Miss Blackman raised her head as she donned the hat again, hiding her bright hair beneath the black rim. It was a faintly absurd costume, and Woolwich did not understand that no one else had spotted her disguise beforehand.
“Why, it’s only eleven in the morning. Surely a gentleman would have better things to occupy his time than being ungentlemanly?” she asked.
Woolwich felt his eyes bulge at her words, at the obvious inexperience and lack of knowledge of the jaded tastes of men that existed within theton. She seemed to harbour the idea that desire could be confined to one point of the day or night. With a dismissive shake of his head, Woolwich tried his best to create a world-weary air. The combination of Miss Blackman’s personality was grating on his patience. How she was both intelligent yet been prevented from knowing the truth of sexuality. “Lord save me from naïve virgins,” he finally said.
To his surprise, Miss Blackman snapped back, seeming to precisely know her own disadvantage. “How exactly am I supposed to not be naïve but still a virgin? I would be judged as ruined if I lost the latter, and yet you are judging me for the former. You criticise me for something others celebrate.”
“I—”
To Woolwich’s stuttering, Miss Blackman added, “If anything, your statement shows what a hypocrite you are.”
For a long moment, Woolwich wondered if he would simply walk away from her. Move to the other side of the room, back to his seat and resume his reading of the paper or simply quit the room entirely. Leaving Miss Blackman alone to negotiate her next steps by herself. Gritting his teeth, he bowed his head, acknowledging the truth of her words.
“You are right. That was unfair of me. I apologise. The mores of our time do place a heavy price on your ignorance, which I would imagine would be… burdensome.”
Just for a second, Miss Blackman gave him a tiny nod and a small smile. It was the closest they could come to being friendly.
“Come,” he said, the plan forming in his mind. “We will go through the club and use the back stairs to get out of here.”
“A duke knows about such things?”
“How else would I avoid the occasional undesirable duty? I always make a habit of knowing the best escape routes from a building.” He said it jokingly, but he did realise the truth of the statement—it was a habit of his, whether it was a ball or just a visit to his club. Now he saw the use of it.
With a deftness that belied his size, Woolwich removed his jacket and draped it over her shoulders, swamping Miss Blackman in the thick superfine material. There was a strange scent he suddenly caught that must be from the soap she used for her hair—lemon and an undercurrent of honied sweetness.
“There.” He dragged up the collar of his own coat to hide more of her face and pulled her hat even lower. He bent lower to examine her face. “You do have a remarkably feminine face.” He resented having to say it. “It would probably be best if you leant into me and perhaps pretended to be half-cut. Can you manage that?”
“I’ve seen Tom in his cups,” Miss Blackman said.
He could not entirely believe he was advocating that she wrap her arms around him. But he told himself that it was also the best way of hiding Miss Blackman from view.
Woolwich turned, moving towards the door, tugging it open, and checking out on the landing. “It’s now or never. We’re going to make for that door over there. But you’ll have to keep the act up until we’re in the hackney you understand.”
Miss Blackman stiffened and then leaned over to him. Closer until she was leaning into his frame. He felt the gentle push of her body’s curves resting near to him, with that delicious lemony scent crawling up his nose again.
He pushed the door wider, and they edged into the hallway, an uneven pairing moving slowly.
“What the hell are you doing?” She gasped.
Woolwich had wrapped one of his long arms around Miss Blackman’s far shorter body, pressing her into the side of him as he pushed them towards the servants’ door. Inelegantly and ill-matched, they staggered forward, almost falling over each other. Half of her face was wedged firmly against his finely stitched gold and navy waistcoat, the heat of her breath affecting him more than Woolwich could ever have imagined. There was a growing desire within him to pause and lift her, exposing her neck to trace his tongue over her peachy skin.
God, where had that idea come from?
“Hush, Tom,” he said loudly. “You’re the worse for wear.” In a quieter tone, he added, “Come on, play along.”
Embarrassed at being positioned so but having little choice in the matter, Miss Blackman tried her best to keep her distance. Her fist wedged between the two of them.
In an undertone, which almost sounded humorous, Woolwich said, “Surely in all those books you read, the heroine doesn’t stop a rescue attempt?”
“You know I like books?” There was a muted tone of surprise as she stared at him, they were only halfway down the stairs, but she paused, not walking anymore.
Woolwich realised his mistake, showing that he had, in fact, lied earlier when he’d stated that he did not know a thing about her.
“Come on,” he said briskly, continuing down the stairs, hoping she would not quiz him anymore. His hurried movements encouraged her to move at his side at his own pace.
They reached the basement. As pleasant as White’s front-facing was for the various different nobles, it was considerably less appealing when it was just for the servants who worked within the building.
Woolwich let go of her, stepping back with much alacrity. “Stay here. I will flag you a hackney.”
