“Oh no, that’s—that’s—” Her eyes widened and her squirrelly voice rose even higher. “That’s perfect! The next assembly won’t be for yet another fortnight, which gives me plenty of time to sew myself a new trousseau in the latest fashions, using all the best materials. Since you don’t lack for coin”—more near-hysterical laughter—“I’m sure you’d wish for the woman on your arm to look as stylish as any Ackermann sketch. It’s settled, then. Next time you stop by, just show me which colors you find the most fetching, and I’ll do the rest.”
That settled it, all right. The only way he’d enter her shop was in a casket.
“Do forgive me for taking up so much of your valuable time, Miss Devonshire. I know how busy you are. I’ll let you get back to your dresses, and I’ll go and pester Sully.”
“Oh,” she said again, the flash in her eyes indicating she’d hoped he would come pick out colorsnow—most likely for their wedding, too—or at least do the gentlemanly thing and offer her his arm and return her to her destination.
But Evan wasn’t stupid enough to do either of those things. The moment she had him reasonably alone, that friend of hers would pop out of the shadows to claim she witnessed him taking untold liberties, andBam!He’d be leg-shackled. No, thank you.
“I suppose I should head back....” She glanced over her shoulder, clearly hoping to see someone, anyone, who might stumble across them and assume the worst if she threw herself into his arms at just the right moment.
One of the main reasons he wasn’t already at the altar for having ruined her was that he hadn’t been the one to do so. She’d come to him pre-ruined, believing that would be enough to make him welcome her into his arms and his life. Either she believed him completely without scruple, or she believed herself utterly irresistible.
Evan didn’t know why she had suddenly fixated on him, but he had enough trouble of his own without adding a romantic entanglement to the mix.
He inclined his head. “Until next time, Miss Devonshire.”
Hopefully never.
She wrung her hands in indecision but eventually made tiny hesitant-squirrel movements in the direction of her shop. She shot him hundreds of furtive glances over her shoulder as if expecting him to change his mind at any moment and whisk her to the nearest altar.
Dropping in on the Shark’s Tooth was sounding better and better. The best women within its walls would lie with him expectation-free, and if there weren’t any such women today, well, at least he could have a drink. And look, there was Ollie just stepping inside. Perfect timing.
Evan jogged the last few yards. He pushed open the doors—or tried to, anyway. Ollie’s overgrown form blocked one of them from swinging inward. Not that it was his fault. From the roaring noise and thick smell of liquor, Evan and Miss Devonshire must’ve been the only two soulsnotinside the tavern. What the devil was going on?
He elbowed Ollie’s meaty ribs and tossed him a questioning look, since the cacophony prevented him from asking any discernible questions aloud.
Ollie gave a disgusted shrug and stepped back outside. His lackey-cum-butler trailed in his shadow. Evan wasn’t surprised to see them cut in the direction of the path leading back up the cliff. Ollie hated crowds. And the lapdog always followed the master.
Evan, on the other hand, did not mind a good drinking crowd, particularly in the mood he was currently in. He pushed his way to the bar, ordered a glass of the brandy he’d sold Sully in the first place, and turned to face a neighboring group of drunken fishermen.
“Why the ruckus?” he shouted in the closest one’s ear.
“Free drinks!” came the slurred reply.
Evan’s brandy glass paused on the way to his lips. Free drinks? The only other man in town with enough money to buy rounds for everyone had just walked off without stepping more than a foot inside. He turned his questioning gaze to Sully.
The barman’s head bobbed in acknowledgment.
Interesting. “Who’s buying?”
“She is.” Sully gestured toward the back corner of the tavern.
Evan turned around so slowly he couldn’t be certain he was moving at all. Then he saw her. With her own brandy glass sloshing in her gloved hands. Having a rollicking time, by all appearances. Surrounded by fishermen singing sailing songs entirely inappropriate for a lady’s ears. Even if that lady cursed almost as often as Evan himself.
Miss Stanton.
Although it was impossible for her to hear him breathe her name across all that noise, all that confusion, all that distance—right then, her gaze lifted. Through the glint of her spectacles, he could somehow see her eyes smile at him. She lifted her glass in silent invitation.
He made his way to her as if in a trance, barely registering the grunts of the fools too sotted to stumble out of his way. This was a sea at tempest. He was a ship. And she was his shore.
His sudden obsession was surely nothing more than temporary infatuation borne of lust and challenge. How many women had fascinated him over the years, however briefly? But none of that signified at the moment. Right now, there was only one woman on his mind. And he would have her.
“Miss Stanton,” he said when he reached her. The crowd jostled them together, flank to flank. Or perhaps he’d done that himself.
He didn’t move away.
“Mr. Bothwick,” she returned faintly, her back to the wall. “Good afternoon.”
