But he nodded, anyway.
She pointed down the long stretch of the arcade. “You’ve got all these shops here. Then beyond, you’ve got Piccadilly.” She pointed the opposite direction. “You’ve got Old Bond Street.” She pointed yet another direction. “Then New Bond Street. So many milliners, dressmakers, shoemakers, and jewelers all around.”
He didn’t know how to react in the face of all her passion.
And that was…new.
His past self—and his present self, to be honest—knew exactly how to handle a woman’s passion…inside a bed.
But never had he encountered this level of passion outside it.
Well, he had.
The sort of passion that involved beds could be had as easily outside it.
But the passion of Miss Tilly Birdwell was a different sort altogether.
Her eyes burned with the fervor of a Renaissance saint, as she said, “An entrepreneurial spirit could make something of it.” Then she snorted and shook her head. “A gel like me couldn’t have a shop here.”
“Why not?”
“You would ask that, wouldn’t you?”
“Me?”
“A lord.”
He supposed he would never live that condition down.
He would always be a lord.
Then they were walking in earnest, traversing the blocks between them and a luxurious tea in silence, and it occurred to Rhys that, perhaps, he should’ve offered to take her to Gunter’s instead of Mivart’s.
Mivart’s was one of London’s premiere hotels, and as such, it was fashionable and exclusive.
It also happened to have been a place where he’d met more than a few ladies for an indiscreet tête-à-tête.
Well, today his intentions were pure as the driven snow.
He simply wanted to take Miss Birdwell there for tea.
Treat her to it.
This woman, who was a lady’s maid and sometime card cheat and indiscriminate giver of Christmas gifts and possessor of passions great, she deserved a treat.
The doorman, having recognized Rhys from rakish days past, readily swung the front door wide for them with a wink. Then it was the concierge rushing forward. “Lord Rhys, it has been a while.”
He nodded in greeting. “A table for two for tea.”
Discreetly, but not imperceptibly, the concierge appraised Miss Birdwell and would’ve immediately determined Lord Rhys Osborne was accompanied by a woman who wasn’t a lady. So, he led them through the mostly empty banquet room used for afternoon tea service and seated them at a discreet corner table.
Miss Birdwell wouldn’t have noticed.
But Rhys did.
And he was irritated.
Irritated by the quiet class snobbery.
