Bryony called out greetings to both staff and guests alike as she navigated deftly through the throngs. Everyone knew her, and wolf whistles sounded from all directions in admiration of her gown. “They’ve never seen me toffed-up like this,” she said, leaning close to whisper in Nigel’s ear.
He shivered, skin prickling at the brush of her lips, and nodded hastily. At least with as noisy as it was, his utter inability to make conversation with this woman shouldn’t be a problem.
She propelled him into a seat at the bar, calling out a friendly, “Hi, JoeJoe!”
“Hi, Bryony.”
“A couple of Penny Pilsners for me and me friend here.”
The titular JoeJoe gave Nigel a quick once over, then proceeded to fill glass mugs from a barrel in the back. He set them down in front of them, and Bryony picked hers up and motioned for Nigel to do the same. He gingerly lifted the glass to his nose. Searing vapors withered his nostril hairs.
“Go on, Mr. Grimm!” Bryony said and took a large swig from her own glass. “You’ve been a wet blanket all evening. Let’s get a little pep in you and see if we can’t still salvage something of the night.”
Nigel grimaced. But at least with a beerthisdisgusting, he wouldn’t have to worry about overindulgence, right? He took a tentative sip and . . . his entirebeingrebelled. Choking on a cough, he doubled over and nearly fell from the barstool, all while Bryony whooped with laughter. Others watched them, and someone called out, “Picked another winner, did you, Bryony!”
“You bet I did, Georgie Bumstead! This one is a propergenteelman!”
More laughter accompanied this. Nigel grimaced and managed to straighten up in his seat. A wave of dizzinesswhooshedthrough his head, and he realized he had probably just made a very foolish mistake. “Miss Braithwait,” he said, his voice slurring a little from the jazz and the smoke and the noise as much as the alcohol, “I think I’d best be going—”
“Don’t you even think about it, Mr. Grimm!” she answered, clinking her glass to his where it sat on the bar. She drained the rest of her drink in a few quick gulps, set her empty mug downhard, then let her fur wrap fall off her shoulders onto the back of the barstool. “I mean to have a good time tonight, and I mean for you to have it with me. Come on, how’s about a dance?”
“Oh, I don’t think I’m prepared to—”
“Notyou.”She laughed and smacked his shoulder with the back of her hand. “I meanme!”With that she turned to the barkeep and called out in her brassiest tones, “Hey, JoeJoe! Tell the fellas to play ‘About That Boy!’”
“You gonna dance for us, Bryony?” he asked, looking at her from under a heavy brow.
“Will you give us the next two rounds on the house if I do?”
“Sure.” He shrugged. “Throw in a little something extra, and I’ll make it three.”
“You got it, boss!”
Then, to Nigel’s complete horror, she climbed with great nimbleness up onto her stool and then onto the bar, flashing rather a lot of leg through the high-cut slit as she did so. She managed the maneuver with shocking grace, as though she did it every night . . . which, well, maybe she did. Nigel found himself staring up at her from a most interesting angle, and the whole room around him erupted with cheers. JoeJoe called out to the band leader, and music instantly blared to life.
Bryony struck a pose. Something about it was vaguely familiar. Then she opened her mouth and began to sing, not entirely without skill:
“Dreaming about that boy all day,
Can’t shake, shake, shake, shake, shake him away!”
The next thing Nigel knew she was prancing up and down the bar, stepping between beer glasses with a slinking sort of delicacy that would put a cat to shame.
“He’s the song, my heart’s gotta play!
Every night and every day-yay-yay-yay-yay!”
It really didn’t matter if she could sing or not. So long as she moved likethat,no one really cared. Nigel stared, open-mouthed, the burn of alcohol roiling in his gut and . . .
And suddenly he blinked.
His mind cast back to a mere six nights ago. The night he’d infiltrated Lord Bruxley’s engagement party and stood among the dinner guests, observing an ensemble rendition of this very same number. Only, truth be told, he had not observed the ensemble at all.
His gaze had been entirely focused on one performer.
She definitely did not fill out her black bustier the way Bryony filled her gold gown. And she certainly didn’t know what to do with her slender body, didn’t have the equipment to jiggle and sashay with any great effectiveness. But it didn’t matter. He remembered her every gasp, her every blush. The way her hand pressed against her heart in that shocked, raised-by-spinster-aunties manner of hers that she simply couldn’t help. Her small yelps of surprise, the way she staggered, her eyes so round with horror at finding herself in such a predicament.
Gods, she was beautiful.
