Nine Rules to Break When Romancing a Rake
Page 34
She pulled her cloak tight around her, eyes darting around the room, not sure where to direct her gaze to retain the calm demeanor that her upbringing required. A burst of masculine laughter startled her into turning toward a large group of men seated at a long table to her left. The men were eyeing a barmaid as she set tankards of ale on the scarred oak tabletop, revealing her ample bosom to the appreciative patrons. Callie’s eyes widened as one particularly forward man grabbed the buxom server and pulled her, squealing, onto his lap for a rude grope. Callie snapped her eyes away from the scene before she could see the next, certainly more scandalous, scene in the tableau.
Unfortunately, she turned toward another, more mutually accommodating couple. To her immediate right, a young woman showing an indecent amount of skin was running a long, feminine finger along the jaw of a gentleman clearly in search of companionship. The two were whispering to each other, lips scant inches apart, eyes locked in a passionate gaze that could only result in one thing…something even the innocent Lady Calpurnia Hartwell could understand. The couple did not notice Callie’s quick intake of breath before she catapulted herself farther inside, heading for the back of the tavern, straight to an empty table in a dimly lit corner—and to him.
If he weren’t so angry with the ridiculous woman, he would be amused.
As she made her way through the crowded room, she tried desperately to avoid touching or even brushing accidentally against the other patrons—an impossible task in the crush of humanity that stood between her and the sanctuary of the empty table within her sights. She seated herself without looking at the people nearby, in an obviously desperate attempt to regain some semblance of calm. She sat with her back to him, but the hood of her plain woolen cloak had fallen back, and he watched as she collected herself and waited for a barmaid to approach. Her hair was up, tucked into a horrid lace cap, but a few auburn curls had escaped and were brushing against the nape of her neck, drawing his attention to the lovely, straight column, flushed with excitement.
For a fleeting moment, he considered what it would be like to kiss the skin there. The scene at the Allendale ball earlier in the evening had confirmed his suspicions that Lady Calpurnia Hartwell was an eager and passionate woman. Her responses were irresistibly uninhibited—so different from those of the women he usually partnered—he couldn’t help but wonder how she would react to his touch in other, more scandalous places.
What was she doing here?
She could be discovered at any moment, by any number of people with connections to London society—she was in St. James, for God’s sake! If that weren’t enough, she had also entered the tavern alone, without protection; were she discovered by the wrong sort of man, she could find herself in a very serious and unpleasant situation. He noticed she held a square of paper firmly in both hands, as if it were a talisman. Could it be a love letter? Was it possible she was meeting a man here?
Of all the irresponsible things she could have done, this might well be the most rash. She tucked the parchment into the pocket of her cloak as a barmaid approached.
“I shall have a whiskey please. A scotch whiskey.”
Had he heard her correctly? Had she just calmly, from her position alone at a darkened table in a London tavern at an ungodly hour, ordered a scotch as though it were the most normal thing in the world?
Had the woman taken leave of her senses?
One thing was certain. He had entirely misjudged little Callie Hartwell. She was most definitely not the appropriate sponsor for Juliana. He’d been looking for a woman of impeccable character and, instead, he had found Callie, who calmly ordered whiskey in London taverns.
Except—
Except there was nothing calm about her. His eyes narrowed as he watched her carefully. She was as stiff as a board. Her breathing, which he measured by the rise and fall of her shoulders, was uneven and shallow. She was nervous. Uncomfortable. And, yet, here she was, in a place he could have told her would make her both of those things. Why? He was going to have to ask her. To confront her. And he knew she wasn’t going to enjoy it.
The barmaid returned with the drink, and Callie paid for it; Ralston noticed she included a handsome addition for the woman’s service. When the server left, he leaned forward to watch as Callie lifted the glass and took a long whiff of the alcohol within. He couldn’t see her face, but he saw her physically recoil with a single harsh cough, shaking her head as if to clear it before repeating the action. This time, she restrained herself from an obvious response, but from the way she bent her head to address the glass, he could tell she was skeptical of the beverage. It was clear she’d never had a drop of scotch in her life. After several moments of her investigation, during which she appeared to be debating whether or not she should drink, Ralston could no longer contain his curiosity.
“That is what you get for ordering whiskey.”
Callie nearly dropped the glass. Ralston couldn’t help feeling a touch vindicated by that. It served the chit right.
She had turned instantly toward him, scotch jostling violently in her glass, and he rose to move to join her at her table.
He gave her credit for quickly recovering from her surprise enough to respond, “I suppose I should have guessed you would be here.”
“You will admit, a lady of good breeding requesting a recommendation for a tavern is not exactly the most common of occurrences.”
“I suppose not.” She looked back at her glass. “I do not suppose I could convince you to return to your table and pretend that you never saw me?”
“I am afraid that would be quite impossible. I could not leave you alone here. You could easily find yourself in a compromising situation.”
Unfortunately, she turned toward another, more mutually accommodating couple. To her immediate right, a young woman showing an indecent amount of skin was running a long, feminine finger along the jaw of a gentleman clearly in search of companionship. The two were whispering to each other, lips scant inches apart, eyes locked in a passionate gaze that could only result in one thing…something even the innocent Lady Calpurnia Hartwell could understand. The couple did not notice Callie’s quick intake of breath before she catapulted herself farther inside, heading for the back of the tavern, straight to an empty table in a dimly lit corner—and to him.
If he weren’t so angry with the ridiculous woman, he would be amused.
As she made her way through the crowded room, she tried desperately to avoid touching or even brushing accidentally against the other patrons—an impossible task in the crush of humanity that stood between her and the sanctuary of the empty table within her sights. She seated herself without looking at the people nearby, in an obviously desperate attempt to regain some semblance of calm. She sat with her back to him, but the hood of her plain woolen cloak had fallen back, and he watched as she collected herself and waited for a barmaid to approach. Her hair was up, tucked into a horrid lace cap, but a few auburn curls had escaped and were brushing against the nape of her neck, drawing his attention to the lovely, straight column, flushed with excitement.
For a fleeting moment, he considered what it would be like to kiss the skin there. The scene at the Allendale ball earlier in the evening had confirmed his suspicions that Lady Calpurnia Hartwell was an eager and passionate woman. Her responses were irresistibly uninhibited—so different from those of the women he usually partnered—he couldn’t help but wonder how she would react to his touch in other, more scandalous places.
What was she doing here?
She could be discovered at any moment, by any number of people with connections to London society—she was in St. James, for God’s sake! If that weren’t enough, she had also entered the tavern alone, without protection; were she discovered by the wrong sort of man, she could find herself in a very serious and unpleasant situation. He noticed she held a square of paper firmly in both hands, as if it were a talisman. Could it be a love letter? Was it possible she was meeting a man here?
Of all the irresponsible things she could have done, this might well be the most rash. She tucked the parchment into the pocket of her cloak as a barmaid approached.
“I shall have a whiskey please. A scotch whiskey.”
Had he heard her correctly? Had she just calmly, from her position alone at a darkened table in a London tavern at an ungodly hour, ordered a scotch as though it were the most normal thing in the world?
Had the woman taken leave of her senses?
One thing was certain. He had entirely misjudged little Callie Hartwell. She was most definitely not the appropriate sponsor for Juliana. He’d been looking for a woman of impeccable character and, instead, he had found Callie, who calmly ordered whiskey in London taverns.
Except—
Except there was nothing calm about her. His eyes narrowed as he watched her carefully. She was as stiff as a board. Her breathing, which he measured by the rise and fall of her shoulders, was uneven and shallow. She was nervous. Uncomfortable. And, yet, here she was, in a place he could have told her would make her both of those things. Why? He was going to have to ask her. To confront her. And he knew she wasn’t going to enjoy it.
The barmaid returned with the drink, and Callie paid for it; Ralston noticed she included a handsome addition for the woman’s service. When the server left, he leaned forward to watch as Callie lifted the glass and took a long whiff of the alcohol within. He couldn’t see her face, but he saw her physically recoil with a single harsh cough, shaking her head as if to clear it before repeating the action. This time, she restrained herself from an obvious response, but from the way she bent her head to address the glass, he could tell she was skeptical of the beverage. It was clear she’d never had a drop of scotch in her life. After several moments of her investigation, during which she appeared to be debating whether or not she should drink, Ralston could no longer contain his curiosity.
“That is what you get for ordering whiskey.”
Callie nearly dropped the glass. Ralston couldn’t help feeling a touch vindicated by that. It served the chit right.
She had turned instantly toward him, scotch jostling violently in her glass, and he rose to move to join her at her table.
He gave her credit for quickly recovering from her surprise enough to respond, “I suppose I should have guessed you would be here.”
“You will admit, a lady of good breeding requesting a recommendation for a tavern is not exactly the most common of occurrences.”
“I suppose not.” She looked back at her glass. “I do not suppose I could convince you to return to your table and pretend that you never saw me?”
“I am afraid that would be quite impossible. I could not leave you alone here. You could easily find yourself in a compromising situation.”
