The Watchmaker's Daughter (Glass and Steele #1)(6)

I spotted Mr. Glass at a table near the window. He rose and greeted me with a dashing smile that I couldn't help but return, despite my knotted stomach. He must have had a good rest since we last met, because there was no sign of tiredness in his eyes. They were as clear and warm as his smile. There was also no sign of the purplish glow on the skin of his bare hand. It appeared quite as it should—tanned, strong, and entirely normal.

"Thank you for coming, Miss Steele," he said, pulling out a chair for me.

"Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Glass, although I'm still unsure what it is you want to ask me."

"I have questions about your father."

"So you said, but what do you want to know about him?"

We were interrupted by the waiter, and my awkwardness returned. Not only was I unsure if I was expected to pay for my afternoon tea, but everyone at the surrounding tables still stared. Was I the oddity or was Mr. Glass, with his good looks and somewhat lazy way of sitting? Or was it the both of us together? None knew me, but it was quite possible that Mr. Glass's acquaintances were among the other patrons and his meeting a woman like this was about to become the gossip of the week.

"Your finest tea, please," Mr. Glass asked the waiter, "and your best cakes and…things," he added with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I don't care what. Do you, Miss Steele?"

"Er, no." As long as I wasn't expected to pay for them. Despite the strangeness of Mr. Glass and his relaxed manner, I did peg him as a gentleman, and no gentleman would invite a lady to tea and then ask her to pay her share.

The waiter retreated and Mr. Glass sat forward. He picked up the small silver fork and twisted it between his fingers. "You must think my request to meet with you odd," he said.

"No odder than my acceptance of it. I'm not in the habit of taking tea with strange men."

He held up the fork in surrender. "Of course not. I can see that you're a respectable lady."

"You saw that in our brief encounter this morning? The encounter in which I berated my former fiancé, attempted to ruin his business, and stomped on your servant's toe?"

"To be fair, Cyclops deserved it. I didn't think he would grip you that hard." He let the fork go and placed a hand to his heart. "I deserved it more. Please allow me to apologize most sincerely for my treatment of you. I was…not myself. I'm not ordinarily so rough with women. It was uncalled for, and I can only apologize for it again and again."

"Apology accepted. I admit to being somewhat shocked at the time, but I wasn't harmed. I do suggest that you refrain from hauling women around like a caveman next time you are not feeling like yourself. Others may not be as forgiving."

He grinned, which I hoped he would. I did so like his smile with his perfect white teeth against his smooth brown skin. It made his eyes twinkle too. "I will try to restrain myself, although I do have a temper and I'm unused to the delicate sensibilities of English women."

"Women approve of being manhandled where you come from?"

"Not many, no. They usually stomp on toes, and more, if they find themselves in such a situation." He picked up the fork again and toyed with it. He seemed to have a problem sitting still. He must be a man of action. That sort rarely sat in tearooms with ladies. "I like your directness, Miss Steele. It's refreshing. I was beginning to think all Englishmen and women spoke in roundabout ways without saying what they truly felt."

"I'm not usually so forward, but this morning I'd reached the end of my tether." The dam had finally burst after seeing Eddie's smug smiles and listening to his inane laughter. My anger had nowhere to go but out. It wasn't until later, when I sat quietly in my attic room, that I realized my anger was largely directed at myself now—anger that I'd ever accepted a proposal from a man I didn't love and never could. "Where are you from, Mr. Glass? Your accent is unusual."

"My accent is a mix, so I've been told, thanks to the different heritages of my parents and our travels. I'm recently from America."

"America? How thrilling."

He chuckled. "Not particularly."

"It is when the furthest you've traveled is Cheshunt."

He gave me a blank look.

"It's a little north of London."

The waiter arrived with a silver tea-stand laden with slices of cake, sandwiches and pastries. I'd never seen so many all at once before, or presented so prettily. My stomach growled. I hadn't eaten since that morning, and then only a slice of moldy bread that Mrs. Bray had been about to throw out.

Mr. Glass eyed me from beneath long lashes but didn't comment. He waited until the waiter poured our tea and left us with the pot before urging me to fill my plate.

I took a delicate pastry and ate it in two bites before he'd even begun. He nudged the cake-stand a little closer to me and I took a slice of cake and ate that. At his further prompting, I shook my head.

"I'm quite full, thank you," I lied. My mother had always told me not to make a pig of myself, and I mostly followed her advice. I tried not to look at the cakes for fear of showing my regret, however.

"That may be so, but I can't possibly eat all of these on my own," he said. "Please, assist me, or they will go to waste."

If he was going to be so gentlemanly about it, then I might as well.