His smile dimmed ever so slightly as he realized that the lady stretched out on the floor in front of him was none other than Miss Permilia Griswold, a lady he wasn’t overly familiar with, but who evoked rather unusual emotions in him all the same.
Those emotions ranged from annoyance, exasperation, frustration, and even grudging respect—all of the emotions, curiously enough, having come about during the two times he’d found himself in her company.
The first time he’d spoken to her had been in Central Park, providing skates—at a price, of course—to the many New Yorkers who’d braved the elements in order to enjoy the beauty of a snow-blanketed day. Miss Griswold had arrived at the park in the company of Miss Wilhelmina Radcliff, recent fiancée to his very dear friend, Mr. Edgar Wanamaker. Before he’d been able to do more than greet Miss Radcliff, though, Miss Griswold had begun taking him to task over what she’d felt were inflated skate prices.
Being a gentleman who made it his business to know the worth of every object he sold—and the worth of the service he extended to his customers that went with that object—he’d found himself at a complete loss for words when first presented with Miss Griswold’s argument. He’d rallied quickly, though, when she’d begun haggling with him like a common fishmonger. But before he’d been able to claim a victory—and the exact amount of money he was asking for the skates—Miss Griswold had somehow won the day, handing him the exact amount of money she felt the skates were worth.
Before he’d had the presence of mind to protest, he was watching her stroll away, swinging her ill-gotten gains by their laces and whistling a far too cheery tune.
The second time he’d run across the oh-so-annoying Miss Griswold had been at Edgar Wanamaker and Wilhelmina Radcliff’s engagement ball. Asher had been determined to let bygones be bygones, but when he’d attempted a polite conversation with Miss Griswold—talking about fashion, which he’d always found to be a most innocent topic and one normal ladies seemed to enjoy—Miss Griswold had gotten her back up. She was clearly peeved that he’d had the audacity to question where she’d purchased her delightful gown, assuming that she’d had a renowned designer create it for her.
Sparks had practically flown out of Miss Griswold’s brilliant blue eyes as she’d lifted a well-formed chin. She’d then informed him in a frosty voice that she rarely frequented renowned designers, finding that they charged prices that were far too steep for her.
When he’d made the grave mistake of pointing out that her father was one of the richest men in America and therefore those costs needed not concern her, her cheeks had turned an agreeable shade of pink right before she’d turned on her heel and stomped away from him, returning a mere moment later to make some unexpected remark about the weather. She’d then muttered something about her stepmother and trying to remember all the rules, before she’d turned back around and left his company without another word.
Their conversation had been more than peculiar, but now, with the memory of how vocal Miss Griswold usually was around him fresh in his mind, Asher bent closer to her, his gaze sharpening on her inert form.
Because Miss Griswold was not emitting a single sound—a concerning situation if there ever was one—alarm immediately replaced the annoyance his memories had evoked.
Realizing he needed to get her out of the crowd circling around them, Asher bent over, scooped Miss Griswold into his arms, and straightening, letting out a grunt when she began flailing about in his arms, quite like a fish out of water. Taken by surprise, his hold on her slackened, and Miss Griswold tumbling right out of his arms and back onto the floor.
Kneeling beside her with an apology on the tip of his tongue, Asher leaned toward her . . . but reared back a mere second later when Miss Griswold pushed herself to a sitting position. The apology he’d been intending to make was all but forgotten as he watched her rub an elbow that would surely sport a bruise come morning before she lifted her chin, caught his eye, and blinked a time or two.
Bracing himself for the wrath to come, he was instead surprised when instead of taking him to task for dropping her so unchivalrously to the ground . . . she smiled at him.
Curiously enough, a smiling Miss Griswold was a lovely sight indeed, her smile having the unexpected result of lodging his breath in his throat, a circumstance that took him by complete—
“What a delightful surprise to discover that you, Mr. Rutherford, are the gentleman who saved me from a most gruesome death” were the first words to come out of Miss Griswold’s now rapidly moving mouth.
The warm sensation he’d begun to feel in regard to her lovely smile disappeared in a flash. “You’re surprised to discover I saved you?”
Miss Griswold gave a nod, the motion sending the large tiara she wore on her head listing to the left. “Indeed, especially since, as I was bracing myself to be crushed in a most horrible fashion, I found the presence of mind to ask for a touch of divine intervention, and . . . the good Lord above apparently sent you racing to my rescue.”