Heartbreaker, page 9
She should have looked a mess—unkempt and wayward, in need of a looking glass and a washbasin. After all, in all his time knowing Adelaide Frampton—watching Adelaide Frampton in Mayfair ballrooms and on South Bank barges, he’d never seen her out of control.
She should have looked all wrong.
Instead, she looked extremely right. She looked like she belonged here, in this tavern full of thieves.
It didn’t help that she was smiling at him, as though she held a lifetime of secrets. Which of course she did, because no matter her outward appearance, Adelaide Frampton remained one step ahead of everyone, all the time.
Not him, though. Not then. “I won.”
She took her time, returning her spectacles to her nose before tilting her head. “Did you?”
“It was a race. And you just arrived.”
“Did I?”
He didn’t like the way it seemed as though she was humoring him. “You weren’t here when I entered.”
“Wasn’t I?” she asked.
“I would have noticed you.” Something shifted in her eyes, the bright, teasing warmth in them going dark and rich, making him want to explore it.
“Mmm,” she said, her smile turning secret as she turned to the owner of the establishment. She pushed her hood back, letting it fall to her shoulders, drawing his attention to her cap once more. To what it hid. “What’s he owe you?”
“The ale,” Gwen said, lifting her chin in the direction of the pint glass. “And a meal.”
Adelaide nodded and extracted a purse from beneath her cloak.
Clayborn immediately protested. “No. I can’t take money from—” The words stopped as he watched her open the leather pouch. The familiar leather pouch. Her long, nimble fingers dipped inside to extract a pound note.
“That should cover it. And the same for me.”
It should cover meals and pints for the entire place, but that wasn’t the point. “You pickpocketed me.”
She turned to look at him. “That’s quite an accusation.”
“And that’s no kind of denial, you thief. That’s my purse.”
“Are you sure?” Her full lips quirked as she tested the weight of the coin within. “It certainly feels like it’s mine.”
His gaze narrowed on her. “She that finds, keeps?”
“Fast learner,” she said before sliding his purse across the smooth mahogany toward him. “I grew bored while I was waiting for you to arrive.”
“That’s an excuse?” he asked, ignoring the pleasure that came with the knowledge that she was waiting for him. He didn’t care if she waited for him or not. All that mattered was that she didn’t find Jack and Helene first.
Nevertheless, when Adelaide lifted a shoulder in a tiny shrug, he found he liked it more than he should. And then she said, “Idle hands and all that,” and he liked that far more than he should, as it made him consider any number of ways she might keep those idle hands busy other than picking his pockets.
He cleared his throat. There was obviously something in the air in this roadside tavern that made it difficult for him to recall that he did not get along with Adelaide Frampton. He lifted his purse, sliding it into the pocket she hadn’t ruined. “I didn’t feel you.”
“Of course you didn’t,” she said, the words full of offense. “There was a time I was the best nipper in London.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “I wasn’t aware of your place as cutpurse royalty.”
“Deference would not be out of line.”
“What if I buy you a meal instead?”
“Another time, I’m afraid, as I have already paid for your meal.” She pushed past him, the scent of her, thyme and fresh rain, lingering as she crossed to a table in a far corner of the room.
He shouldn’t follow.
He should sit alone and eat his supper and retire to his room to rise early and get ahead of her. But should was no longer applicable for the Duke of Clayborn. Not when must had taken over. Not when need was pulling him along behind her, a dog on a lead.
She slid into a chair on the far side of the table, leaving him with his back to the room, the heat of dozens of curious eyes unmistakable.
“Dukes are a rare sighting in these parts,” Adelaide said.
“Are we so obvious?”
She laughed, and the warm, full sound affected him like physical touch. He shifted in his seat as she said, “You cannot think you blend.”
“I can indeed think that.”
Another laugh, this one brighter. “In your lifetime, you have not blended.”
“I blended perfectly well yesterday afternoon.”
She cut him a disbelieving look. “You did not.”
“Why not?”
She enumerated the reasons on her fingers. “You walk like a duke. You talk like a duke. You dress like a duke.”
“I did not dress like a duke! I was wearing shirtsleeves and a greatcoat, workaday boots and a cap. I did not shave!”
She cut him a look. “And even your day-old beard was perfect. Soft and oiled and exactly the way a duke’s beard would be if he’d ever let anyone besides his valet see it.”
He couldn’t help raising a brow at that. “Soft, was it?”
She blushed. Triumph. “I couldn’t help but notice when I was making sure you stayed quiet. You couldn’t even hide like an ordinary person.”
“Ah,” he said, still enjoying the moment.
Her gaze tracked over his face. “Your beard grows quickly.”
He ran a hand over his cheek, where a day’s worth of scruff had grown. “I shave twice a day.”
They fell silent for a moment, locked in a stare before realizing simultaneously that they should not be discussing the rate of his beard growth. Gwen returned, two heaping platters of food in hand. Setting them on the table, she looked from him to Adelaide. “He’s forgiven you, I see?”
Adelaide smiled and adjusted her spectacles, a pretty dimple flashing in her cheek. How had he missed that before now? “He enjoys a challenge.”
The tavern mistress laughed. “Well, he’s certainly got one with you lot.”
Clayborn looked to Gwen. “Lot?”
The woman ignored the question and tucked a hand into the pocket of her apron, extracting a small square of paper and passing it to Adelaide. “Came to the kitchen door not five minutes ago.”
“Hmm,” Adelaide said, sliding a finger beneath the wax seal. “It’s late.”
As Adelaide read the message, Clayborn leaned forward. Before he could decipher any of the words, her long fingers refolded the paper and slipped it into the folds of her skirts. “Thank you, Gwen. It looks as though I will stay the night after all.”
She hadn’t been planning to spend the night? “It’s raining sheets out there,” he said, surprise in his words. “Surely you weren’t intending to drive in it.”
Adelaide looked to him. “If your brother was intending to drive in it, I was, yes. But Lord Carrington and Lady Helene have made camp at an inn two hours’ ride up the road. In this weather, that’s closer to four hours, which means I”—she finally looked to the pile of food in front of her—“can gorge myself on Gwen’s steak and ale pie, roll up to bed, and make up the time tomorrow.”
“Aye, ye can.” Gwen laughed and waved to a dark-haired boy nearby. “I’ll have Wei bring your bags up.”
“I shall pay for my room, if you’ll have it, Miss Gwen,” he said to the proprietress before leveling Adelaide with a cool look. “Now that I have my money returned.”
Gwen turned instantly serious. “I’m afraid we’re out of rooms, Duke.”
Clayborn’s brows snapped together. “You had one not five minutes ago when I entered . . .”
“Aye, but you didn’t have any money then. So I gave it away.”
He looked around the room, taking in the collection of faces—unchanged from when he’d arrived. “To whom?”
Silence fell, understanding coming heavy and quick. He looked to Adelaide, who looked like the cat that got the cream. “Early bird and all that.”
“I should take offense to you comparing my rooms to worms, Adelaide Frampton,” Gwen said before looking back to Clayborn. “There’s a warm loft in the stable if you’d like.”
“Not a single room available,” he said, turning to Adelaide. “Imagine that.”
She shrugged and lifted a fork, tucking into the flaky pastry of the pie in front of her. “One room available, as a matter of fact. The last room. My room.”
Not just the last room. The last bed.
Her bed.
Where she’d be sleeping without him. While he slept . . .
“The stables, then, Duke?” Gwen asked, and Clayborn had the distinct impression that he was part of a game—Toy With the Duke. He didn’t like that.
Nor did he like the way Adelaide Frampton watched him, as though she expected him to make a fuss. As though she expected him to play the part, too pristine and perfect for a night of discomfort. “The stables will be fine,” he said, enjoying the surprise that flared in her eyes at his reply.
“Excellent. I shall add it to your bill.”
“I shall pay a premium for the hay, I imagine.”
Gwen offered a bawdy wink. “Soft as goose down, I vow it.”
“Only the best for the duke’s smooth skin,” Adelaide said, her lips curving in a little wry smile.
He shouldn’t have let her tease him. Shouldn’t have let her draw his gaze to skin of a different kind, a pretty, peachy expanse above the line of her traveling dress. Shouldn’t have let her words hint at how smooth it would feel.
The door to the tavern opened behind him, letting in the cold from the wind and rain beyond, reminding him that the roads would make a late-night journey to another inn interminable. The hayloft of the Hawk and Hedgehog was better than nothing.
“I’m sure it will be fine, Gwen. Thank you.”
Gwen laughed, big and bright, clapped him on the shoulder and looked to Adelaide. “Not the worst duke I’ve ever had in here, I’d say.”
Adelaide raised a brow in his direction. “Give him time.”
With another chuckle, Gwen disappeared in the direction of the bar and Adelaide lifted her fork, stabbing one round potato and popping it into her mouth. She watched as he dug into his own food, tracking his movements for long moments before he grew uncomfortable under her gaze.
He set down his fork. “What is it?”
“Why are you chasing your brother and Lady Helene?”
The question was a surprise—the kind that came so quickly and unexpectedly that it summoned the truth. “Because my brother deserves happiness.”
She waited for more. “As simple as that?”
“Does it have to be more complicated?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t have a brother.”
“No one to teach you to climb a tree?”
“There weren’t many trees where I grew up,” she said, softly, and he wondered at the words.
“Not the Duchess’s cousin, and not a faraway vicar’s daughter, then?”
She smiled. “A poor example of a vicar’s daughter, indeed, if one considers yesterday.”
“If one considers yesterday, I’d imagine you were raised on the South Bank.”
She returned to her food, taking her time to compose the perfect bite on her fork. Was he right? Had she been raised there? It seemed impossible that anything else could be true—with the way she’d weaved in and out of the alleyways, like the place had been mapped on her skin.
Chewing thoughtfully, she finally replied, “I didn’t have a brother, or trees, but I had plenty of rooftops, and even more children willing to show off their skills in climbing them. Rooftops and trees aren’t so different, after all. They both come with a better view.”
A vision flashed—Adelaide Frampton on a London rooftop, the sun setting on the horizon, turning her red hair into pure flame. And then, unbidden, the vision shifted, and Clayborn was there, reaching for her. Pulling her close. Claiming her full lower lip with a soft bite before licking into her mouth. He went instantly hard at the image, one he knew would be bested by reality.
Not that he would ever find out. He cleared his throat, willing the sinful thoughts away. She deserved better than kisses on docks. Than fantasies in roadside taverns. Than what he could offer her. Now was not the time to imagine Adelaide Frampton naked on a rooftop.
“But did you?” she asked.
He blinked. Cleared his throat again. “I beg your pardon?”
Her brows lifted in what might have been a knowing smile. “Teach your brother to climb trees.”
“Ah. No.” He paused. “In fact, Jack fell out of a tree when he was eight and broke his arm.”
“And where were you?”
He’d been inside. Studying. Wanting to impress their father who had, by then, been dead for a year. Wanting, even then, to make sure he lived up to the legacy.
Instead, he’d missed Jack falling from the tree. Missed helping him to the house. “I didn’t even know he’d done it until after he’d seen the doctor.” Jack had returned with his arm in a cast, brave smile on his face, ready for whatever reckless adventure came next. He hadn’t been disappointed in the slightest. But Clayborn had been.
“I should have . . .” He paused, looking to her as she chewed a bit of steak thoughtfully, watching him with those enormous brown eyes that even behind her eyeglasses seemed to see everything and somehow judge nothing—and he found he couldn’t stop himself. “I should have paid closer attention. I should have taken better care of him.”
“You were . . . what, eighteen?” she said, and he immediately looked to her, shocked by her knowledge before he remembered that she would of course know it. It would have been in her dossier. A basic fact of Jack’s. Of their family.
What else did she know?
Before he could ask, she added, “Barely a man yourself.”
“Man enough to hold the title. Run the estate,” he said, hearing the cool edge in his words. Knowing it was unpleasant. Maybe that was why he said the rest. “Man enough that I should have taken better care of him.” He paused. “Then and now.”
Christ. Where had that come from?
Something flashed in her eyes. Something understanding. Something like pity. Dammit. He didn’t want that.
Don’t say anything, he willed her, silently.
No such luck. “He deserves happiness.” She repeated his words, and he nodded, before she added, “So you follow him, and you try to keep me from revealing his secrets.”
“There are no secrets in that folder that should stop his wedding,” Clayborn said. “Nothing that prevents him from a strong, sure future as Lady Helene’s husband.”
“Because he is your heir.”
He nodded. “Because he is my heir.”
She speared another potato and waved it in his direction as she asked, “What makes you so sure that you won’t marry and have one of those on your own?”
I won’t allow it.
He was saved from having to find a different answer when Gwen returned, this time friendlier, her hand stroking over Clayborn’s shoulders as though he were anything but a duke. “Oh, I’ve a tavern full tonight. The rain’s brought everyone in lookin’ for heat. Chatty, too—so many questions.”
He stiffened at the familiarity and looked up at the tavern mistress, her hip tucking tight to his shoulder. Before he could insist on propriety, she set her back to the rest of the room and leaned down, making a show of wiping the mahogany tabletop. “Can’t blame them. Warm in here, ain’t it, Adelaide?”
It wasn’t warm. Not at all.
Adelaide’s attention flickered away from him—had he ever been studied so carefully?—sliding over his shoulder to the door. Something shifted in her deep brown gaze, impossible to notice for the rest of the room. Only noticeable to him because he had a terrible habit of noticing this woman.
“What kind of questions?” It sounded casual, but wasn’t.
“People lookin’ for rooms. Wonderin’ if I’ve got space in the stables.” The look she gave Adelaide was meaningful enough to draw Clayborn’s question. “Same questions you were asking.”
Adelaide’s gaze tracked away again, brown eyes keen behind her spectacles, tracking the taproom before settling somewhere behind him, in the direction of the bar.
He made to turn, to see what had stolen her attention, but she reached for him, her hand coming to his on the table, staying his movement. His attention snapped to her touch, his breath going shallow at the feel of her fingers, soft and warm. A wild impulse urged him to lift her hand and kiss it. Run his tongue over her knuckles. More.
He shifted in his seat, stopping the fantasy from running away from him. Up the stairs to a quiet room and a soft bed. A pillow decorated with the flame of her hair.
“Clayborn,” she whispered, urging his attention. He gave it to her as she released him and pulled her hood up, the heavy brim of it shading her face. “Join me in my room?”
What in hell? The sound in the pub went discordant, fizzing about in his head. He’d misunderstood her, surely.
Even Gwen looked shocked by the offer. “What?”
“Don’t tell Duchess.” Adelaide was already moving, rising from the table, Clayborn’s manners pulling him up alongside her.
The other woman gaped for a moment, then, “To the grave, obviously.”
“What does the Duchess have to do with anything?” he asked.
“She likes secrets.”
This invitation was worthy of a secret. A night in her room. Alone. Just the two of them. The noise was back, clouding his thoughts. But the desire . . . that had not left.
Nevertheless, he started to resist. “I could not—It would be—”
“Improper,” Gwen finished for him, and he was simultaneously grateful for the word and irritated.
