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He stiffened at the familiarity and looked up at the tavern mistress, her hip tucking tight to his shoulder. Before he could insist on propriety, she set her back to the rest of the room and leaned down, making a show of wiping the mahogany tabletop. “Can’t blame them. Warm in here, ain’t it, Adelaide?”
It wasn’t warm. Not at all.
Adelaide’s attention flickered away from him—had he ever been studied so carefully?—sliding over his shoulder to the door. Something shifted in her deep brown gaze, impossible to notice for the rest of the room. Only noticeable to him because he had a terrible habit of noticing this woman.
“What kind of questions?” It sounded casual, but wasn’t.
“People lookin’ for rooms. Wonderin’ if I’ve got space in the stables.” The look she gave Adelaide was meaningful enough to draw Clayborn’s question. “Same questions you were asking.”
Adelaide’s gaze tracked away again, brown eyes keen behind her spectacles, tracking the taproom before settling somewhere behind him, in the direction of the bar.
He made to turn, to see what had stolen her attention, but she reached for him, her hand coming to his on the table, staying his movement. His attention snapped to her touch, his breath going shallow at the feel of her fingers, soft and warm. A wild impulse urged him to lift her hand and kiss it. Run his tongue over her knuckles.More.
He shifted in his seat, stopping the fantasy from running away from him. Up the stairs to a quiet room and a soft bed. A pillow decorated with the flame of her hair.
“Clayborn,” she whispered, urging his attention. He gave it to her as she released him and pulled her hood up, the heavy brim of it shading her face. “Join me in my room?”
What in hell?The sound in the pub went discordant, fizzing about in his head. He’d misunderstood her, surely.
Even Gwen looked shocked by the offer.“What?”
“Don’t tell Duchess.” Adelaide was already moving, rising from the table, Clayborn’s manners pulling him up alongside her.
The other woman gaped for a moment, then, “To the grave, obviously.”
“What does the Duchess have to do with anything?” he asked.
“She likes secrets.”
This invitation was worthy of a secret. A night in her room. Alone. Just the two of them. The noise was back, clouding his thoughts. But the desire... that had not left.
Nevertheless, he started to resist. “I could not—It would be—”
“Improper,” Gwen finished for him, and he was simultaneously grateful for the word and irritated.
“Yes. That.”
Adelaide stood, shaking out her skirts. “Have you ever known me to worry about propriety, Gwen? It shall be too warm in the stables, and the duke requires a decent night’s rest if he’s to keep up with me.”
Clayborn would wager his entire fortune that it was not warm in the stables. Not with the wicked chill that pervaded this full tavern every time the door opened.
“Ahh,” Gwen said as though she’d been silly not to think of it herself. “Quite right. Far too warm for sensitive aristocrats.”
“I’m not sensitive,” he said.
“Nonsense. All aristocrats are sensitive.” Adelaide turned to the other woman, her gaze firm. “You’ll take care of his carriage?”
Gwen was already moving for the bar, where the boy she’d called Wei stood, ready for his next instructions. Clayborn looked to Adelaide. “What’s wrong with my carriage? It’s a new barouche.”
“Mmm, and handsome,” she said, lifting his plate from the table and shoving it into his hands. “Made for speed in town, not strength out here. And emblazoned with a ducal seal.”
“Of course it is,” he said. “It is owned by a duke.”
She raised a brow. “Should I kneel in reverence?”
He bit his tongue at the teasing words. At the image they summoned—wildly inappropriate. Not to mention unwelcome, considering her sharp tongue.
Don’t think of her tongue.
