beside the full-blown rage that gripped her now. “You read my journal. How dare you!”
“I read it,” he admitted, clearly unrepentant. “And what I read casts grave suspicion on its writer’s activities—” The crack of her hand across his face stopped him cold.
In the aftermath they glared at one another. A part of Olivia was horrified by what she’d just done. But she was more horrified by what he’d done—and what he’d implied. The list of his crimes was unforgivable. Were she a man she would call him out. By contrast, a slap was little enough punishment.
She drew herself up—she was trembling with emotion—and extended her hand palm up. “I’ll have my journal back. Now,” she added through gritted teeth.
She wasn’t sure what to expect of so graceless a creature and so was hugely relieved when he reached inside his coat and pulled out the volume in dispute. But when she reached for it, he raised it just beyond her grasp.
“I am taking you at your word, Miss Byrde, that you are indeed a guest of the Cummingses.”
“You have the gall to doubt it? Give me my book.”
“On one condition.”
“And what is that? God help you if it is anything vulgar.”
“God help me ?” He chuckled. “A true lady would be concerned more about her reputation than mine.”
“Believe me, your reputation matters naught to me.”
“But it does matter to me,” he stated, serious once more. “You may have your book on the condition that this incident—this misunderstanding, shall we say—remains strictly between us.”
“Why, you disgusting—”
“I have business to pursue with Cummings and his guests, and I would prefer this incident not impede it. I apologize for my mistake,” he added. “And for any insult I may have cast upon you.”
Olivia shut her open mouth with a snap. Finally, an apology. She stared at him. She supposed a true lady would accept it with chilly grace, then make her exit with her head high and her moral victory firmly in place. But Olivia was still furious. After all his insults she was supposed to let him off on the strength of that brief apology? She wanted him to beg. She wanted to see him grovel.
“Give me my journal.”
“What of my condition?” One of his brows quirked upward. He appeared far less apologetic than before. She could swear he was more amused by the incident than concerned for his reputation, no matter what he said. Still, what she wanted was her journal. Having him plead for her forgiveness was something she instinctively knew this man would never do.
At least it had not fallen into the hands of someone familiar with the London scene. She’d neither seen nor heard of a Lord Hawke during the past three seasons. If he was unfamiliar with London society, he would not be able to figure out the identities of the various men referred to. That would be humiliating in the extreme.
“Regarding your condition, I assure you,” she said in her coldest, haughtiest tone, “that I will not relish speaking of this unpleasant encounter with anyone of my acquaintance.”
“Not even your mother?”
“Especially not her,” she retorted, then wished at once she’d not been so forthright, for his other brow arched in interest.
“If you will please hand it over,” she demanded, forestalling any further inquiries from him.
With an insolent shrug of his wide shoulders he did so. But Olivia’s relief upon reclaiming her journal was tempered by one unsettling fact. During the transfer his fingers met with hers. It was only for the merest part of a second, just a fleeting graze of his fingers along the side of hers. The impact, nevertheless, was stunning.
She averted her eyes and clutched the journal at once to her chest, praying he did not detect the sudden panic that assailed her. But she detected it—racing pulse, damp palms, a giddy turmoil in her stomach. Why had she not worn her gloves?
She turned wordlessly to depart, intent only on escape. But his
“I read it,” he admitted, clearly unrepentant. “And what I read casts grave suspicion on its writer’s activities—” The crack of her hand across his face stopped him cold.
In the aftermath they glared at one another. A part of Olivia was horrified by what she’d just done. But she was more horrified by what he’d done—and what he’d implied. The list of his crimes was unforgivable. Were she a man she would call him out. By contrast, a slap was little enough punishment.
She drew herself up—she was trembling with emotion—and extended her hand palm up. “I’ll have my journal back. Now,” she added through gritted teeth.
She wasn’t sure what to expect of so graceless a creature and so was hugely relieved when he reached inside his coat and pulled out the volume in dispute. But when she reached for it, he raised it just beyond her grasp.
“I am taking you at your word, Miss Byrde, that you are indeed a guest of the Cummingses.”
“You have the gall to doubt it? Give me my book.”
“On one condition.”
“And what is that? God help you if it is anything vulgar.”
“God help me ?” He chuckled. “A true lady would be concerned more about her reputation than mine.”
“Believe me, your reputation matters naught to me.”
“But it does matter to me,” he stated, serious once more. “You may have your book on the condition that this incident—this misunderstanding, shall we say—remains strictly between us.”
“Why, you disgusting—”
“I have business to pursue with Cummings and his guests, and I would prefer this incident not impede it. I apologize for my mistake,” he added. “And for any insult I may have cast upon you.”
Olivia shut her open mouth with a snap. Finally, an apology. She stared at him. She supposed a true lady would accept it with chilly grace, then make her exit with her head high and her moral victory firmly in place. But Olivia was still furious. After all his insults she was supposed to let him off on the strength of that brief apology? She wanted him to beg. She wanted to see him grovel.
“Give me my journal.”
“What of my condition?” One of his brows quirked upward. He appeared far less apologetic than before. She could swear he was more amused by the incident than concerned for his reputation, no matter what he said. Still, what she wanted was her journal. Having him plead for her forgiveness was something she instinctively knew this man would never do.
At least it had not fallen into the hands of someone familiar with the London scene. She’d neither seen nor heard of a Lord Hawke during the past three seasons. If he was unfamiliar with London society, he would not be able to figure out the identities of the various men referred to. That would be humiliating in the extreme.
“Regarding your condition, I assure you,” she said in her coldest, haughtiest tone, “that I will not relish speaking of this unpleasant encounter with anyone of my acquaintance.”
“Not even your mother?”
“Especially not her,” she retorted, then wished at once she’d not been so forthright, for his other brow arched in interest.
“If you will please hand it over,” she demanded, forestalling any further inquiries from him.
With an insolent shrug of his wide shoulders he did so. But Olivia’s relief upon reclaiming her journal was tempered by one unsettling fact. During the transfer his fingers met with hers. It was only for the merest part of a second, just a fleeting graze of his fingers along the side of hers. The impact, nevertheless, was stunning.
She averted her eyes and clutched the journal at once to her chest, praying he did not detect the sudden panic that assailed her. But she detected it—racing pulse, damp palms, a giddy turmoil in her stomach. Why had she not worn her gloves?
She turned wordlessly to depart, intent only on escape. But his
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