“Miss Widmore has no interest in stories about our fighting days, Rude.”
Augusta’s brows arched. “Oh, but I do. Please go on, Mr. Markham. Or should I call you Mr. Mayhem?” She rested her chin on the back of her hand and gave a slow blink. Either the woman was tippled on her first tankard or she was flirting with one of the ugliest men in London. He hoped to heaven it was the former.
Rude dragged a chair up beside her and sat. Reaver crossed his arms and glared harder, hoping to penetrate that dense, bald head. By God, the man had always been thick. Tough, but thick.
“He broke me nose once. Or were it twice? Eh, Reaver? Maybe it were three times. No matter. Down I went, not more’n two minutes, I reckon. Ye’d suppose from his size he’d be slow. Nah, not Reaver. Fast as a ferret, that one. Sly, too. Made ye think he was goin’ one way, then he’d wallop ye from another.” Rude attempted to demonstrate, his giant, round fists pumping before he waved dismissively and laughed, his belly shaking. “Never saw nothin’ like Reaver fightin’. Mean as a demon, eh? Clever demon. Now, me, on the other hand. I weren’t clever. I was big.” Another belly laugh before he comically hit himself in one cauliflower-shaped ear, his eyes crossing. “Could take a right bludgeoning. Wore out my share of those scrappers, ain’t that so, Reaver?”
“Aye. You could take a beating, Rude.”
The man sighed, looking a bit melancholy. Then, he shrugged, smiled, and stood, plucking up his chair and returning it to the adjacent table. “Those days are gone. I’m a proprietor now. Speakin’ of which, I’d best see to old Jones over there.” He nodded toward a stooped old man debating politics with a chair. “Sometimes the chair wins the argument,” he whispered, clicking his tongue in pity. “A sad sight, indeed.”
While Rude played intermediary, Reaver took a drink of his ale. That’s when he noticed Augusta, chin propped on her hand, staring at him with the oddest expression.
He frowned. “What?”
She smiled. “You were a fighter.”
“Aye.”
“I knew that, I suppose, in theory. I also knew you were a tavern owner. In theory.” She glanced around The Black Bull, inexplicably fascinated. “How long did you own this place?”
“Four years.” He raised his tankard. “The ale was better then.”
She grasped her own tankard in two hands and drank—far too quickly.
“Easy, love,” he murmured, pressing a finger down on the brim.
A proud chin elevated. “I think the ale is quite good.”
“Aye. That’s because ye haven’t had good ale. This one’s sour at the front and bitter at the back. Not the worst I’ve had, but not the best, either.”
“It’s strong.”
“Mmm.”
“I like strong.”
That last bit had been a purr. Now, her eyes were scouring his hands and arms. Lazily wandering to his shoulders. Settling on his mouth.
“Are you flirtin’, Miss Widmore?”
A slow blink. A lift of a russet brow. A prim smirk. “Perhaps.”
Good God. He’d assumed his carefully planned outing to be a steaming pile of wreckage after the miserable start they’d had. But perhaps it was going better than he’d thought.
The day had begun at breakfast, where he had informed Augusta they were going riding in Hyde Park.
She’d frowned, nibbled her toast with marmalade, and swallowed. “Must we?”
It had taken him a moment to respond. “You don’t want to?”
“In truth, I am not much of a rider. Haven’t been on a horse in ages. Before that, I was thrown four—no.” She’d raised her eyes to the ceiling, her lips moving as though counting dance steps. “Seven times. I was always too impatient and not well regarded by my mounts.”
“We’re going.”
“I don’t have a riding habit.”
He’d released a sigh of frustration as she’d taken another bite of her toast. “Very well. We’ll take the carriage.”
“To the park?”
“To Berkeley Square. Gunter’s. They have tea.”
She’d glanced pointedly at the teapot on the table.
“Bloody hell, Gus.”
“Well, I just don’t see why we should drive all the way to Berkeley Square—”
“Ye’re such a dashed nuisance.”
“—when we have perfectly lovely tea here. Besides, you have no liking for tea. If we bother to drive someplace in your ill-fitting carriage, at least it should have offerings you desire.”
She was the only offering he desired, but he could not say that. The day was for wooing. Wooing required patience. “Such as?” he’d grumbled.
“Well, what do you prefer to drink?”
“Ale.”
Her eyes had sparked over the rim of her teacup. She’d lit with an enormous grin. “Ale,” she’d breathed, as though he’d said something brilliant. “How perfect. Take me to a public house. Oh! Even better. Take me to where you began your life as a proprietor. Your tavern.”
He’d refused her request ten times. But on the eleventh, she’d brushed his hand with hers and said, “It would please me so, Sebastian.”
Now, here they sat, in The Black Bull with their second round of tankards. And Augusta Widmore was flirting. Or, perhaps not.
Her eyes were closed. She’d fallen asleep.
Bloody, bleeding hell.
He threw some coins on the table and gathered her up into his arms, taking care with her gown to preserve her modesty. Her arm looped around his neck, and her head fell against his shoulder, knocking her new, green bonnet askew. She sighed and snuggled closer.
God, she felt good.
He carried her outside to the carriage, maneuvering so only his ribs were crushed by the door frame.
“Bastian,” she whispered. Gray eyes blinked open as he laid her upon the seat.
He tried to retreat so he could enter the coach properly, but she clung to his neck.
Then, she kissed him. Directly on the mouth. Inelegantly but with purpose.
“Gus,” he murmured. “You must let go, now.”
“No.”
“My lower half would like to be inside, as well.”
She groaned and clung tighter. “Oh, that sounds heavenly, Bastian. Let’s do that next.”
He groaned, wondering if frequent blasphemy earned a man such divine torment. If she were not half-sotted, he might have her skirts up at this very moment.
But she was. So he gently untangled her arms, extracted himself from the coach door frame, then entered in his usual manner.
An hour later, after another cup of tea at the house, her head had cleared, and she insisted they continue their day of outings together. “You obviously had plans.” She plunked the cup down in its saucer, showing no signs of headache or weariness from her tippling. “What was next on your list?”
He narrowed his gaze upon her. She appeared well enough, her skin a bit flushed but otherwise … beautiful. Every day, she looked more beautiful to him. Her green gown was soft and perfectly fitted. Gray eyes shone brightly, as they had at breakfast.
“The British Museum,” he answered. “Elgin’s marbles.”
“Have you seen them yet?”
“No.”