A Lily Among Thorns(67)

“Don’t make me hit you again.”

Braithwaite’s brows drew together. “That tears it!” He drew his other hand back and started forward.

Solomon pulled off his coat with an avid, angry gesture and dropped it on the floor. Serena couldn’t see his face. What the hell was going on? Solomon didn’t punch people. He didn’t shrug out of his jacket at the least provocation and show off his broad shoulders, the muscles clearly outlined by the linen of his shirt. The linen back of his waistcoat stretched tight as he lifted his arms. Heat flared low in her belly at the knowledge that he was going to hit Braithwaite again.

Fortunately—since Serena seemed incapable of the most basic common sense this evening—the Elbourns’ footman intervened. “I’m dreadfully sorry, Lord Braithwaite. I shall eject these people immediately and have someone bring ice for your jaw.” Then he picked up Solomon’s coat and their other things from where Solomon had dropped them, took them by the arm, and marched them smartly to the door. Serena threw him a grateful glance, and he winked at her. She wished she had time to tip him. She would have to send someone over tomorrow.

Solomon put on his jacket and overcoat and gave her an uncertain look. “It’s rather late. Shall I hail us a hackney?”

“Let’s walk. I’d like some air.”

“So would I.”

They walked in silence. The weather had been warm for early June in London, but even so the night air was chilly. Solomon walked with his hands deep in the pockets of his fashionable carrick, not looking at her.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said finally, unable to bear the silence. She had liked silence, once. “I know he’s a customer.”

He let out an impatient breath. “I was tired of the whole damned evening. It seemed the quickest way to shut his foul mouth.”

Her stomach curled guiltily. “You have a punishing right.”

Solomon glared at her. “Don’t act so surprised. You can’t get picked on as much as I did in school and not learn something about fighting.”

“Did you hurt your hand?”

He pulled his hand out of his pocket to look. “Damn.”

“What?”

“I forgot my gloves. They were worth two quid, and I just left them on the floor. I’m an idiot.”

“Nothing wrong with a melodramatic gesture now and again.” She pulled the gloves out of her reticule.

He stared at them for a moment, and then he beamed at her, his frustration of a moment ago forgotten. She’d made him smile after all, without meaning to or trying, and her heart turned over. “Thank you,” he said. “I—thank you.”

His eyes sparkled at her; his coat was askew and it made her want to shove him up against the lamppost and kiss him again. When he reached for the gloves, she found herself turning over his hand and looking at his bloodied knuckles. He ducked his head.

She traced the bruises with a finger. “You engaged me to find things you lost, didn’t you?”

“So I did,” he said, watching her finger. “I’d better leave the gloves off. I don’t want to get blood on them.”

She could lean in, now, and kiss him. But she wasn’t sure she’d deal with it any better this time, and Solomon deserved better. She let go of his hand and turned back toward the Arms. “I didn’t know you were friends with Jack Ashton.”

“I was friends with Braithwaite, too. I wanted to draw Braithwaite’s cork half the time even then, but I never had the guts.” Solomon shrugged. “We haven’t seen each other much since Cambridge. I think we were friends more because I was lonely and Ash was softhearted than for any other reason. In the end, he was probably a better friend to me than I was to him. I liked him, but—he never paid his tradesmen’s bills. There were always at least three duns hanging around his rooms. I hated it. And Lord, did he set my teeth on edge tonight.”

She wanted to thank him for defending her to Ashton, but that would mean admitting she’d listened in. “Braithwaite was right,” she said instead. It was hard to get the words out, but she knew they were true. “I’m not worth it.”

He glanced at her, chewing his lip—apparently thinking about what to say. He was thinking about what she’d said, trying to understand her. Trying to find the right words. The way he listened was as dangerous and tempting as the way he looked at her. “Is that why it’s stupid to kiss me?”