“Does he know you took them?” he asked.
She nodded. “He gave them to me.”
He raised his brows. “I would like to meet your brother.”
You already have.
Bryony wondered what Max would think if he ever realized that Heath Grenville, fixer of all of Society’s scandals, had willingly loaned men’s clothing to not one but two of his sisters.
“Have you any siblings?” Bryony asked instead.
He hesitated. “A sister.”
“I should like to meet her,” she blurted. Any sister of Max’s must be equally fascinating.
“No,” he said curtly and turned back to his journals.
Bryony could not help but feel that she had just received the cut direct.
It was embarrassing to think she was not good enough to meet the sister of a man who ran a gambling club, but nor could she blame him for being selective. Just because he tolerated her here did not mean he wished to spend additional time in her company. She glanced away.
What did he see when he looked at her? Neither man nor a woman, perhaps. An unwanted distraction.
He did not kick her out of his office, but nor had he ever invited her to return. She was supposed to be smart. Perhaps that was her clue.
What if he didn’t want her here at all, but was simply too much of a gentleman to demand that she leave, now that he knew she was a lady? Her heart twisted.
The Cloven Hoof had quickly become one of her favorite refuges. Yet perhaps all she was doing was ruining Max’s solitude. If she never came back, would he even notice her absence? Would he be grateful that she had finally taken the hint?
A shiver of mortification slid down her spine and she gave herself an involuntary hug for warmth. Foolish girl. She should leave. This had gone on long enough.
As if reading her mind, Max leapt to his feet.
Bryony slid from his desk in embarrassment. “I’m going to—”
“I’ve got it,” he interrupted, and walked past her to the fireplace, where he reached for a fire iron to stoke the flames higher.
Her heart skipped in wonder.
He had not registered her awkwardness, but sensed her shiver. He was not afraid she would stay, but worried she might go.
Speechless at this new development, she stepped closer to him just as he turned to face her. Their feet tangled.
He caught her before she could crash into him, but did not immediately let her go.
Possibly because she held onto him for dear life.
The fireiron clanged forgotten to the carpet. They both ignored it. Their eyes were on each other.
There were no protective layers of shift and gown and lace separating her legs from his.
His powerful thighs were encased in skintight buckskin, soft leather over hard muscles just inviting to be touched.
Her own legs trembled in thin nankeen trousers, her hips inches from his.
Because the club was not yet open, she had tossed her greatcoat on the settee where it too could afford her no protection. Her brother’s old jacket was too tight to button over her bosom, so she hadn’t bothered. Which left her with little between them.
The thin linen shirt might hide her chest from view, but Bryony suspected Max could sense the heaving of her lungs and the frantic beating of her heart all the same.
