How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(21)

Bloody rotting hell. He lifted the master key from his desk and tossed the bit of metal at his assistant. “Lock up.” Bursting out of Ruthven’s front door, he stopped and scanned the pavement to the east and west. Half a mile away, he spotted her striding toward a lane of hansom cabs. Racing toward her, he sidestepped around a gaggle of ladies fussing over a pram and nearly knocked a top-hatted gentleman to the ground.

“Miss Ruthven!” The shout emerged so loud he captured the attention of half the Londoners making their evening journey home.

“You’re not thinking of stopping me, are you, Mr. Adamson?” Her eyes glowed with determination, and her shoulders quivered like a bird on the verge of taking flight.

“Your brother is concerned about your ventures to the East End. And I take it you don’t plan to heed my advice not to return to Whitechapel.”

“I’m aware of Kit’s worries, and I do recall your warning, but I can see after myself.” She turned away from him and lifted a hand to catch the notice of a cabbie.

“Only fools are fearless, Miss Ruthven.” The lady was so bloody blithe, so sure of herself when she had no real notion of the city’s dangers. Beyond her youth, there was a freshness about her, an innocence that irked him. She was optimistic and full of possibility.

She was everything he’d never been.

And she was undeniably a fool. She wore her impulsivity and recklessness like a badge of honor. He’d thought perhaps her years away at a ladies’ college would have curbed her foolhardy tendencies and taught her a bit of poise and polish. If anything, her education had emboldened her. She carried herself with confidence now, as if she relished her uniqueness and would never bow to anyone’s expectations or to society’s rules.

“You’re na?ve,” he told her.

Shards of violet stabbed at him when she turned her gaze his way. “I’ve been to Fisk Academy dozens of times.”

It only took once. One attack, one strike of a knife, one man determined to cause a woman misery.

“No harm has ever befallen me in Whitechapel.”

Gabe arched a brow.

“Mr. Keene was emboldened by drink. He’d never caused any real trouble before, and I’m sure he won’t again.”

Ah, yes, because angry, frustrated men rarely turned to the bottle twice. If he was a gambler, Gabe would put money on the rotter returning and doing much worse. Wounded male pride led to every brand of malfeasance.

The cab she’d hailed took on a passenger and rolled away. She moved farther down the pavement to seek another.

Letting her go was the easiest option. But Gabe was caught, as he’d been so many times, between self-interest and doing a noble deed. For most of his life he’d chosen selfishness and survival, and he yearned to do so now. He needed to get home and check on Sara. Clarissa Ruthven was a grown woman and damnably determined to make her own choices. No matter how reckless.

He started back toward the corner where he caught the omnibus each night. Let the little fool go to her charity school. What she did with her free time was none of his concern. Yet even as he reasoned with himself, some damnable magnetic force drew him back. Turning on his heel, he covered the pavement he’d just traversed with long, burning strides.

Gabe sized her up as he would an opponent in the ring, considering how she would defend herself, what danger she might pose to an assailant. She was petite, many inches shorter than his six feet, and amply curved. Overpowering her would not be difficult for any fiend wishing to do her harm, but with speed and skill, her size could become an asset.

“Come with me,” he said when he reached her side.

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Mr. Adamson.”

“Over there.” Gabe pointed to a narrow alley that led to a mews behind the row of buildings.

She planted a hand on one hip. “You want me to follow you into a dark lane?”

“Just for a moment. Trust me.” He started toward the mouth of the alley, doubting she’d follow. But then he heard her boot heels clicking a path toward him.

Positioning herself a few feet away, she crossed her arms and sighed. She was still too far away, too visible to pedestrians passing by, for Gabe’s taste. But it would have to do.

“Hit me,” he told her.

She tipped her head and stared at him as if debating whether madness had overtaken him. Then laughter bubbled up, a lush throaty sound, far deeper than the titter she’d treated Daughtry to earlier. Hearing her amusement made his chest tickle. Other parts of him responded to the sound too.

“Come, Miss Ruthven. I don’t have all night. Make as if you’re going to strike.”

All at once, she seemed to recognize his intention. She squared her shoulders, loosened her stance, and balled her hand.

“Your thumb is sticking up,” he instructed. “Let it rest on your clenched fingers.”

Following his direction, she bent her thumb and lunged toward him. But before she swung out to strike, she wound back too far. Gabe arched away, and she stumbled forward. He caught her arm to steady her.

“Rounding back gives your opponent more time to avoid your swing. A closer jab is more effective.”

Quick as a flash, she raised her free arm and jerked a fist toward his face. Gabe caught the force of her punch against his palm.

“Good speed,” he praised. “But you lack control.”