’d left out one entirely, and Gabe began doubting the accuracy of the rest of his numbers. He examined the rolls of paper and other stock. By the time he’d finished, his first appointment with an ink vendor was just minutes away.
The workroom was quiet, clerks bent over their work, as he made his way back to his office. Precisely the kind of diligence and productivity he liked to see.
A few feet from his door, he caught Clary’s scent in the air. Before he could stop himself, he pulled in a deep breath. Then, on the threshold, irritation began bubbling in his veins like boiling water.
Despite three empty chairs in the office, she’d perched her perfect round bottom on the edge of his desk, pushing his blotter aside and moving the brass stand that usually held his fountain pen. One booted foot swung near the side of the desk, buffeting the battered wood.
She had her back to him and scanned a newspaper stretched between her hands. His newspaper. To keep abreast of publishing news and nationwide events that might affect the business, he read the Times every day. One copy, which he purchased, neatly folded, and placed at the upper corner of his desk each morning.
A corner now adorned with a petite blonde hellion.
He wasn’t sure which was more maddening—her complete lack of respect for his space or the sensual lines of her curves. The lady was made for embracing, for shaping one’s hands above the camber of her hips. Too bad he’d never have the chance again, since he’d vowed not to touch her or think of her as anything other than his mentee and Ruthven’s co-owner.
“Would you mind taking a chair, Miss Ruthven?”
Her spine stiffened, and he could have sworn her neck lengthened an inch. Which only drew his eye to the knot of flaxen hair above the downy skin of her nape.
Finally, she sprang into action. After dropping his newspaper, she swiveled on his desk and hopped down. Then she made an enormous production of lowering herself into a chair, fussing with her skirt, settling the fabric just so. Finally, she perched her clasped hands in her lap, the picture of feminine propriety. Except for the tattoo of her boot heel against the floor and a glint of rebellion in her eyes.
“Happy now?” she asked archly.
Not in the least. He hated himself for it; he liked her better on top of his desk. “Only pleased that you’re using furniture as it was intended.”
She grinned, revealing dimples in each cheek and a tantalizing divot at the edge of her chin that he’d somehow failed to notice. “Tell me,” she said. “Were you always so ridiculously rule bound, or did my father convert you?”
Mention of her father sounded a warning bell in Gabe’s head. That was not a path he wished to tread, nor one he wanted her to explore.
“A man who works for an etiquette-book publisher should believe in his product, should he not?”
“You can’t truly like the Ruthven Rules books. They’re dry as stale toast, outmoded in the extreme. No one behaves like that anymore”—she lifted a hand and swiped through the air to indicate the row of hardbound Ruthven Rules books on a shelf behind his desk—“and if they did, everyone would consider them a frightful bore.” She smirked, and the tilt of her voluptuous mouth felt a bit like a dare.
“Perhaps you’re correct, Miss Ruthven.” He didn’t mind ceding her this skirmish. The battle to resist her would be a long one.
“Of course I am.” Her pale brows knitted together, and her mouth slackened. A bit of fire banked in her amethyst eyes.
“What would you suggest?” Gabe laid his folder on the desk and settled his fountain pen in its place, putting his tray and brass pen stand back where they belonged. “You clearly have opinions on this and every other topic. How should people behave? If not according to long-accepted rules of etiquette, then how?”
“I . . . ” Her lips continued to move, shaping words that never emerged.
“Impulsively?” Gabe would frighten her if he gave in to his impulses. If he ever let her see just what she did to him. He lifted a fresh piece of foolscap from his desk to take notes for the upcoming meeting, but the thin paper skittered across the surface, almost escaping over the edge. She reached out at the same moment he did, and their hands met, hers landing atop his.
He should have pulled away. She should have retracted her hand. Neither of them moved. The office heated, and the air became charged.
“You’re playing with fire,” he warned her, though the admonition was truly for himself.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she whispered.
“You should be.” This near, her scent surrounded him. If he closed his eyes, he could convince himself he’d wandered into an English country garden, far away from the city’s smoke and soot. But he wasn’t a man given to fancies, and he’d learned long ago the mistake of closing one’s eyes, even for a moment, when an opponent might strike.
Clary was the loveliest opponent he’d ever faced in his life.
At the sound of movement in the outer office, they pulled away from each other. He missed her warmth, her soft skin, immediately.
“The ink vendor is first,” he said, clearing his throat and trying desperately to care about the price of supplies.
“Right.” She opened a notebook on her lap and removed a pencil she’d tucked between the buttons of her shirtwaist. Oh, to be that damned pencil.
Yet it wasn’t the ink vendor who crossed the threshold but Daughtry, rolling in a wheeled cart like a bloody footman.
“You got the cart,” Clary enthused, springing up from her chair. “It’s perfect.”
Atop said cart was a steaming teapot, several cups, a plate of digestive biscuits, and a tiny clear glass vase containing a bit of water and a few of her spring blooms. All sat centered on a dainty doily. Gabe squinted around his office to ensure that, in the fog of yearning she provoked, he hadn’t wandered into a London townhouse for tea.
He pointed toward the tray. “I’m sure there’s an explana
tion.” He wasn’t sure he’d like it, but he suspected she had one.
“I think meetings should be as pleasant as possible. Flowers”—she grinned at him—“because they are required everywhere. Tea because it makes everything better, and biscuits in case anyone’s peckish.”
“We’re conducting business meetings, Miss Ruthven, not a ladies’ afternoon social.”
“Being hospitable to others and enjoying the simple pleasures of life shouldn’t be women’s exclusive domain.”
“They shouldn’t be part of a business gathering either.” He was beginning to overheat. He longed to wrench the tie from his neck and fling the strip of fabric at the teapot. “Where the hell did you even get a teapot?”
She scrunched her brow. “From the tea shop two doors down.”
“Take it out, Daughtry.” He waved the damned frilly feminine lot of nonsense away. A part of him, the rational man of business, wanted her to go too. Yet the rest of him, the man who had suddenly become addicted to the scent of spring flowers, longed for her to stay.
“No!” She braced a hand on the tray. “Please, Mr. Adamson.”
Gabe narrowed his gaze at her. That name was like a twist of the knife now. He hated to hear her call him by his surname when he knew the devilish pleasure of hearing his given name on her lips.
He was defeated. Like those rare moments when an opponent bested him in the ring. He relented. “Leave the damned thing, Daughtry. Pour yourself a cup, if you like.”
The old man chuckled. “We’ll see if the vendor wants some first, shall we? I’ll send him in as soon as he arrives.” He ducked out after offering Clary a conspiratorial wink.
“Thank you,” she said softly to Gabe. She beamed at him, a dazzling smile that turned to spirals of pleasure in his chest.
No, this didn’t feel like a defeat at all. When she smiled at him that way, he felt like a victor. As if he’d vanquished the dragon and every other foe. It was the headiest satisfaction he’d ever felt in his life.
But another emotion came too. Terror. Every bit as powerful as the pleasure. She possessed power over him, as easily wielded as a smile, and he had no earthly idea how to resist her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“I’m learning how much can be conveyed, without words, with a single glance.”
—JOURNAL OF CLARY RUTHVEN
After the second vendor meeting, Clary was astounded at how much Gabriel knew about the inner workings of her family’s business. Down to specific numbers of inventory. He was conversant with binderies, printers, distributors, which bookstores favored their stock and which did not. He also seemed apprised of their competitor’s businesses, not to mention the various features and costs of every product each vendor offered. One discussion with an ink distributor had lasted ten minutes on the topic of the translucency and viscosity of their various brands.
By the fifth meeting, she had no idea how he remained seated in one spot for such a long stretch at a time. Between each visitor, she paced around his office or went out onto the pavement for a breath of air. During meetings, she found herself tapping her pencil, her fingers, her heels. And then he’d look at her, not in the chastising way of a man charged as her mentor, but a shadow of the way he had in the library. An intense look, as if she was the only other person in the room. He had a knack for choosing the moments when their visitor had his head down, making notes.
His looks were almost as powerful as his touch, warming her from across the room. She spent a good deal of time sipping tea, which only made her warmer and more eager to move.
The last vendor ate every last biscuit and complimented her on the tea. Daughtry had fetched them a second pot midday, and the flavor was deeper and richer than the first.
“This was very nice,” Mr. Bast said as he stood to depart, handing Clary his empty teacup. “I never get treated with half this much thoughtfulness when calling on your competitors, Miss Ruthven.”
“Then you should remember us, Mr. Bast.” Clary grinned at the slim young man. “And give us a discount.”
He chuckled so heartily that the two wings of his mustache danced above his lips. “Perhaps I shall do just that, Miss Ruthven. You’ll be receiving a proposal from me via post based on our discussion, Mr. Adamson. Thank you both.” He tipped his hat before ramming it onto his pomaded blond hair and striding from the office.
“Is that the last one?” Clary paced, swinging her arms and stretching her back to ease the knots from sitting too long.
“For today,” Gabe said as he watched her. “Though as charmed as they all were by you, I suspect most would be willing to return tomorrow if you like.”
“Were they charmed?” She pivoted to make her way back toward him and deliberately passed behind him. He’d shed his coat midday, and the shiny material of his dark gray waistcoat fit snuggly, emphasizing his narrow waist and broad back.
He twisted his head to watch her pass. “You know they were.”
“You almost sound jealous, Mr. Adamson.” Returning to her chair, she retrieved her notebook and clutched it to her chest.
Ignoring her comment, he pointed. “What did you write in there? You were scribbling madly during every meeting.”
“Just notes.” Clary slid the small notebook behind her. “Nothing important.”
He grinned, and she sucked in a breath. How long had she wished he’d smile at her? Now she knew why he dispensed them so rarely. His grins were potent.
“Well, now I’m desperate to see,” he said as he came out from behind his desk and stalked toward her.
“Honestly, there’s nothing here you don’t know.” Clary gulped as he drew nearer. “In fact, I meant to say that I am very impressed with your . . . ” Her mind filled, and she forced herself to narrow in on today. “Your knowledge of the publishing industry and Ruthven’s.”
“That is my job, you know.” He came close enough for his boots to shift the hem of her skirt.
Clary nodded and stared at the knot of his necktie. “And you’re clearly very good at your job.”
“What’s in your notebook?”
“Words.”
He crossed his arms, and his shirt-sleeves brushed her bodice. “Is there anything I can do to persuade you to show me?”
So many things.
The shuffle of feet indicated the workroom was emptying. He glanced up as if he could see through the frosted glass of his door.
“We should both be headed off.” He backed away.
She hated when he walked away from her. When he turned his back on what was between them. Clary shoved her notebook at him. “Here.”
His eyes lit as if she’d offered a present wrapped in shiny paper and trimmed with bows. He parted the binding gently.
Clary winced and held her breath.
“Good grief.” He flipped pages. “You decorate every inch of every page.”
She did have a tendency to scribble in the margins. Often the drawings around the edge had nothing to do with the main composition. At one time, bunnies had been a favorite embellishment, but she’d grown out of that.
He continued flipping, and when he swallowed hard, she knew he’d found today’s pages. “You . . . watch me very closely.”
“There are words too,” she insisted, pointing to the notes about ink vendors and paper mills in the middle and ignoring the sketches of his face, his eyes, his jaw, the waves of his hair.
“You left off the scars.” He offered her a tight grin. “Not artistic, are they?”
“Actually, I didn’t.” Clary flipped to the next page, where she’d focused on his brow and his lips, and to the next, where she’d sketched his hands. No one could miss the crisscross of scars on his right hand. “How did you get them?”
He closed her book, took her hand, and pressed the leather binding against her palm. “Not a story worth your time. Nor a page of your notebook.”
He wouldn’t tell her. He’d shut himself away as easily as he’d closed the pages of her book. All the sp
ark had gone from his eyes, and his jaw tightened. “Thank you for sitting in on the meetings today.”
She wasn’t sure if she’d offended him with her question or frightened him with her excessive drawing studies of his face. But before she knew it, he had donned his overcoat and was halfway to the door.
“Shall we walk out together?”
Clary followed him, racking her mind for anything she could say to take them back to the teasing way the day had begun. She didn’t wish to part with such awkwardness between them. “Would you like to accompany me to Fisk Academy?”
He tensed, much as Kit did when she mentioned her trips to the East End.
“Sally has the girls obsessed with dancing, and they’re teaching each other in the evenings. You could take a lesson too.”
“Not tonight. Good evening, Miss Ruthven.”
Her look of disappointment gutted him.
Proceeding up the street toward a cab stand, Clary cast peeks back over her shoulder. Those glances stilled him in place. There was no question of accompanying her to the East End, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave his spot on the pavement until he’d seen her safely on her way.
Finally, she climbed up, and the hansom rolled away, but he remained rooted. Recalling her sketches, how she’d recorded his scars boldly. Marveling that she thought him a worthwhile subject for her clever hand at all.
“Plan to stand there all night, guv?”
Gabe cast his gaze into the shadows where the child stood.
“Adamson, ain’t ye?” The thin boy strutted forward and stuck out a hand. “Got a message for ye, guv.” Hidden in his cupped hand was a folded note. “Wouldn’t mind a bit o’ blunt for me trouble.”
“Niven didn’t pay you?” The note was from the old woman. Five words. Peg found. Come at once.
The boy tipped a grin and held out his grubby little hand.
“Did she say anything more?” Gabe flipped a coin in the air, and the boy caught the shilling in his palm.
“A message to ye quick, guv. Nothin’ more.”
How to Woo a Wallflower Page 13
