Jane looked at Wayne with sparkling eyes. “Promise me you will see that she enjoys herself.”
Wayne’s throat bobbed, and for the briefest moment, his composure slipped. “I…shall do my best,” he said quietly.
And then Harold was at Regina’s side, tucking her hand firmly into the crook of his arm. “Well then, are you ready?”
She scarcely had time to protest before she was swept toward the door, Wayne falling into step behind. The family’s grand coach awaited, gleaming black lacquer, the crest polished bright. Her heart beat a wild tattoo as Wayne settled beside her, his presence filling the narrow space. His scent of spice and leather wrapped around her, making her stomach tumble with shameful delight.
The coach lurched into motion. Regina tried to breathe evenly. “Harold? Did you not say Jane’s cousins would be joining us?”
“They will meet us there,” he said, already closing his eyes as though to nap.
Her heart sank further. Alone with Wayne. The silence pressed heavily. She wrung her hands, desperate for some topic to keep the air from suffocating her. But Harold was feigning slumber, and Wayne stared out the window, maddeningly serene—as though nothing had transpired between them. As though the world had not tilted in that coach last night.
Perhaps that was better. Perhaps if he treated it as nothing, itwasnothing.
Thirty minutes later, the coach drew up to a low brick building, the muffled roar of voices already spilling from within. When they entered, the air was thick with smoke and sweat, the mingled scents of spirits and bodies pressing close. Crowds filled the seats that rose in tiers about the wooden ring. Men shouted wagers; others waved cups of ale. To Regina’s surprise, several women dotted the crowd, their eyes bright with excitement.
She breathed deeply. For all the impropriety, the familiar thrill tugged at her. This was a place she belonged far more than a dressmaker’s shop.
Jane’s cousins awaited them, boisterous and eager. They greeted Regina with warmth, ushering her into a row of saved seats. She had known them all her life, though she had never once met their parents. Their lack of resemblance to one another—or to the Meyers line—had always struck her as curious.
She sat dutifully beside Harold, but within moments, he exchanged places, seating Wayne at her side while he bent close to speak with his nephews. She stiffened, feeling trapped. There could be no protest without drawing attention.
The first match began, and the crowd thundered approval as two fighters circled, fists raised. Regina leaned forward, willing her focus onto the ring. The men were evenly matched, and each strike was met with a swift counter. Excitement stirred in her chest despite herself.
Yet each time Wayne shifted in his seat, the brush of his sleeve against her arm, the faint warmth of his body at her side, yanked her mercilessly back into awareness of him. Her jaw tightened. She ground her teeth until her temples ached.
The crowd roared as one man landed a vicious blow, but from the corner of her eye, Regina saw Harold and the cousins rising, slipping from their seats.
Her heart dropped. Her spine went rigid. Why were they leaving? Why leave her alone…withhim?
“Where is he going?” she asked, panic sharpening her voice.
“Calm yourself, Miss Taylor,” Wayne said in a soothing tone, though she caught the taut edge beneath it. “The earl said he would return shortly.”
Irritation flared inside her, hot and restless. She forced herself to inhale slowly, then again, willing the rapid drumming of her heart to slow. If she lost control now, she would surely betray herself.
She gave him a stiff nod, eyes trained on the ring before them, refusing to look into those arresting green eyes. If she did, memories of last night would flood back with unforgiving clarity. Still, her thoughts betrayed her. Why had she remembered it again?
Even without turning, she sensed his body was held as rigid as hers. Perhaps this ordeal unnerved him as well. Did that mean he remembered? Had the kisses burned into his mind as fiercely as they had hers? The possibility pricked her with both relief and dread.
“So, Mr. Worthington…” Her voice sounded brittle to her own ears, and it startled him so sharply that he whipped his head toward her, a quick breath escaping his lips. His knee brushed hers, and the accidental touch sent heat racing up her leg. Their gazes locked—and held. Her heart slammed hard against her ribs.
“Yes?” he asked, his voice low.
“Um…” She swallowed, heat rising in her cheeks. “How do you suppose we might…become better acquainted?”
The words slipped free before she could stop them. Mortification crashed over her. Oh, why had she said itthatway, and inthattone? She longed to disappear, to sink into some hole beneath the wooden benches and never emerge again. Yet pride stiffened her spine, forcing her chin up even as shame burned through her.
For a long moment, he only stared. Then, slowly, the grim line of his mouth softened, curling into a smile that was altogether too devastating. Curses, he was handsome.
“I suppose,” he said at last, gesturing lightly toward the crowd, “this is as good a place as any. A public setting, a pleasant conversation. An ideal way to become acquainted, is it not?”
She arched one brow. “And what makes you assume our conversation will be pleasant?”
His grin widened faintly. “I don’t know. I can only hope. After all, how else am I to make you like me?”
Her breath caught. Her heart betrayed her with a wild flutter, though she willed it to still. “I don’t believe youcanmake me like you, Mr. Worthington. I happen to think you are not the man my friend should marry.” The words left her in a rush of defiance, and with them, a sigh of release.
