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“Dress her up as a lad then? Like we used to do with Chloe.”
A tankard slammed to the table. “I am not wearing breeches,” Miss Griffin stated haughtily, cloak flapping. “Honestly, men… I’ve heard tell of some dissolute ideas whilst soused but…” Her lips maintained their movement but no more than mutters came forth.
Kian smirked. “We’d best be stirring our stumps before midnight.” He rose and stretched his long limbs. “I’ll settle the bill with Tonks.”
“Miss Griffin,” implored Seth, “if any harm came to you, I would never forgive myself. A prizefight is no place for a lady, even dressed as a nefarious footpad. It does not involve gentlemen strutting with gloves on but bare knuckles and brutality.”
Removing her spectacles, she gazed at him – haughty eyes softening while she placed flushed cheeks to palms.
“I would have liked to see you fight, Mr Hawkins.”
That would be the Porter Ale talking, but nevertheless, as they stared at each other, the rope of lust tightened ever further betwixt them. He knew it for what it was, but he wondered if the innocent Miss Griffin did.
“You’re a lady. You shouldn’t even be here, an–”
“I’ve had the loveliest of evenings.”
So had he.
Indeed, he could not remember the last time that a woman had held him so enthralled.
An itch could be scratched but it was his empty soul that cried out for company when Chloe had gone to bed. His skin, likewise, yearned for touch, not for one night but for all nights – intimate and profound.
Being a prizefighting champion had brought many women to his door, but he never opened it – too bruised, too particular or just too damn tired.
Yet this scant snip of a female made him crave once more.
“I could get a taste for this ale,” she admitted, draining her tankard.
“’Tis strong and potent, you realise.”
“Like you, Mr Porter.” She scrunched a brow, blinked. “Erm, I don’t think I meant…”
“Time to depart, methinks.” He stood and raked the bar for Kian but caught Tonks’ eye instead, who held up a coin and nodded towards the door.
Kian had left them.
With a sigh, Miss Griffin straightened her skew-whiff cap, flapped her cloak, shuffled along the bench, rose with palms pressed to table and then lumbered around the edge, peering for the door.
“Very well, Mr Hawkins.”
Seth captured her wrist as she veered off course, her cap falling, breast brushing his arm, desire rendering him speechless.
A jug-bitten patron made to rise, understandable as such beauty was rarely seen here but one glare from Seth and his arse hit the seat anew.
“‘It provokes the desire…’” Seth murmured.
“‘But takes away the performance’,” she finished, yanking her cloak straight. “Does that pertain to actors who over imbibe?”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely.
Because Shakespeare was wrong, honesty wasn’t always the best policy.
