Page 5 of One Night of Temptation
A serving maid approached the table, her gaze lingering on Mr. Tarleton with appreciation. “Can I bring ye an ale?”
“Two, please,” he answered, barely looking at her as he continued to focus on Penelope.
When the maid was gone, Penelope folded her hands in her lap. “I’ve never had ale.”
His brows climbed his forehead as his chin notched down. “Never?”
“Never.”
“Well, try it, and if you don’t like it, you can get something else,” he said. “The Craven Cock sells the best ale in St. Giles, every bit as good as the ale at the Wicked Duke.”
“You go to the Wicked Duke?” Owned by two dukes, it was the most notorious tavern in London, just as popular as the gentlemen’s clubs in St. James, but with a widely varied clientele. Where else would a rector from St. Giles rub elbows with dukes?
“I do. I went to Oxford with Their Graces. The Duke of Eastleigh is a close friend. Did you know they opened that tavern ten years ago just so our group of friends from Oxford could frequent the same establishment?”
“I didn’t realize that, no. How extraordinary. Is it true, women go there?”
“Sometimes, though no one of your rank. They could, mind you—I mean, they’d be welcome.”
“A welcome there would ensure they weren’t welcomed anywhere else.” Penelope didn’t mask her derision. Women of her station, particularly unmarried young ladies, had absolutely no freedom. That was just one reason she’d looked forward to today’s plan. If only for one night, she was going to be completely free. Then hopefully tomorrow, she’d be as free as she could hope—free of marriage to Findon, anyway.
“You are, unfortunately, correct.” He shot her an apologetic glance. “I often think it isn’t fair that women don’t have the same choices available to them as men.”
“You sound like a radical.”
His eyes widened slightly. “Not that. At least not out loud.” He winked at her, and something inside her bent—like a blooming flower seeking the sun.
The serving maid returned with their ale, depositing a tankard in front of each of them. “Let me know if ye need anything else.” Once again, she stared at Mr. Tarleton a moment longer than was necessary before taking herself off.
Penelope couldn’t blame her. He was a strikingly handsome man with impressively broad shoulders and a muscular athleticism that she rarely saw in Society gentlemen. She shouldn’t have worried about him taking on her kidnappers. He looked as if he could have broken them in two.
Yet, there was a softness to him. The way he’d cajoled Joseph, speaking in a caring but not condescending tone had likely made all the difference in convincing the miscreants to abandon their scheme.
“Now tell me what you’d envisioned happening today,” he prodded. “If you don’t mind.”
“First, I’m going to try this ale.”
“It may be a tad bitter.” Mr. Tarleton quickly lifted his mug and took a sip. “Maybe more than a tad.”
Penelope grasped the handle of the mug and lifted the vessel to her lips. When the beer hit her tongue, she promptly sputtered. Bitter didn’t come close to describing the acrid taste.
“Might take you a few sips to get used to it,” he suggested helpfully.
She managed to swallow it down. “I think it might take me severalkegs.” Still, she took another drink. The flavor made her eyes squint for a moment, but at least she knew what to expect the second time.
“You don’t have to drink it,” he said.
“But I will.” She took one more sip before setting the mug back on the table. “I’m determined to make the most of my freedom, and that includes drinking ale, no matter what it tastes like.”
Mr. Tarleton lifted his tankard in a toast. “Let us drink to freedom.”
Warmth spread through her, and it wasn’t from the ale. “Yes, to freedom.” She tapped her mug to his and took another drink.
After swallowing his far more substantial intake of ale, Mr. Tarleton set his tankard down and ran a bare hand through the side of his auburn hair. He gave her a sheepish look as he dropped his hand to his lap. “I’m afraid I often forget my gloves, especially at this time of year.”
“I hadn’t noticed until you mentioned that. I mean, I noticed that your hand was bare, but I hadn’t considered that you weren’t wearing gloves or that you should be.” She was rambling utter nonsense. “Of course you should be,” she finished softly, lamely.
She’d never been aware of men’s hands before, and now she found herself wishing he’d rest them on the table so she could investigate them more closely. Pulling herself from continuing down the path of inappropriate thoughts, she began to tell him about how she’d hoped her day would progress.
