Page 4 of The Scandalous Spinster

She barely had time to register that she was falling when she landed in a pair of strong, muscled arms. When she finally opened her eyes, he was so much closer than he had ever been before. There was something in his pale eyes—affection? Pride? For her? Surely not.

“Good girl. Can you stand?”

Of course she could. But why would she want to when he was so warm and solid and smelled of sweet limes and salt? Like the sea, as if it clung to him and would not let go.

Because she was Clara Prescott. Not the beautiful woman upstairs in the red dress, nor the ladies flirting over their fans just beyond the wall.

She cleared her throat. “Of course I can stand.”

He frowned, briefly. The muted light from the window behind him caught in the silver in his hair, the way she wished her fingers could. He was so handsome in that gruff way, older than she was by at least a decade, perhaps more. No one crossed him, not even the polished gentlemen she was more accustomed to interacting with, however briefly.

He set her down, and she stepped back. “Thank you, sir.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What exactly were you doing?”

She pulled the letter from inside her bodice where it did not quite fit, but she had worried she might drop her reticule while clambering out of a window like a woman with very little sense. She could have sworn his eyes tracked the movement hungrily.

More wishful thinking. She was letting her imagination run away with her again.

“Mission accomplished,” she said.

“And the mission required reckless behavior?”

She had never been accused of being reckless before.

She rather liked it. A lot.

Too much.

Something else to think about later.

“A couple decided to make use of the parlor before I could exit in the more traditional manner,” she replied drily.

“Did they—” Bram glanced up and cursed.

He turned her so swiftly, she barely had time to react. And then she was pressed to the iron railing, his body against her back, and all the wrong parts of her brain were reacting.

Fine, it was her body reacting. Her brain was not currently responding to commands. It was issuing them, and they were not appropriate. Closer. More.

“Stay still,” Bram growled, his voice rumbling through her. He leaned his arms against the railing on either side of her, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if one tiny sway forward wouldn’t have him pressing against her. Or, with one tiny sway backward, her against him.

“Blighter’s at the window. Must have heard us, but he can’t see you if you stay put.” He was large enough to block her from view completely, even without his greatcoat. His stance was nonchalant, his voice anything but. It stroked down the back of her neck, where his breath ghosted against her skin. She’d read about these kinds of moments. Dreamed about them. Written about them.

They did not compare.

“Clara,” he said sternly, quietly. “If you sigh like that again, I’m going to take it as a challenge.” She hesitated. He groaned, barely audible. “Don’t.”

She shouldn’t. More importantly, she couldn’t. They were on a mission. And he likely felt sorry for her, amused at her reaction. The lonely spinster. The wallflower. A sparrow among swans.

That put the starch back in her spine. She would not be pitied, not by him.

The window above them slammed shut. She did not relax. How could she? Every inch of her was tingling, and it took all of her concentration not to let it show.

“Thank you, Captain Thorn.”

She felt his smile against her hair before he pushed back, stoic once more. “Lady Clara. Let’s get you back.”

He led her through a gate hidden behind a lilac bush and onto the street, clogged with waiting carriages. No one saw them emerge. He didn’t say another word, not as he handed her up into carriage and not when he helped her down again at the Society’s headquarters.