How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(23)
She marched up to him instead. “Thank you. That was a truly valuable lesson. I feel safer already.”
With the sliver of self-restraint he had left, Gabe managed not to roll his eyes. He’d taught her a fraction of what he knew. He’d meant to equip her, not make her feel more oblivious to danger.
“Watch your back in Whitechapel, Miss Ruthven. And if someone approaches, cross to the opposite pavement.”
“Even if they don’t look dangerous?” Her cheeks were flush with color, her eyes glowing in the dusk light. She was breathtakingly lovely and shockingly innocent.
Women, children, the elderly. Rigg had run them all, assigning them to do all manner of mischief at his direction. Clarissa Ruthven saw the potential in the girls at Fisk Academy. Gabe hoped she’d never see the uglier parts of the East End.
“Trust no one.” He revealed his cardinal rule.
Rather than acknowledge his advice, she seemed to take pity on him. Her gaze turned desperate, full of yearning. No doubt she planned to combat his pessimism and win him over to her bright-eyed view of the world.
“Nonsense,” she said softly. “I trusted you this evening, and you taught me how to defend myself.”
Here, in the dark, he wondered pointlessly if anyone had ever taught her how to kiss. Suddenly, it was all he could think of.
“Well, good night, Mr. Adamson.” She began to stride away, then turned back. “If I ask you to call me Clary, will you let me call you by your given name?”
He almost agreed, just to hear her say his name. But a remnant of rational thought broke through the haze of ridiculous longing she sparked in him. “I would prefer you didn’t.” Daughtry’s and every other clerk’s brows would merge with their hairlines, never mind her brother’s reaction, if they heard her referring to him so casually.
“Very well, Mr. Adamson. I’ll bid you a very good evening.” She pivoted on her heel and continued away from him.
He fought the urge to call her back. He hated how much he’d enjoyed her nearness. Her heat and energy.
Clarissa Ruthven wasn’t for him, and he sure as hell wasn’t for her.
So he waited in the shadows, yearning and frustrated, until she secured a cab and climbed inside. Then he started toward the corner to catch an omnibus home.
Nothing would serve better to remind him how far he was from an innocent like Clarissa than going home to deal with the specter of Malcolm Rigg.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Learning a great deal at the office. Typewriting, how our books are distributed to various shops, and how a single touch can feel warm enough to spark an inferno.”
—JOURNAL OF CLARY RUTHVEN
Four days after the strange twilight encounter with Gabriel Adamson, the man persisted in taking up far too much space in Clary’s thoughts.
She arrived at Ruthven’s early, letting herself in with the key Kit had given her, and wondered if Adamson was already in his office. At least he couldn’t glower at her for arriving early to use Daughtry’s typewriter anymore. He seemed content to let the old man personally oversee all her mentoring. Since there was a great deal more to learn than typewriting, Daughtry had encouraged her to come before the other clerks arrived for additional practice on the machine.
Despite her initial misgivings, she found herself eager to get to Ruthven’s each day. There was a unique satisfaction in working for her first bit of income. Publishing was a fascinating enterprise, and though Ruthven’s was a relatively small operation, each day presented new challenges and lessons to be learned.
Gabriel Adamson seemed loathe to teach her any of them. Only defensive maneuvers, apparently. Since that evening when he’d touched her, trained her, they’d barely spoken. Most days, he locked himself away in his office and barked at anyone who dared enter.
Yet she was always aware of him.
Vivid memories vexed her—the firm, warm wall of his body at her back, his fingers caressing her skin, the searing heat of his breath as he’d whispered in her ear. She tried not to think of that night. Of how he unsettled her and how oddly appealing his nearness had been.
Yet the experience presented a mystery she found hard to ignore.
She struggled to reconcile the man who’d held her with the one who was respected and feared by his employees in equal measure. The man who never smiled and ruled Ruthven’s with ruthless efficiency. The man whose white-knuckled hold on etiquette prevented him from calling her by her given name.
Clary did her best not to let the conundrum of Gabriel Adamson consume her thoughts. She worked hard at Ruthven’s each day, visited Fisk Academy every evening, and had managed to attend one lecture at her ladies’ union during the midday lunch respite. Whether the man ever spoke to her again or not, her days were filled with purpose, and at the end of the week, she’d have funds of her own.
Heading straight for Daughtry’s typewriter, she laid the satchel she carried to work aside and planted herself in his chair. In just a few days, she’d learned to type with improved speed and accuracy. Pulling out her practice page, she inserted the paper and rolled up to the next available line.
Her keystrokes filled the empty office, echoing in the high-ceilinged workroom. She tipped a glance toward Adamson’s office, wondering if the noise would draw the angry bear from his cave, but he didn’t appear.
A few more letters, and she built a rhythm as she typed lines from favorite novels and poems she’d memorized over the years. Once she settled in, the keystrokes created a music that quieted her mind. Before she knew it, she’d run out of paper and yanked her type-covered sheet from the platen.