Page 29 of Pride: The Rogue
“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.”
Mrs. Lovelace gasped. “How dare you?…I am no shrew….”
Latimer slammed his bottle down so hard some of the remaining liquor sloshed over the side.
Cursing all the while, Latimer jammed his feet inside his boots and headed from the room and downstairs to the taproom, already knowing what he’d find when he got there.
Sure enough, the minute he reached the taproom, his suppositions proved accurate. A solitary patron occupied a table in the previously bustling, now silent bar.
He narrowed his eyes.
Seated beside the fire, was none other than the spunky, chit who’d put up an impressive fight.
With her head buried in a book, and her valise at her feet, she remained oblivious to Latimer’s standing there.
Latimer scowled.
Fucking hell.
Repressing his irritation, Latimer folded his arms at his chest and called out to the lady. “I take it Mr. Lovelace is a snorer?”
Gasping, the lady looked up quickly.
Whatever she’d been reading slipped from her fingers and fell with a slight thwack upon the otherwise empty tabletop.
His entire approach, Mrs. Lovelace gawked at him and continued doing so even after he arrived at her table.
“Well?” he drawled.
The lady blinked the longest fringe of honey-blonde lashes he’d ever caught eyes on. “Mr. Latimer?”
Latimer hooked his foot on the underside of the chair opposite her. Without waiting for an invitation, he availed himself of a seat. “Do tell me: Is Mr. Lovelace a snorer?”
Mrs. Lovelace’s swan-like, neck moved from the force of her swallow.
At her silence, Latimer arched an eyebrow.
The bold chit’s timidity vanished.
Bristling, she brought her shoulders back. “I do not and will not discuss such intimate details about Mr. Lovelace with you, Mr. Latimer.”
Ah, Mr. Lovelace. Dear, respectable, soundly sleeping in the very last room in the hall, Mr. Lovelace.
Somehow Latimer managed to keep from snorting in her face.
Rosy color filled her heart-shaped cheeks, but she wouldn’t be bated.
Flat out ignoring him, Mrs. Lovelace, grabbed the book he’d earlier startled her into dropping and snapped it open.
Latimer tried a different approach.
With the lady’s head buried behind the smallish leather volume, he helped himself to her tankard. Then, tipping the heels of his chair back, he cradled the lady’s drink between his hands.
Burrowed as she was behind that book, he’d wager his entire proceeds coming from Forbidden Pleasures, she no more read whatever words were written there than Latimer himself did.
His suspicions were confirmed a moment later.
Mrs. Lovelace, like a turtle poking its head from its shell, stretched her lovely neck until her eyes appeared at the top fringe of that copy in her hands, and her gaze collided with Latimer’s.
