Page 29 of The Return of the Rake

She laughed at that, a sound of genuine appreciation for his candour. “Oh, indeed, there are, but I never hang lambs, Mr King, not until they are proven to be sheep.”

King regarded her with amusement, relaxing his pose and stretching out his arms along the back of the settee, one long leg crossed over the other. “A lamb?” he said, deliberately lowering his voice. “Are you quite sure that is what you meant to say?”

“Quite sure, though please do not mistake my meaning. I know a wolf when I see one, I was only illustrating a point. But even should I cast you as the wolf I know you to be, such a creature caught licking his lips ought not to be condemned out of hand. He might only have stumbled into the path of the poor innocent lamb, not actually been the one to cause it harm.”

King’s limbs stiffened and he forced himself to relax as he caught her meaning. She would not accuse him out of hand, but she was treating him with the caution he deserved. He cursed the town and the damned busybodies flapping their gums for making her even more wary of him than she had been. He was going to have to work bloody hard to bring her around.

“Tommy Tanner is not my son,” he said, his voice cool and hard as he held her gaze.

She returned it, unblinking, and for a moment he felt as if she could see inside him and view all the dreadful things he’d done in his life. Heat crept down his neck and it was all he could do not to look away as something like shame stirred in his guts. When she smiled at him and nodded, he let go a breath he’d been unaware of holding fast in his lungs.

“In truth, I did not believe it,” she admitted.

“Have I made such a good impression?” he asked dryly.

“Good heavens, no,” she said with a laugh. “It’s only that he looks nothing like you.”

He grinned at that, appreciating both the set down and her honest good sense.

A bell rang in the adjoining room, and she smiled at him. “Dinner is ready, I believe. Shall we?”

King stood and walked over to her, taking her glass and setting it down before offering her his hand. She took it, her cool, slender fingers curving around his as he helped her up. Once again, her light touch set fires beneath his skin, and he wondered just what he might feel if her hands slid against his body, down his back, over his chest, other places that stirred with interest at his wayward thoughts.

She withdrew her hand from his, a sudden movement that made him wonder if she had been thinking along similar lines but there was no way of knowing. Before he could offer his arm, she had walked ahead of him.

“This way, if you please,” she said over her shoulder.

King followed her, feeling like the wolf she had named him stalking a sweet, tender lamb, before reminding himself Mrs Adamson was nothing of the sort. She was no innocent, but a widow, despite her youth, and she had already shown her teeth. He did not doubt she had sharp claws too and would use them to devastating effect if she felt the least bit threatened. Not that King had any intention of doing so. What glory was there to be had in taking something by force or by underhand means? No. He would have Mrs Adamson come to him, wanting him and him alone, or he would not have her at all.

“Please be seated,” she said, crisp and businesslike now as she surveyed their dinner.

A small round table, not unlike those in the dining room that were set for two, had been arranged, with a larger table beside it. This was covered, though not crowded, with a variety of chafing dishes.

They began with chestnut soup, which was delicious, and moved through dressed crabs and baked sole and onto the roast meats. Throughout, King studied her, admiring her elegance, at how right it seemed to see her presiding over such a table. She did not pick at her food, though she did not eat nearly as heartily as he, and he wondered if this was good manners, her usual habit, or nerves.

“Mrs Fairway is to be commended,” he remarked, carving a quantity of roast beef before offering Mrs Adamson the choicest pieces.

“She will be gratified to hear you say so,” she replied. “Do help yourself to wine, Mr King. I believe the Bordeaux in the decanter to your right to be just the thing for the roast beef.”

“I sincerely doubt anything I have to say would gratify Mrs Fairway,” he replied with a wry smile, pouring her a glass of the red wine before helping himself.

“You wrong her. Indeed, you do. She admires you a good deal.”

King snorted, cutting into a slice of roast beef that was perfectly pink and exquisitely tender. “Oh, yes, and I imagine she was delighted to discover I was to dine with you, alone in your rooms. Is she outside the door this moment, brandishing a pistol, perhaps? I assure you, I would not be surprised.”

To his delight, she laughed at that and raised her glass to him. “Perhaps that is true, though no, she is not outside the door, but I cannot say for sure she does not own a pistol.”

“I would not bet against it,” King replied, grinning now.

“Tell me about yourself then, Mr King. We have established you are a wolf, but perhaps not one as black as you have been painted? You say you are a businessman, but I do not know what manner of business you are involved in.”

King regarded her with amusement and appreciation. She refused to be daunted by him, nor to shy away from subjects most would never dare to broach.

“What have you heard?”

She inclined her head, her lips pursed as she considered that, and King had the sudden and urgent desire to go to her and press his own lips against that soft pout to prove what it was about him made her cast him as a wolf. Instead, he tightened his grip on his knife and fork and endured.

“I heard you were born here, the son of a poor fisherman.”