A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(55)

“No gloves tonight?” he asked, running his thumb over her soft, protected skin, tracing each of her fingers and the delicate webs between.

She shook her head. “I haven’t worn them all day. I mean to, but then I keep forgetting.”

He tumbled into her gaze. Passed a small eternity wandering there.

“I . . .” he started.

“You . . .” she began.

To hell with words, he thought, sliding his hand around her waist. To hell with it all. If they had only moments together, he could not let them go to waste. Cool silk teased against his palm as he pulled her close. He drew a ragged breath, and his senses exploded with her unique, essential perfume.

“Bram,” she whispered. “We can’t.”

“I know.” And then he bent his head, seeking her kiss. Her mouth softened beneath his, lush and welcoming. Her kiss was tender and sweet, and in that quiet, stolen moment, worth any risk.

Light footsteps clattered down the corridor, jolting them apart.

A young woman tore into the room, followed by an apologetic footman.

“Miss Finch! Miss Finch, you must come at once.” As the girl paused for breath, Bram recognized her as one of the young ladies from the Queen’s Ruby. One of the quieter ones, whose name he hadn’t yet learned.

“There’s trouble in the village,” she said.

Susanna crossed the room in a swift, determined ripple of silk. “What is it, Violet?”

“Oh, Miss Finch, you won’t believe it. We’ve been invaded.”

They’d been invaded.

Minerva touched a fingertip to her spectacles. She knew she had to be wearing them—she never went anywhere without her spectacles. But at the moment, nothing within her view was clear. The lines of reality had blurred, and the world simply didn’t make sense.

A mere quarter hour ago, the ladies had been sitting down to cards in the Blushing Pansy. Seated at the window table with her mother and sisters, Minerva had begun to split and shuffle the deck of cards.

And then—before the first round could even be dealt—the men had come thundering in without warning, bringing with them what looked to be numerous bottles of liquor and the prelude to sheer chaos.

Down came the lace curtains and the Blushing Pansy’s gilt-lettered sign. Up went an ancient broadsword and a set of steer horns mounted above the hearth. And outside, above the door, a new sign dangled.

“What does it say?” her mother asked, peering out the window.

Minerva looked over her spectacles. “The Rutting Bull.”

“Oh dear,” Diana muttered.

The ladies all froze in their seats, uncertain how to react. What was the proper etiquette, when civilization crumbled around a girl? Not even Mrs. Worthington’s Wisdom covered this.

Leaping up a step to the small dais, Lord Payne took the center of attention. No surprise. Wherever the ladies were gathered, that man always took the center of attention. Minerva detested him. If Diana wished to marry, she deserved so much better than a proud, preening rake. Unfortunately, their mother seemed to have already embraced him as a future son-in-law.

“Fair ladies of Spindle Cove,” Payne announced, “I regret to inform you that the Blushing Pansy tea shop has closed for the evening.”

A murmur of confusion and dismay swept the ladies.

“However,” Payne went on, “it is my great pleasure to announce that the Rutting Bull tavern is open for business.”

A loud huzzah went up from the men.

“There will be drinking. There will be dancing. There will be dicing and debauchery of every pleasant sort. Ladies, you have been warned. Leave now or live high.”

A man she didn’t recognize—one of the farmers or fishermen, she supposed—produced a battered violin. He put bow to strings and began sawing away, producing a wild country dance.

The other men wasted no time clearing tables and chairs to the edges of the room. In some cases, with the mortified ladies still seated upon them. The blacksmith approached their table. With a curt nod and an intense, silent look, the big man reached under their table with one hand, lifting the entire piece of furniture by its pedestal and carrying it aside.

“Oh my,” Diana said, as someone pressed a brimming flagon into her hand. She sniffed at its contents, then passed the drink to Minerva. “Is that ale, Min?”

She sipped at it. “Yes.”

Miss Kate Taylor was urged to the pianoforte. A few of the younger girls grabbed hands and fled, trailing some vow to fetch Miss Finch.

“We should leave,” Diana said.

“I don’t understand,” Charlotte said, raising her voice above the crescendo of music. “What’s happening?”

“Opportunity, my dears.” Their mother’s face lit up like a bonfire. “That’s what’s happening. And don’t think of leaving. We’re staying right here. Smile, Diana. Here he comes.”

Lord Payne cut a swath through the hubbub, making his way straight for their group. “Mrs. Highwood.” He bowed deeply, gifting the fair-haired sisters with a brilliant, gleaming smile. “Miss Highwood. Miss Charlotte. How lovely you look this evening.” Belatedly, he turned to Minerva and gave her a cool smile. “If it isn’t our resident giant-slayer, Miss Miranda.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s Minerva.”