The Scoundrel and I - Katharine Ashe Page 0,27

her grandmother’s bedside waiting for her return.

“Elle,” the beauty said, “it is already the morning.”

“You have been so kind. Please forgive me.” She squeezed Seraphina’s hand and tugged hers free. She turned to the captain. “Thank—”

“No. What sort of man do you imagine I am, to leave a woman in the middle of the night to walk home along deserted streets?”

The sort she had kissed before. The sort that, after taking her virginity in the press room and telling her she would “eventually get it right,” went for a pint at the King’s Barrel and left her to clean up shop for the evening.

But he was not now looking at her like that sort of man.

“The streets are not precisely deserted,” she said, feeling peculiarly shaky. “The King’s Barrel is still full of patrons. And I have walked along these streets late at night any number of times.”

“Not in that rig, you haven’t.” He glanced at her gown.

Her hands darted to the forgotten tiara and necklace. Unclasping them, she passed them to Seraphina.

“With all due respect, Seraphina,” she said, “if being a lady means having one’s freedoms curtailed, I am glad not to be one.”

“Hm.” Seraphina slid the paste jewels through her fingers. “I think with that statement, you have effectively ruined my brother’s night.”

“She hasn’t,” he said.

“Oh, see!” Elle said, panic crawling into her throat. “There is Mr. Curtis, the curate from the church. He is probably on his way to visit parishioners in my building.”

“After midnight?”

“I will engage him to walk home with me.” She reached for the door handle.

He covered her hand with his and leaned forward. “He knows where you live?”

“I am quite well acquainted with him, in fact. Please, Captain.”

He turned the handle. Before she could descend, he climbed out and strode to the curate and introduced himself.

“I am pleased to meet you, Captain,” Mr. Curtis said. “I will be glad to escort Miss Flood to her building, certainly. I suspect her grandmother will be eager to hear how the evening went.”

“Her grandmother,” he said, turning his gaze to her. “Yes, of course.”

As Elle walked away beside Mr. Curtis, Captain Masinter remained in the street behind them, tall and rigid and solid, watching her go. It was for the best. Kissing a man did not mean she must allow him into her life. Her world. Her reality that had nothing to do with balls and aristocrats and victorious naval captains.

Rather, quite the opposite.

~o0o~

“Why have you come here?”

“Well, that’s a fine ‘good day.’” Blocking the press room doorway, with a silk hat lodged beneath his arm, the captain was better looking than ever in an exceedingly well-tailored coat, neat trousers, and boots so highly polished Elle might have checked her coiffure in them. But she never checked her coiffure, most especially not this afternoon when she had not expected to see anybody all day. Dressed in her shabbiest ink-stained gown, she looked a thorough fright.

“Always thrilled when a lady demands to know why I’m calling. Instantly reveals how happy she is to see me,” he drawled but his gaze was as warm as on the night before when he kissed her.

At the ungodly hour at which she had finally fallen into bed, she had vowed to put that kiss out of her mind entirely.

Kiss.

Kisses.

Now his lips slipped into a half-smile and she snapped her gaze up to his eyes. Good heavens, she really must take care not to stare at his mouth.

“I am happy to see you,” she said and instantly regretted it when his smile widened. “But I did not expect it,” she hurried to add. “Tea with the bishop is tomorrow, of course, and today I am involved in a project—”

He stepped forward and bent his head toward hers, and Elle’s tongue forgot how to make words.

Close to her brow, far too close, he said, “And what project might that be?”

“After all those people at the ball went on and on about Lady Justice and Peregrine, I had an idea.” She felt dizzy. She tried to catch her breath, but it would not catch and she suspected it was because he had consumed all of the oxygen in the room like he was consuming every ounce of her calm. She willed her hands to be steady as she spread out the broadsheets that lay on her desk. “Everyone in London is enamored of their correspondence. Everyone in Britain, really. Mr. Brittle has saved all of the broadsheets—”

“Mr. Brittle saved them? Or Miss Flood?”

“Yes,” she