Where had that rogue—and roguish—thought come from?
He had no right to it. Yet he felt compelled to know more of her—including the taste of her lips.
Particularly her bottom lip, with its subtle pout.
He settled back into the armchair’s worn velvet and resisted the urge to check his pocket watch yet again. Not three minutes could have passed since the last time he’d consulted it. Then, the watch face had read five minutes shy of four o’clock, which meant no more than a pair of minutes would tick by before she was late.
The truth was, he was anxious—even though his appearance gave no indication of his nerves as he sat with an at-ease demeanor, legs slightly splayed, indifferent expression on his face. To all, he would look like any other gentleman of means intent on taking his afternoon tea.
Would she keep her word?
He wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t, after what he’d already put her through. Mud in her eye, literally… His bare chest… Bad luck, that.
Or perhaps it was good luck.
He couldn’t decide.
She hadn’t been able to tear her eyes away from his exposed flesh.
Across the tearoom empty of all but a few sprinkled-about patrons, she appeared. Lucas felt his body relax by a subtle degree. Her gaze landed on him, and her step hitched. It wasn’t too late to turn around—that was what her good sense would be telling her.
Again, his muscles tensed. Then she took one step, and another, in his direction, and again he relaxed.
She was small and delicate, this woman. Her hair and eyes a soft, amber brown to match. Neat, not a fold on her dress or a hair on her head out of place. She didn’t strike him as particularly fussy, but careful. She was the sort of woman who could be easily overlooked—by design he suspected.
But he’d noticed her, and he wanted to keep looking.
Hers was an understated beauty.
And he knew one additional fact about her: She wasn’t a lady. The accent of her speech had revealed as much. Yet the manner with which she comported herself was most graceful and genteel.
At last, she reached his table, and he rose at her approach. As they stood opposite one another, silent, assessing, she shifted, as if unsure how to proceed. He gestured toward the chair beside her. “Please.”
Primly, she sat, placing her reticule on her lap, as if ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. She watched him with a direct, questioning gaze while he lowered into his chair. He knew what question lay within her almond-shaped eyes. What precisely were they doing here?
A question he was, as yet, unprepared to answer.
So, he started with a different one. “How do you take your tea?”
Her eyebrows crinkled for a quick instant. He’d surprised her.Good.“With cream and—” Her gaze landed on the bowl of sugar. Ah, she had a sweet tooth. “One lump of sugar,” she finished.
“Or two, perhaps?” he asked. He wanted to tempt her.
Her mouth twitched. Was that a smile seeking the light? “Two would be even better.”
He felt himself smile. How was it that he already liked this woman so much?
He poured for both of them—after all, she was his guest, and he wasn’t too fussy about the rules surrounding who should be serving whom—and prepared their tea according to their preferences—cream and one… two sugar lumps for her, and black for him. They each took a few sips, observing each other without appearing to observe each other too closely. Still, curiosity could be held at bay only for so long.
“May I be so bold as to ask your name?” he had to ask.
Carefully, she settled her cup into its saucer. “Miss Elinor Tait,” she said, quite proper. “Nell,” she added, as if correcting herself.
There was something odd about that. “Pardon?”
“Everyone calls me Nell.” She gave a self-conscious laugh.
But he felt, strangely, that it was no laughing matter. It was important to her. “What would you prefer to be called?”
