The Bareknuckle Groom - Holly Bush Page 0,24

he was in his delivery clothes and did not look the way she was accustomed to seeing him.

“Excuse my less than formal attire,” he said. “I was the delivery boy today.”

She glanced down his body, making his blood heat, taking her time until her gaze climbed back to her eyes. “As you are well aware, Mr. Thompson, there is little you could do to make yourself less appealing.”

“Are you saying I am vain?” he said with a smile.

“I am saying that you are the most overly confident man I’ve ever met.”

James thought Miss Vermeal was matching his light tone; however, her comment made him falter. Did he see himself as invincible? Too sure of his own abilities and unable to be realistic as to what the rest of his life would be like as he grew older?

“Mr. Thompson, you are looking far too serious. Your confidence is attractive. You must know that.”

He shook his head and looked across the street to the small park, wishing he was alone with her and wondering why. Because he wanted to tell her about what was troubling him and wondered what she would think of Alexander’s plan?

“James!” Kirsty said excitedly. “Miss Vermeal and I are going into the shop. Do you mind terribly? Maybe Miss Lucinda will stay and keep you company.”

The aunt glanced at Lucinda with a smile and led Kirsty into the shop, the bell tinkling as they entered. He looked at the woman in front of him. She was the very picture of cool beauty. Her white-blond hair pulled up loosely under a small hat, sitting at an angle atop her head, and her pale skin a contrast to the dark blue of her heavy silk-lined cloak. Men—and women—glanced at her more than once as they walked past them. She was that kind of woman. The kind who stopped men in their tracks.

“Would you like to step across the street, Miss Vermeal? There’s a small park, and I see a vendor selling sandwiches.” She walked over to a young man standing near the building. He hadn’t realized they were accompanied by a servant. She handed the young man her package and spoke to him. She turned then and raised her brows.

“Will you join me?” he said, and she fell into step beside him. “You bring a servant with you when you shop? The streets of Philadelphia during the day are generally safe for two women together, or so I thought.”

“My father is very old-fashioned. He insists we bring someone with us, and not just a maid, although my aunt is my chaperone, but a young man to see to our safety. The maid is in our carriage just down the street.”

“We must appear like a pair of ragtags, Kirsty and I, to you and your aunt.”

“You appear to be free, Mr. Thompson; that’s how you appear. You and your sister both,” she said and took his arm as they navigated the uneven street and horse droppings.

“Kirsty is . . . enthusiastic. Thank you for tolerating her as she went off on her favorite subject: herself,” he said with a laugh. “But she is a dear girl.”

“She seems to be unencumbered by some of society’s more ridiculous rules. She seems to just be herself. That is a blessing, I think.”

He guided her to an unoccupied bench and waited until she was seated. “Would you like anything? A lemonade? Roast beef?”

“A lemonade would be appreciated.”

James went to the vendor across the expanse of the wide graveled path and waited his turn impatiently. Did he mean to talk to her about something serious? He finally got his sandwich, shredded beef with a slice of cheddar between two slices of dark bread wrapped in paper, and a mug of lemonade. She was watching him as he dodged other walkers and made his way to where she sat. He seated himself beside her.

“That smells delicious,” she said after sipping her lemonade.

“Do you want a bite?” He held the sandwich out to her.

“What? Oh no. That would be . . .” she said, still eyeing his food. “Impolite.”

“There’s plenty, and I’m willing to share.”

She shook her head. “That is a cardinal rule in my house. I would never be caught taking something from someone else’s plate. My papa would have an apoplexy.”

“Really? Then it’s best you never dine with the Thompsons.” He laughed and then pictured her at a Sunday dinner, seated to his left. He swallowed. “Aunt Murdoch would smack our hands, and my older sister,