Page 23 of When a Duke Loves a Woman
He gave a slight nod. “You’re a stubborn wench.”
“With a fairly powerful right-handed punch when I need one.”
Grinning, he removed his gloved hand from inside his jacket. She was glad he’d heeded her warning, as she’d have not enjoyed pummeling him. “What can I pour you?”
“Whisky.”
Not bothering to ask if he wanted the expensive stuff, she simply poured it and set it before him. “On the house.”
“Join me.”
She did wish those two little words didn’t make her heart go all aflutter as though he were implying something more personal, something that might result in her losing her spot in heaven. “I have a policy of not drinking with customers. No good ever comes from blurring the lines.” She did hope he understood that lines between them couldn’t be blurred, that she was a mermaid and he was a blasted unicorn.
“If it’s on the house, I’m not paying for it, so I’m not a customer. I’d like to have a word. Perhaps at that corner table where there aren’t so many people jostling about.”
She was fairly certain he wasn’t accustomed to being denied anything he’d like to have—even a conversation. If she were smart, she’d continue to deny him what he wanted, make her position clear: they were not and never would be friends. She might have embraced a bit of whimsy when naming her tavern, but she understood the realities of the world, that there were those born into privilege while the majority of people were simply born and had to shape their own world. If she did deem to join him, she’d have to ensure she didn’t make a fool of herself. She signaled to Jolly Roger that she was taking a break, poured herself only a bit of whisky, and led the bloody duke to the table he’d indicated, taking a chair before he had time to pull one out for her—if he even would have. Once he was seated, she lifted her glass. “To your good health.”
She took a sip, watched him do the same, fought not to squirm as he studied her over the rim of his glass, the spectacles making his gaze seem more intense, his features more distinguished. Why did he have to be so frightfully gorgeous? She’d spent her entire life avoiding being drawn to men, and this one was melting her resistance without even trying. He was dangerous because all these unwelcomed feelings he stirred within her had her comprehending why women would lift their skirts. “You wanted a word,” she finally said impatiently, anxious to get back to the bar where there was a wooden barrier between them.
“You’re not happy I’m a duke.”
So much for her ability to keep her feelings from being on display. “Makes no difference to me.”
Leaning back, he tapped a finger on the table. “You have me at a disadvantage, as I don’t know your full name.”
“I don’t see that it matters.”
“I can make inquiries. Could probably ask that gent two tables over.”
She sighed, because the less they knew about each other, the easier it would be to keep her distance. “Gillian Trewlove.”
“Trewlove.” He repeated the name as though it were a tasty morsel. “You’re not related to Mick Trewlove, are you?”
“He’s my brother.”
He squinted, seemed to be racking his brain. “I don’t recall seeing you at his wedding. Did you not attend?”
She laughed lightly. “As though you’d have noticed me if I had.”
“Oh, I’d have noticed you.”
Although the inside of the tavern was more shadowy than he’d have liked, with his spectacles firmly in place, he could see her more clearly, more sharply than ever. Her hair reminded him of the burnished autumn leaves at Thornley Castle. He’d always fancied walking or riding through the forest when the cooler air arrived and the trees brought forth their fall colors. He imagined the pleasure of sinking his hands into the luxurious tresses cascading about her shoulders—no, he’d only be able to indulge his fingers by burying them in the thick short strands. He’d take great satisfaction from that, however.
As much pleasure as he took from simply gazing on her. She’d had freckles as a child. They’d left behind faint markings that made her features all the more interesting, gave them character. She wasn’t polished alabaster. She was life, adventure, daring. He doubted she’d ever worn a hat, but preferred to let the sun have its way with her.
Would she let him have his way with her? Staring into her eyes that seemed to be a mix of green and brown, he very much doubted it. They were from different worlds: a mermaid and a unicorn. He very nearly laughed aloud at that whimsical thought. Still it was the fact that their worlds were different, that she was so comfortable in this one that had brought him here. Well, that and the fact he’d desperately wanted to see her again.
Since he’d been bundled into the carriage, not an hour had passed that he hadn’t thought of her, wondered what she was doing, who might be calling on her, who might be enjoying her laughter within these walls, who might be the recipient of her rare smiles.
His thoughts should focus around Lavinia. Yet this woman before him occupied his musings in a way no other ever had. It was an odd thing to find himself inexplicably drawn to a tavern owner. She intrigued him. It was more than her height, the unusual way she wore her hair, her lack of feminine artifice, her unflattering clothing. It was her strength, her kindness. She’d taken him in, not knowing who he was, and had worked like the devil to ensure he survived, expecting nothing in return. All his life, anyone who assisted him, expected something in return. Even the women before Lavinia had required constant doting and numerous baubles in order to ensure their devotion. But a woman who required nothing—how did one ensure her devotion?
Not that he would ask or expect it of her. She was not for his world. His mother would have an apoplectic fit were he to introduce her. Not only because she was a tavern owner, but because she had no pedigree. She’d admitted as much while caring for him. “I daresay many were surprised the Duke of Hedley granted leave for his ward to marry your brother.”
Crossing her arms over her chest, she settled back in the chair and gave him a steady glare. “He has more wealth than God.”
“But he’s not...” He cleared his throat. Merely blinking slowly, she wasn’t going to make this easy on him. He shouldn’t have started down this path, but he wanted to know every small detail about her. “His family is not known as I understand it.” As he clearly knew. Mick Trewlove was a bastard, plain and simple. He wore the label like a badge. Or at least he had before he’d married an earl’s daughter.
“I’m his family. Or at least part of it.”
