Page 7 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
He tipped a respectful nod to the maid. Loyalty was admirable.
Ironclunkedon stone. The poker was back in its place against the hearth, and a frowning Polly exited the room. Once the door to the kitchen closed behind her, Rory opened his mouth.
“What are you—"
Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford set one finger to her lips, a sign for silence. She stood, taut as a bow string, until footsteps retreated and another unseen door clapped shut.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she said on a long exhale.
“Relieved ma’am?”
“I wanted to speak with you first, but Polly was anxious to meet you. She can be quite a prattle-basket.”
He speared another bite. “I see. Meet me, first. Skewer me, second.”
Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford reached for a serving spoon, composed. “She’s protective of me. All the servants are.”
“Your maid’s got it backwards. You propositioned me.”
Her side glance admonished him. He grinned in return. He didn’t know the substance of her proposition, but he had an inkling it was improper.
“I thought you appreciated bluntness, ma’am,” he said. “At least that was my impression last night.”
“Usually, I don’t. Appreciate bluntness, that it. But I suppose that’s part and parcel of the man you are—a conclusion I reached while lying in bed last night.”
He sat taller, primal instincts stirring. She thought of him? In bed? The side of her mouth was a scarlet ribbon. He fixed on it. The gentlewoman, whose profile was a study of careful breakfast selection, had tossed out a lure as sure as any fisherman.
“It is my firm belief, sir, that you have a taste for excitement and that is, in part, why you’re here.”
She was a confident one, this flame-haired widow.
“I came for breakfast, ma’am.”
Her laugh was tender and amused.
“No, Mr. MacLeod.” Her emerald stare speared him. “We both know you’re here for me.”
His head went back. She pinned him to the chair with eyes that implied things. Blood rushing in his ears roared, followed by a peculiar sense of excitement.
“Direct of you,” he managed to say.
Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford’s manner was ethereal but her language was knowing. He couldn’t take his eyes off her as she moved to the table, swept a hand behind her petticoats, and took the seat opposite of him.
“After last night,” she said “I was under the impression that you areall aboutequitable conversations with women.”
He grunted. It was a fair thrust, her words. Englishwomen were all of a piece, but this widow would keep things lively.
“The late Mr. Throckmorton-Rutherford must’ve been quite the gentleman to win one such as you.”
Red lips pressed a single line. She dabbed them with her serviette and cleared her throat.
“My late husband never tried to win me.” Bitterness laced her words. “He bamboozled my father, a hack driver in London. I was barely eighteen when the marriage was decided for me—an age when I could hardly speak my mind.”
Her set features told him she had no problem speaking her mind now.
This was a story he’d like to hear—daughter of a hack driver transformed. A complex woman was Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford. Though she brewed ale in her cellar, there was a quality about her. A complexity in her nature. The gentlewoman could hold her own in a Grosvenor Square salon; he imagined she could hold her own in St. Giles, too.
Spine straight, eyes down, she touched the tip of her fork to her food. The widow’s soul was nicked at the mention of her late husband. He fisted his fork and knife, at a loss. Cosseting women, a trait he was terribly short on. Truthfully, he’d never really tried.
