How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(65)

Sara snatched the paper from his hand, reading the message quickly. “No, Gabe.” She shook her head emphatically. “Don’t even think of going back to ’im.” She tore Rigg’s message in two, and then in halves again, and again, just as Clary had torn his rejection letter and stuffed the tattered pieces in his pocket before pressing her palm against his chest. A twinge of pain and a rush of heat warmed the spot as he remembered her teasing grin. “I won’t let you go back there,” Sara said as she let the pieces rain down on the tabletop like grungy bits of snow.

“It’s now or never, Sara. This will get Rigg off my back and put money in my pocket. Then I can start again, find a job on my own merit.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Maybe then I can deserve her.”

Clary signed the invoice a clerk had placed before her. “You know where these books go?” she asked the young man.

“Yes, miss. Been expecting this shipment for months.”

“Good.” She handed him the signed document. But rather than leave Gabriel’s office, he waited with his hands crossed in front of him. When he caught her eye, he jerked his head toward the shelf of ledgers behind her head.

“Boss usually notes the bill number, date, item, and amount in the blue book, miss.”

After retrieving the heavy ledger, she opened the book to where a thin strip of grosgrain, no wider than a shoelace, had been used to mark the last entry. Gabriel’s immaculate script stared back at her, and a little catch pinched her throat.

“Thank you,” she said to the young clerk as she entered the details. “I wouldn’t want to ruin his records before he returns.”

The young man shot both brows up in surprise. “Is he returning, miss?”

“I certainly hope so.”

When the clerk had gone, she replaced the ledger, ran a finger gently over the others to align them, and sagged into Gabriel’s chair. She placed her palms carefully on the armrests, aligning her hands where his would have laid. Where are you?

Kit had departed in the morning, and the rest of the day had stretched on, feeling like one of the longest of her life. Not because she was stuck behind a desk. She rather liked the busyness of attending to all of the many matters that would have come before Gabriel in a given day. She’d been so busy during the lunch period that Daughtry had brought her a sack lunch and a cup of tea from the shop down the street. Of course, she’d taken special care not to spill crumbs or leave a ring of tea on Gabriel’s blotter.

She was ever aware that the space was his. Now, sitting in his chair, she understood the satisfaction of the orderliness he’d created for himself. There was a comfort in knowing where each item she needed was and replacing them to that exact spot when she was finished with them. The single day wouldn’t transform her into a tidy person, but she understood the allure of tidiness better than ever before.

The allure of Gabriel’s scent was one she’d always recognized, and he permeated the room. The scent was somehow greater now that he was gone. She’d press a hand to the chair’s leather, and the smell of his sandalwood shaving soap would come wafting up. Or she’d reach for a document in his vertical cabinet and catch a whiff of his clean-laundered smell.

“Good evening to you, miss,” Daughtry said as he entered to place a piece of paper at the edge of the desk. “The daily.” He pointed a wrinkled finger at the document. “Boss required me to provide a daily tally of who attended work, timeliness, productivity, and the progress of various projects under way.”

“Thank you, Wilbur.” Clary collected the sheet and scanned the information, though her eyes began to blur with tears she refused to shed. Daughtry’s sympathetic gaze stayed on her, and she was tempted to crumble and confess her misery to the kindly old man. Tempted, but she wouldn’t let herself burden him or anyone else. “Good night to you, and convey a hello to Mrs. Daughtry.”

“Of course, miss.” He waited an extra moment, as if expecting, or hoping, she would come around and tell him the rest of the story. From Kit, he and all the rest of the workroom staff had heard a curt recitation of Gabriel’s letter and nothing more. Finally, when she said nothing, Wilbur Daughtry turned and started for the front door. As he headed out, he called back to her. “Young lady to see you, miss.”

Clary stood and peered through the open door. A young woman she’d never seen before stood just inside the workroom. Daughtry spoke quietly to her, even patted her on the arm, and then departed, locking the door behind him with a decided snick.

“Hello,” Clary called to the lady. The moment she came out from behind the desk to greet her, the young woman rushed forward. Clary gasped when she came into the gaslight of Gabriel’s office.

Cool blue eyes. Pitch-black hair.

“Sara?” Clary questioned as her heartbeat kicked into a canter. “Miss Adamson?”

“The name’s King, actually. Soon to be Tidwell, if I have my way.” Gabriel’s sister stepped close to greet Clary. “And you’re Miss Clarissa Ruthven. A real beauty, you are, and the cleverest girl in England, if my brother’s to be believed.”

That was a looming question for Clary. Was Gabriel Adamson to be believed?

“Please sit, Miss King.” Clary scooted one of the visitor chairs close to the other, turning the furnishings so that they almost faced each other. She didn’t wish to converse with the woman from behind Gabriel’s desk. “I wish I could offer you refreshment.”