Reuben settled for bowing low, lifting her fingers to his lips before she could stop him, then stepping aside to welcome her into his lodgings.
The door to the bedchamber was closed, so as not to frighten her off. The entranceway doubled as a parlor. A sofa and two armchairs flanked an oval table, upon which Reuben—or, rather, the hotel maids—had laid out a gorgeous tea service.
He waited for Miss Smith to settle into an armchair before taking the one opposite her. It appeared the sofa would, for the moment, go unused. He would have much rather shared that cozy cushion with her, thigh to thigh, arm about her shoulders, yet the truth was, Miss Smith was right: The ghosts of Reuben’s past might make him believe he shared a powerful connection with her, but they had only just met. He might be an inveterate rakehell, however, even libertines knew that the trick was taking one’s time, not frighten off the prey.
“Shall I pour?” he asked.
“Allow me.”
Miss Smith’s elegant hands poured the tea with brisk efficiency, as though she had presided over countless such tables, in company far more illustrious than that in which she currently found herself.
Reuben once again got the impression that she was used to rubbing shoulders with the aristocracy. That perhaps this woman would not be a stranger to him now if he had bothered to attend any of the beau monde’s soirées properly, rather than limit himself to lurking in its shadows.
She lifted a heavy reticule onto her lap and started to untie the string holding the large, lumpy bag together.
“Do you need something?” he asked. “There’s plenty of sugar in this covered dish, and I can always ring for—”
She pulled a charmless, utilitarian hourglass from her reticule, then placed it beside the teapot. “Now we can begin.”
He stared at the hourglass. “What is that?”
“An hourglass.”
“I can see that.”
She stirred her tea. “Then why did you ask?”
“I meant, what is it doing?”
“Counting down the hour.”
He gritted his teeth. “Why is it doing that?”
“I never give a man more than an hour of my time.”
Reuben glared at the hourglass in consternation. He had finally managed to lure Miss Smith somewhere comfortable and private, and was now only to be granted sixty minutes in which to enjoy her company?
“Don’t scowl so,” she chided him. “It’s unbecoming. Besides, proper afternoon visits between a lady and a gentleman aren’t meant to last longer than twenty or thirty minutes.”
“I thought we’d established that you’re not a lady, and I am no gentleman,” he grumbled.
“Which is why I have allotted you up to one hour.” She sipped her tea. “You should be flattered.”
“Up to an hour?” he repeated, aghast.
“You must agree that time is one’s most precious resource. Once lost, it is gone forever, and cannot be regained. I take great care in determining how best to spend mine.”
Oh, all right. Challenge accepted.
He smiled wolfishly. “I suppose your time must also be earned, just like your kisses?”
She fluttered her lashes at him. “Why, the gossips were wrong about you, Mr. Medford. You do have a working brain.”
“I’m not thinking with my brain,” he assured her. “Except insofar as to strategize how I might earn acts far more scandalous than kisses.”
She lifted her cup of steaming tea back to her lips, as though to hide a smile.
The deliberately provocative comment had been glib—and true—but in Miss Smith’s case, Reuben found himself wishing she actually would see him as more than a randy rake mindlessly following his cock’s every whim.
