It's Hard Out Here for a Duke(3)
But Meredith embarked on a little whiskey-infused rationalization: until she stepped foot in London, she could afford to live a little loosely. For one night, she might indulge in the sort of wicked behavior—and passion—that she’d have to refuse forevermore.
That was just the splash of whiskey talking, she told herself. It was just the strain of recent events wreaking havoc with her common sense. It was her mother’s bad influence. She’d had the great luck to be raised to be A Lady. She oughtn’t forget that.
Do not look. Do not look. Do not look.
She looked. Oh, she looked.
His gaze sparkled. Like he knew what inner turmoil and rationalization his glances inspired. This time, she didn’t look away.
Oh, goodness, he was coming over. Her heart beat faster and faster as his long strides brought him closer and closer until he was standing beside her, leaning casually against the bar.
Gentlemen did not lean.
“What is a beautiful woman like you doing alone in a place like this?”
Lord, what a line! What a ridiculous thing to say. It took all her ladylike training not to let her eyes roll. As it was, Meredith’s heart sank, and her smile faltered with disappointment.
But then he gazed at her, eyes sparkling and lips curved into a smile, like he really saw her and liked what he saw. Men didn’t often look at her this way, if they looked at all. In Hampshire, there was no one. In London, she was inconsequential.
But this man was looking at her like she was the sun, moon, and stars, too. Meredith decided he could stay, even with a ridiculous line like that.
“You must have a story,” he said. “Tell me your story.”
“I don’t have a story,” Meredith replied. But that was a lie. She had the kind of story that one didn’t tell. It was tragic—in that it was hopelessly boring. But this man’s smile was making her feverish, because it had her considering that tonight, perhaps, her life might become interesting. Just for one night.
“I have a story,” he told her. “It’s rather unbelievable.”
“Do you now?”
“Yes, I do.”
Because he was still gazing at her like she was a beauty and because he wasn’t so bad himself and because tonight was just tonight, an interlude between the recent dispiriting events and an uninspiring future, she replied with a hint of flirtation, “I suppose you’re going to tell me.”
“Since you asked . . .” He took a breath, like he was about to embark on a retelling of The Odyssey or some other epic tale. That was fine; she had all night and wasn’t too keen to think about her own life and problems. Then he changed course. “Forget my story. All you need to know is that I’m a man, passing through, just here for the night and I’ll be gone tomorrow. Well, I don’t want to think about tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“You know? How do you know?”
She wanted to sigh with knowing—the passing through, the here for one night, the tomorrow she didn’t want to think about, either. But she didn’t want to have to explain any of that to him. Instead, she said, “I know you’re traveling. Your accent gives you away. You can tell a lot about a person by his accent.”
“Is that so?”
“People from different regions have different accents. People from different classes speak differently, as well. Of course, one can make many inferences about a person based on those things alone. Their birth, their status, their family, their acquaintances, their education. From that, one might guess at their prospects in life.”
If nothing else was right about her, Meredith at least had the right accent: a polished, upper-class accent. Her prospects, on the other hand . . . well, that was one of the things she didn’t care to think about tonight.
“So, what can you tell about me?”
“You’re American.” She’d met one or two travelers from America in London, but never in this part of the country. Then again, she spent most of her time in the capital. But for the past few months she’d been home, trying to care for her aged and ailing mother. “You’re American, and sound as if you’ve had some education. You are plainly dressed, which may be a consequence of your recent arrival from a long journey, but might also suggest that you do not move in refined circles. And, as a young man with apparently limited means, it suggests that you might not be wed.”
This conjecture upon his marital status was a stretch, but something she had to know before the conversation continued further. Meredith felt something sparking between them, and it had to be smothered if he were married. And if not . . .
“I suppose you have the right of it,” he replied. “I must stick out terribly with these old clothes and foreign accent. There’s no wife to make sure I fit in. I don’t belong here.”