How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(25)
“I know your sister writes of detectives, but perhaps you should consider the profession itself. You never seem to lack for questions, Miss Ruthven, and you’re clearly incapable of repressing the impulse to investigate.” He tipped his gaze down at his rubbish bin and arched an ebony eyebrow.
“I’ve already apologized for that, and do call me Clary.”
“No.” He shook his head, managing to avoid displacing a single strand of hair. “First names are not appropriate for the workplace.”
Clary chuckled. “That’s ridiculous. What does it matter what we call each other?”
He stared at her, dumbfounded. “Have you truly never read a word of your father’s books?”
“Every word. He insisted. But it doesn’t mean I agree with any of them.”
“Of course. Ever the rebel.”
“And what’s wrong with rebellion? Sometimes one must, if the cause is just.” Clary laughed. “That rhymed.”
His full mouth twitched, his lean cheeks quivered, and she willed him to smile at her. Just once. Instead, he knitted his brow and deepened his glower.
She threw up her hands in frustration. “Calling people by the name they prefer would make the workroom a kinder place. More congenial.”
“Now you’re telling me how to manage the workroom? After three days on the job?” He let out another long breath and folded his arms. “I don’t refer to anyone here by his given name. Surnames or job titles. You’ll find the same in every office in London.”
“And what’s my title?”
He squinted at her as if she’d just asked the silliest question he’d ever heard, unbuttoned his suit coat, and slumped into the chair behind his desk. “Employer,” he said, flicking his hand her way, “co-owner, mentee.” He squared his gaze on her. “Heiress.”
Clary snorted. “You make it sound as if I should be covered in silk and velvet and dripping with jewels.”
“Shouldn’t you be?” He swept his gaze down the insubstantial length of her, from her brows to the toes of her boots, as if struggling to imagine her bejeweled and wrapped in a sumptuous gown.
She struggled to imagine the scenario too. But his gaze unsettled her. Clary pressed a fist to her hip to stop her hand from trembling. “You manage the finances of Ruthven’s. You know we don’t possess that kind of wealth.”
“Your sister married an earl.”
“They fell in love. Besides, Sophia is beautiful, proper, elegant. She’s the perfect candidate to be a countess.”
“And you?” He braced his hands on his blotter and leaned forward, his mouth softening, gaze fixed on her, as if something about her finally interested him.
An unladylike guffaw burst from her lips. “I’m not that sort of woman.” The words were surprisingly hard to get out. She’d accepted that she’d never be a beauty like Sophia. “I don’t snag men’s notice in a crowd.” Speaking the fact aloud—to him—scalded her throat.
“Now that is nonsense.” He spoke emphatically, forcefully enough to stifle the retort that rose to the tip of her tongue. “I’ve never met a lady who’s harder to ignore.”
“Because I talk too much?”
“No.” He pursed his mouth, and there was a glint of humor in his eyes. “Though you do have a good deal to say.”
“Then it’s because I wear beads on my shirtwaist and garishly colored clothes?” Clary found it hard to meet his gaze. He watched her intently, studying her face, glancing down at the pink shirtwaist she’d adorned with lace and a few jet beads along the collar.
“I’m not interested in ladies’ fashion.” He left the rest unexplained, the reason he found her difficult to ignore. Though he didn’t seem to regret the admission. He stared at her boldly, only stopping when someone knocked at his office door.
One of the clerks stuck his head in.
“Daughtry says I’m to take Miss Ruthven up and show her the workings of the chromolithograph.”
“Yes, by all means.” Adamson stood and waved them off.
On the threshold, Clary paused and let the clerk proceed without her. Turning back, she said quietly, “I still want to know your sister’s name, Gabriel, and I still think you should call me Clary.”
Uttering his name seemed to affect him mightily. He flinched and swallowed hard as he stared at her. Heatedly. Almost hungrily. Very akin to the look a wallflower craved from the handsomest man in a ballroom.
She grinned and pulled the door closed behind her.
“Messenger for you, Mr. Adamson.” The clerk handed Gabe a note, the reply he’d been awaiting from Sara.
In a few words, she let him know she was settling into their new lodgings, and all was well. “Grass beyond the front window,” she added with a few upward, sloping pencil strokes to indicate spears of lawn.
For a reasonable rent, bearing his new salary and the twenty-five pounds Ruthven paid him immediately, he’d found rooms with a kindly old widow in a tidy three-story brick home, just a few steps away from a respectable pub. He and Sara could take their meals without traveling far, and they were miles closer to Ruthven’s. Within walking distance. If he could bear the fog and rain, he’d never have to take an omnibus again.