Page 19 of The Wallflower Manifesto
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“No,” he answered, pleased with himself. “I know it isn’t. Why are you out here mothering debutantes instead of dancing inside?”
“I don’t see how that is any of your concern.”
“Hm.” He linked his hands behind his back, pacing around her so that she was forced to turn to keep an eye on him. “And aren’tyou breaking the rules, being out here all alone in the night with me? What would people think?”
“They would think you know very little of the rules,” she snapped, twisting and then stepping back to keep him in her line of sight. “You ought to leave, before I alert the household to your intrusion.”
“You wouldn’t do that, would you, Minnie?”
“Millie,” she corrected immediately.
“Millie,” he said with a wide grin, stepping close enough to her to see the firelight from the torches reflected in her eyes. “Of course. I shall remember to call you Millie.”
She set her jaw, tapping her fingers against her tightly crossed arms. “You knew my name.”
“I did?”
“We both know you did,” she snapped.
“Hm,” he said noncommittally. He put his hands in his pockets and leaned back to consider the cloudless sky, dotted with more and more emerging stars as the darkness settled over them. “Say, does Lady Bentley know whose gambling house you reserved for her night of revelry?”
That threw her, he noted, stealing a glance back at her from his would-be stargazing.
She wrinkled her brow at him and frowned. “Yes, of course she does. I told her Ember was a dear friend.”
“Ah, but does she know how that friendship came to be? Does she know Ember used to be her son’s mistress? Does she know how the two of you met?”
They stared at each other in silence for a moment, a fascinating blend of ice and fire playing on Miss Yardley’s features. He wasn’t sure if she was enraged or frightened or offended or some other thing altogether.
“I won’t tell her,” he whispered, leaning forward to pour the words into her delicate ear. “I promise.”
She shivered, taking a quick step backward, unable to hide the gooseflesh that had risen on her pale shoulders and throat.
His eyes followed the path of her shivering skin, wondering if it was his voice or his nearness that had such power. Perhaps it had been the warmth of his breath. He felt drawn to touch it, to see if he could raise more of those delicious little bumps. He wondered if they would appear when he kissed her.
And there was that scent again, like crisp, freshly sliced pears sparkling in the air.
“I’m going back inside,” she said softly, her voice pulling him out of his reverie.
She sounded breathless, her dark lashes fluttering against her cheeks, and she was already moving to leave.
“Wait!” He spoke quickly, reaching out to grab her hand before she had time to completely turn away from him. “If I’m going to call you Millie, I suppose you must call me Abe. it is only fair.”
She gave an incredulous little laugh but did not pull away from the touch. Her hand sat, warm and unbearably soft, in his grip. “Oh. Must I?”
“I insist upon it.”
She considered him for a long, quiet moment, her pretty face inscrutable. “Do not get caught out here,” she said, and gently pulled her hand free.
He watched her turn and saunter down the gravel path, her thoughts a true mystery to him after this encounter. His heart was thumping against his chest, stimulated by the sparring and undeniably filled with the desire to chase after her and make her stay just a little longer.
“Good night!” he called after her, conceding his defeat.
She paused, turning her head slightly with a curve to her rosebud lips.
“Good night,” she said. “Abe.”
