The rest of the speech was pretty enough, but Bryony could only focus on those three little words. She was right. He had listened to her. He had taken her seriously.
He was the only man besides her brother ever to have done so, and this despite having given Max precious little reason to have any particular faith in her, mathematically or otherwise.
This was what kind of person hewas. Tough, but fair. Willing to entertain differing interpretations of available facts before forming a decision. Willing to listen to someone like her.
Bryony’s heart thumped. Max’s surprising openness made her want to rise to the challenge even more, to give him a reason to keep respecting her.
“You’re not unfortunate anymore,” she said with a teasing grin. “Now you have me.”
His expression hardened. “I do not have you, nor should you be here.”
She flinched. He was right. She deserved that.
Nonetheless, she wished more than anything that the opposite was true. That hedidhave her. That shecouldbe here. That together, they could create something more.
“You could have me if you wished,” she said in a small voice. “I could be like a clerk. Off in some corner, unnoticeable until you need me.”
Max shook his head. “You’re not a clerk. You’re a woman. This is a gentleman’s club. You don’t belong.”
He was being truthful, not hurtful. And yet it hurt all the same. “It’s your club. You make the rules.”
“My club, but not my rules.” He gestured about them. “This is what a gentleman’s clubis. Having a woman around, as a clerk or otherwise, would change the atmosphere in a non-advantageous way.”
He was probably right. No, he was all but assuredly right. But she could not help but wish that he were not.
“Men and women have been known to get along,” she muttered.
“Have they?” he asked drolly. “The only club where High Society men and women get together are marriage markets like Almack’s, which is not the environment I am trying to recreate.”
Nor was it what Bryony wanted from him.
What she suddenly, desperately wished, was that a place like this was available to a person like her. To women like her.
She didn’t want to sneak into Boodle’s dressed in men’s clothing. She wanted to be able to attend establishments like the Cloven Hoof as herself. As Bryony. The eclectic mix of backgrounds and personalities and classes was more than refreshing.
It seemed heavenly.
She longed to be able to join in the conversations, the games, the teasing. Have an overpriced glass of port if she wished. By all accounts, the atmosphere in the Cloven Hoof was convivial and relaxed in a way she had never witnessed.
To many, this gambling den was home. A dark, shadowy nook that was positively welcoming to any gentleman worthy of Maxwell Gideon’s approval.
But not to her. Never to her.
A knock sounded against the door. Startled, Bryony’s eyes met Max’s.
He motioned toward the settee at the opposite side of the room. “Behind the folding screen. Now.”
She was already moving, flying off his desk and across the carpet to her predetermined hiding spot. Her blood pumped much too fast, her heart too loud.
The door creaked open just as Max was crossing to answer it.
“Situation up front,” said a nervous male voice. “Afraid we need you for this one.”
“Of course,” came Max’s low, smooth cadence.
The door clicked shut.
Bryony didn’t know if Max had glanced her way before quitting the room. She didn’t know how long he would be gone, or what he intended to say to her when he returned.
