Page 35 of The Redemption of the Shrew

“Sorry,” he said, “but I couldn’t very well refuse.”

“That’s supposed to make me feel better?” Gloriana cried. “I don’t enjoy being passed from hand to hand like a—a stinking packet of fish.”

Philippe grimaced. “That’s a poor choice of simile. Mr. Alexander thought he was doing me a good turn.”

“He’s as bad as Sophie,” Gloriana said. “I don’t know why he thinks you covet me.”

“Oh, he’s correct about that. Carnally speaking, I do covet you and always have.”

Chapter 8

Gloriana gaped at him, and their eyes met. It was dim in that tavern, but not dim enough. The awareness in his eyes sent a bolt of desire through her, top to toe.

“However, I am an honorable man. Unlike Lord Hythwick, I shall not act upon my desires, however tempted I may be—or have been in the past.”

Oh, how dare he? She surged up, gripping the tankard. “There’s nothing honorable about being a coward.”

His eyes flashed, but he slouched at ease in his chair. “Shall I call you a few choice names too?”

She flung the tankard at him. That was certainly the behavior of a doxy. Porter dripped down his waistcoat. He rose slowly to his feet. A babble of crude commentary broke out. Hands shaking, she dug in her reticule, dropped a shilling on the table, and stalked out.

The sounds of laughter and jests, Philippe’s among them, followed her out the door.

She hurried away down the street, fury giving her courage, but underneath she was afraid. She had never been alone in the London streets at night. Shadows loomed everywhere. She fumbled in her reticule and pulled out the pistol, but she hoped she wouldn’t have to shoot anyone.

“Attendez-moi, Gloriana.” Wait for me.

Why was he following, to insult her even more? “Go away. I don’t need your escort.”

Philippe came up beside her. With a sudden, swift movement, he removed the pistol from her hand.

“Give it back!”

He put it in his pocket. “When we reach your house.”

She clenched her fists and gritted her teeth. “I hate you.”

“I do not like you much either, but I am responsible for you tonight.”

“You wouldn’t be,” she snarled, “if you hadn’t gone to search for the book. If you would mind your own business, as I asked you to, we could avoid each other. We might be lucky and never, ever encounter one another again.”

“You should be glad I am willing to search for the book. If I get caught burgling Hythwick’s house, chances are we never shall meet again.”

“I don’t want you to get caught. What would happen to Sophie and the children?” She threw up her hands. “It’s simple. You don’t like me, and I don’t like you. Therefore, why do you persist in trying to help me?”

In the light of a streetlamp, she watched him shrug. It was an elegant, insouciant, very French shift of the shoulders. “Perhaps I like the prospect of foiling Lord Hythwick.”

She thought for a moment. “That is a motive I can appreciate. Nevertheless—”

He interrupted. “Then let us call a truce. I apologize for almost calling you names.”

“Apologies are useless when they are not sincere, and even if yours is, which I doubt, mine most certainly would not be. I repeat: stay out of my business.”

“Mordieu,” he muttered. “You are impossible.”

“Can’t you understand? I couldn’t bear it if you or anyone else came to harm because of me. I even worried about Mr. Cartway tonight. It is my fault the book was stolen.”

Philippe shook his head. “You provided him with the opportunity, but the theft is Hythwick’s fault and no one else’s.”