Page 19 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
“Of course you did—”
“And I feed her my right fine carrots. By hand.” Then just to prove the point, she clucked her tongue, and Mina trotted over, mouth eager for the carrot she pulled out of her pocket.
“The carriage needs two horses—”
“You can switch the hitch for one.”
He grimaced, and she knew she had him. He was thinking of the expense and the bother. But if he’d wanted to leave the carriage behind, he’d have left by now. Which meant he was here for at least a few days while the thing got repaired.
“You should add a coat of paint, you know,” she said as if she’d just thought of it. “It will sell better that way.”
“And what would you know about selling carriages?” he grumbled.
“Not a thing,” she lied. Selling was selling. She found out what people wanted and gave it to them, even if it was simple compliments and attention.
Which brought her thoughts to him. What exactly did he want? Coin, obviously, and maybe that was all. With his looks, he didn’t need attention. Did he want to feel important?
She turned to display her features in the best light. “May I ask your advice, sir?”
His brows went up in surprise and wariness entered his body. “Of course.”
She flashed her dimple but kept her expression anxious. It wasn’t hard to do. She was worried. “Lady Linsel said she couldn’t understand me. That I speak—”
“Clarissa always insults the prettiest woman in the room.”
“Oh, sir! Surely she couldn’t mean—”
“I’ll think about the horse, Miss Bluebell,” he interrupted as he took a step back. Clearly, he did not appreciate false modesty. “Good day.” He gave her a shallow bow.
No! She couldn’t lose him now. They hadn’t reached a bargain yet. “But sir, please tell me! Please…” She swallowed. He’d put on his hat. “Teach me.”
He frowned at her. “What?”
“I want t’ speak like a proper lady.”
His head tilted as he studied her. “It’s not how you speak. It’s what you say.”
“No, sir, that’s not true,” she shot back. “I am always respectful, always sweet.”
“All the best courtesans are.”
She blinked, shocked to her core. Had he just called her a whore? An expensive one, but still a woman who spread her legs for money. And spoken in such a matter-of-fact way, as if it were a foregone conclusion of little import. It was that last that truly bothered her. Most men who insulted her looked for a reaction. They spoke to wound her out of spite. But he’d said it as calmly as if he named a carrot or a tree. And in that moment of frozen surprise, she lost the upper hand.
“You know,” he said as he touched her chin, slowly closing her mouth, “there was a time I would have been completely fooled by you, taken in like all the other peasants in your life. But I am not, Miss Bluebell.” He stepped closer to her, letting his height dwarf her into insignificance. “You are a woman who gets everything she wants. A grasping tart in the most beautiful package I have ever seen.”
Never had anyone complimented and insulted her in the same sentence. And so she reacted purely from the place of a wounded animal.
She punched him square in the jaw, following with another to his gut.
Except he was faster than her, stronger than her, and definitely better at fisticuffs. He caught her fists in his palms, the smack adding insult to the sting in her knuckles.
She slammed her knee upward as hard as she could. That, he avoided as well, though she had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen in surprise. She tried to follow it up. She wore sturdy walking boots that stung when she kicked a man.
She missed because he was smart. He gripped her hands and spun her around. Her shoulders wrenched with the force of his twist, and then abruptly, she was wrapped up from behind. His corded arms bound across her chest, and when she struggled, he lifted her feet off the ground.
Easy enough from that position to bang at his legs, but he had on sturdy boots as well. They were planted solidly on the ground, and all her flailing did nothing. Worse, he started lifting her higher. High enough that her legs swung away from him.
Then she came down.
