Page 22 of Pride: The Rogue
The rest of thatsuggestion, meant to send him rushing out, went unfinished as Mr. Latimer’s unnerving gaze slid over to the table in the corner.
Those undecipherable eyes revealing nothing, moved over the remaining scraps of her previously bountiful dinner: the small end of crusty breast, her half-eaten apple, four grapes, and a piece of cheese.
Before he got it into his head to stay, Livian raced over, gathered the remnants into a cloth.
Folding it as she walked, she stopped a full arm’s length from Mr. Latimer.
“Here.” Livian stuck the offering out. “In the event you don’t have food—”
“I don’t have food,” he said bluntly.
Poor man. Though, itwason the tip of her tongue to suggest he give up his drunken ways.
Again, thinking better of it, Livian sprinted over to her valise. As she fished around, she felt the stranger’s eyes boring into her back.
Unnerved, she found herself fumbling about the contents.
“Where is it?” she mumbled. “Where?”
Her fingers collided with the velvet pouch. “Here!” she exclaimed, she snatched the little bag out and gave it a jingle.
Livian rushed to join the stoic marauder.
“Please, take these,” she said softly, pressing that gift and the food offering into his stiff hands; his fingers so tense that even expansive as his palm was, she struggled to close the digits around them “There.”
Smiling widely, Livian scrambled back several steps.
“Good evening, Mr. Latimer,” she said, nudging her chin in the direction of the doorway…the one now blocked by his broad frame.
He took a step closer. “Do you knowwhyI experiencedfirst-hand, the conditions outside—”
“Mrs. Lovelace,” she blurted, inventing a husband for herself and stopping the stranger as he spoke. She’d confounded him with her offering her name. One couldn’t go about offing or harming someone whom they were familiar with.
“Do you know why I experienced first-hand, the conditions outside, Mrs. Lovelace?”
All her hope sank like bricks to the bottom of the sea.
“I was out there, rescuing the young ladMr. Lovelacesent out in search of your carriage, and who didn’t have the decency to inform the boy of your arrival.”
“Mr. Lovelace?” she asked, before remembering she’d invented a fictitious husband, herself.
“Yes, the same,” he sneered. “Mr. Lovelace who, even with a shortage of rooms that leaves other strangers in a storm without, wouldn’t make the sacrifice of having to spend a night with his shrewish wife.”
Livian gasped. “How dare you?” she exclaimed, so indignant she forgot for a moment there wasn’t a Mr. Lovelace. “I am no shrew.”
Mr. Latimer gave her an icy once-over. “Your mouth and actions this night tell a different tale, wench.”
A healthy rush of fury made her reckless or bold, or mayhap just both. “And tell me, Mr. Latimer,” Livian got herself up onto the mattress, on her knees, to better face him head-on. The lumpy mattress, however, dipped and ruined that attempt. “HowshouldI act toward a hulking stranger who invades my rooms, wakes me from a sound sleep, and tackles me on the floor…?”
“I didn’t tackle you, darlin’,” he bit out. “You’re the one who charged at me—”
“At that, a dastard who invaded myrooms!”
“—and assaulted me.”
Livian saw red. “Charged you?” she squawked. “Charged you?”
“With the way you’re echoing like a parrot, I can see why your husband a—”
