Page 22 of When a Duke Loves a Woman
Even if she wanted, she’d have not been able to look away. Instead, she feasted on the sight of him as though he were a gift from the gods or a god himself. In spite of all her wishing for his return, she hadn’t truly expected he would.
Then he began striding across the tavern, a slight limp not distracting from his bearing in the least, working his way between the tables and drunkards with such confidence and purpose some men simply leaped out of his way as though afraid he’d mow them down. Although it was impossible, it seemed the place got even quieter, the customers even more still.
Her brother Finn, leaning negligently against the bar waiting for her to hand over the pint she’d poured for him, was alert, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see the tension radiating off him as though he sensed trouble might be afoot. Any other night, any other moment, she would have reassured him, told him to relax, but she couldn’t find the wherewithal to speak. She was mesmerized like some silly chit who had dreams of being romanced, courted, loved, and who believed the only man capable of fulfilling those fantasies had entered her life.
Then he was standing before her, and for all her imaginings of this moment—all the times in her mind that she’d been calm, witty, and oh so very clever—the actual reality hit her as a bit disappointing when she heard herself ask, “What are you doing here?”
Both corners of that glorious mouth that had haunted her sleep hitched up. Slowly, ever so slowly he reached into a pocket inside his jacket, withdrew gold-rimmed spectacles, and perched them on that sharp aquiline nose of his. How could he suddenly appear even more masculine than before? “I wanted a better look at you.”
That look no doubt included a swath of red racing up her neck, over her cheeks, and into her hairline. She wasn’t one for blushing, but if the heat swarming through her was any indication, she was doing so now with unerring success.
“Why the bloody hell would you want that and when did you get a not-so-good look at her before?” Finn asked, with stony calm. Anyone who knew him recognized that tone usually preceded the swing of a fist.
Thorne merely arched a brow, and gave him a once-over as though her brother were nothing, of no more consequence than a fly. “What’s it to you?”
Oh, yes, if four men hadn’t jumped him, he’d have not been taken down. One or two, possibly three, would have met their match. The fourth had sealed his fate.
Breaking free of the unconscionable spell under which she’d fallen, she set the pewter tankard on the bar. “He’s my brother. It’s all right, Finn. Our paths crossed a few nights ago. Head off to enjoy your brew.”
“Not until I know who this bloke is.”
“Finn—”
“Antony Coventry, Duke of Thornley.”
Bloody hell. The curse slipped out low, under her breath, but still he heard it. Those Guinness eyes narrowed. Of course he was a duke. And all those ridiculous thoughts she’d had of him sweeping her off her feet were even more ludicrous. She knew all about the nobility, their ranks, how they were to be addressed, because Mick had been involved with a duke’s widow in his youth, and in exchange for his “services” she taught him a good deal about how the upper class set themselves apart from the riffraff, and Mick had shared his knowledge with her and their brothers. They’d always all been in it together—bettering themselves and doing what was needed to rise above their station—sharing anything they learned with each other. So she was well aware that a nobleman wasn’t going to fall for the likes of her, a tavern owner raised in the streets who used one knife, one fork, and one spoon when she ate. He was here merely to express his appreciation. If he offered her money, she was going to punch him in his uninjured shoulder.
Finn seemed unimpressed, but then he had no love for the nobility and wasn’t above displaying his disdain.
“Off with you, Finn,” she ordered.
“Does he have anything to do with you not working for a few days?”
She slapped his upper arm, always surprised by the firm muscle that greeted her. He was no slouch, her brother. “None of your business.” Then she looked past him to the gaping horde. “You lot! Quit your staring and get back to your drinking before I toss you all out on your ears.” She returned her glare to her brother. “Same applies to you. Get on. Beast is over there waiting on you.”
With deliberate calm, he picked up his tankard and lifted it toward the duke. “I’ll be watching.”
He strode off to join Beast at a back table. She wasn’t surprised her other brother had stayed put. He wasn’t one to interfere without an invite to do so, unless he determined the situation was such that an invitationcouldn’tbe issued. As a rule, he was more thoughtful, slower to respond than the others, but when he did react, he poured every bit of himself into his actions.
“Pleasant fellow.”
She gave her attention back to Thorne. Thinking of him as such seemed too informal now that she knew Graves had been correct and this man’s moniker was a shortened version of his title. “He has his moments. I hadn’t expected to see you again.”
“I owe you, although I wasn’t quite sure how much.” He reached into his inside jacket pocket. “I was thinking—”
“You don’t pay a good Samaritan.”
“I want to show my appreciation.”
“Then give it to a foundling home.”
He studied her for a long moment that seemed to stretch into next week. “I’ve insulted you.”
“Yes.”
“That was not my intent.”
“Then when you remove your hand from your pocket, be sure it’s empty.”
