How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(33)

At her sharp inhale, he looked up to find her sharp violet glare on him.

Yes, that was better. Let her loathe him. Her disdain was precisely what he deserved.

“Don’t you have a heart, Mr. Adamson?”

“Not that I am aware of.” He knew it wasn’t true. She’d put a lie to the claim. Since Clary strutted into his life wielding a croquet mallet, he’d been reminded of the nuisance of his heart every damned day. The rusty organ responded to her, crashing against his ribs every time she was near, as if she was a magnet and his heart nothing but a twisted bit of metal.

“The story is well written,” she insisted while he got lost studying her lips. “You cannot deny the merits of the author’s style. So you must object to the content.” She started pacing around his office, in front of his desk at first and then circling around behind him.

Which he loathed. He hated anyone at his back. Especially her. She was the most dangerous of all.

“I can’t help but wonder why the tale disturbs you.”

“As I said, it’s ridiculously sentimental. There is a glut of such stories on the market. London doesn’t need another.”

Hovering at the edge of his desk, she stared down at him, which caused him to focus furiously on the next letter.

“The boy in the story is from the East End,” she said as she traced shapes with her finger on the surface of his desk. “Obviously, you’ve visited the area.”

“Not as often as you, apparently.”

“You still haven’t told me why you were in Whitechapel that day.” She tiptoed around the topic he was determined to avoid.

“The day I stopped you from attacking a drunken man with a mallet?” he threw back at her.

“Here I thought you’d stepped in to save me,” she said in a small voice.

And he’d happily do so again. Just the thought of Keene stoked violent impulses Gabe had spent years attempting to bury under layers of propriety.

“Do you often rush in to assist others? Perhaps you’re a bit like the hero in the story.”

“I’m not a hero. I don’t rush in.” He stood up from his chair, determined to end this mentoring session. She was too appealing, too near, too damned curious about his past. “Luckily, I know very few ladies foolish enough to put themselves in harm’s way.” Lifting the manuscript she seemed determined to champion, he shoved the sheaves back at her. “Contact the author. Ask if she has additional stories. Preferably less overwrought. We could consider a small collection of her tales.”

She beamed at him, and he tried not to get caught in the glow of her smile. Bending to retrieve a folder from the small cabinet he kept in the corner, he pulled out an original of a letter that he often replicated when responding to dreadful submissions.

“This is the letter I sent to the horse gentleman. It’s the wording I suggest you use when rejecting the others. A personalized note to everyone will take far too long.”

Taking the paper, she read, her eyes darting from line to line as her expression crumpled into a grimace. “This is ghastly. Cold and unkind. There’s not a single line of praise or a shred of gratitude that an author would entrust their work for our consideration.”

After casting him an angry glance, she lifted the foolscap and tore the sheet in two, then again, and again, until she’d gathered eight uneven squares between her fingers.

“Ruthven’s can do much better than this.” Stepping toward him, she slid the fragments into his top waistcoat pocket, patting her palm against the lump she’d created. Suddenly, she stilled, her hand a soft weight against his chest. “Oh, Mr. Adamson, I’ve found it.” A delicious smile lit up her face, her eyes, the entire room. “Apparently, you do have a heart after all.”





CHAPTER ELEVEN

“I never truly understood the allure of ballroom dancing. Until tonight.”

—JOURNAL OF CLARY RUTHVEN

“They’re here!” Clary waved through the long sash window of Stanhope House before picking up her skirts and sprinting toward the front door. Slippers skidding on marble, she passed the appalled housekeeper and cheerily called back, “I’ll get the door, Mrs. Simms. It’s my friend Helen and her student.”

Sophia and Grey’s new housekeeper, a steel-haired lady with a back as straight as a fire poker, looked supremely unimpressed. “Very well, Miss Ruthven.”

Clary yanked the door open before they had a chance to knock, and Helen let out a gasp.

“My goodness, you look like a fairy-tale princess.”

“Stop talking nonsense and come inside.” Clary smiled as Sally and Helen, their eyes aglow, took in the dusk-gilded facade of Sophia and Grey’s London home. “You both look magnificent.”

Helen wore a simple, elegant gown of dark green velvet. Sally had chosen a riotous pink from among the fabrics donated to Fisk Academy. She’d added ribbons and neatly stitched rows of seed beads around the bodice. Clary thoroughly approved of the girl’s style.

“I’m sorry we’re late,” Helen said as Clary led them both to the ballroom. “London traffic is always full of surprises.”

“You’re early enough. Though a few guests have begun to arrive, dancing won’t start for a good half hour.” Clary realized Helen was no longer following her and turned back to find her friend had stalled on the ballroom threshold, examining the ceiling and walls and spacious polished floor. Musicians had already assembled in a corner, and Helen tapped her foot in time as they warmed their instruments with a lively allegro. Sally swept toward the center of the room and pinwheeled around, giggling with glee.