importantly,
who
he was now, he unclenched his hands and dropped his arms to his sides.
Sweat prickling his collar, he summoned a chuckle. “What can I do for you gentlemen?” He honed his gaze on Lord Dutton.
Glancing down at Rourke’s hands, dangling benignly from his sides but still big as hams, the lanky lord swallowed hard. He cast an over-the-shoulder glance to his companions, as though making sure they were still there to back him up.
Apparently assured of their support, he turned back to Rourke. “That waltz was promised to me.”
Rourke shrugged. “You may have bespoken the dance but no the lady. She’s no your property, mind.”
Wesley, piped up. “As a matter of fact, they were promised only … Well, the nuptials have been put off in deference to … Lady Katherine’s shy sensibilities.”
“Shy sensibilities, indeed.” Rourke couldn’t help it. He tipped back his head and laughed. “I’ve no met a less shy woman in all my days.”
His mind left that thought and pivoted back to the principal point. Dutton was one of the jilted fiancés. Small wonder the man seemed so peevish. Jaysus, what a wean he was. Small wonder Lady Katherine had given him the heave-ho. What surprised him was that she’d apparently considered marrying him at all. Rourke wondered if the other two would-be grooms were also present. Fashionable London, he was discovering, was a wee world.
He made the rounds with his gaze. “But with all respect, Lady Katherine is a wilding. If a man hasna the—” balls, guts “—
skill
to tame her, ’tis best he step aside and set her free.”
Dutton lifted his thin upper lip and snickered. “And I suppose you fancy yourself the better man for the job?”
Not wanting to give away his matrimonial intentions so soon in the game, Rourke mustered a nonchalant shrug. “Who’s to say?”
“Care to make a small wager on it?”
Intrigued, Rourke answered, “That depends upon what you have in mind.”
This time Dutton shrugged. His expensive evening clothes hung from a scarecrow’s frame, putting Rourke in mind of a more polished version of Johnnie Black. “You have the next five days to coax a kiss from Lady Kate, a kiss in public, with at least one reliable witness present. The loser forfeits a hundred pounds. To keep things aboveboard, we’ll inscribe it in the betting book at White’s.”
Since coming to London, Rourke had passed by White’s famous bow front window while strolling St. James’s, but a glimpse from the sidewalk was as far as he’d gotten. Membership in the legendary gentlemen’s club was exclusive, meaning closed to the common likes of him.
“And you can’t force yourself on her,” Wesley interjected. “She must kiss you of her own accord.”
Rourke regarded the baronet with an icy eye. “I have never forced myself on a woman in my life, and I dinna mean to begin now.”
“So you accept, then?” Dutton asked, narrow eyes gleaming like a rat’s in the night.
Rourke hesitated. He had no need of money, and a hundred pounds was a pittance these days. Beyond that, despite her less than civil treatment of him, he had no real wish to humiliate the lady.
He shook his head. “I’ve nay wish to take your money, gentlemen, nor to compromise the lady.”
“Not so fast.” Dutton’s high-pitched drawl stalled him in his tracks. “If you’re so confident of your prowess, then prove it by putting up some of that shiny
new
tin from your pockets—or is your Scotch boasting a great lot of hot air?”
The latter was a less-than-subtle allusion to the fact that Rourke’s wealth was earned and not inherited. In a new nation such as America, being a self-made man was a point of pride, but not so in England. Here an honest, hard-working man was ground up and spit out like so much factory pulp while the most despicable ne’er-do-well was exalted so long as he bore a title.
Rourke whirled about. “I believe you must mean
Scots.
Scotch is a whiskey,
who
he was now, he unclenched his hands and dropped his arms to his sides.
Sweat prickling his collar, he summoned a chuckle. “What can I do for you gentlemen?” He honed his gaze on Lord Dutton.
Glancing down at Rourke’s hands, dangling benignly from his sides but still big as hams, the lanky lord swallowed hard. He cast an over-the-shoulder glance to his companions, as though making sure they were still there to back him up.
Apparently assured of their support, he turned back to Rourke. “That waltz was promised to me.”
Rourke shrugged. “You may have bespoken the dance but no the lady. She’s no your property, mind.”
Wesley, piped up. “As a matter of fact, they were promised only … Well, the nuptials have been put off in deference to … Lady Katherine’s shy sensibilities.”
“Shy sensibilities, indeed.” Rourke couldn’t help it. He tipped back his head and laughed. “I’ve no met a less shy woman in all my days.”
His mind left that thought and pivoted back to the principal point. Dutton was one of the jilted fiancés. Small wonder the man seemed so peevish. Jaysus, what a wean he was. Small wonder Lady Katherine had given him the heave-ho. What surprised him was that she’d apparently considered marrying him at all. Rourke wondered if the other two would-be grooms were also present. Fashionable London, he was discovering, was a wee world.
He made the rounds with his gaze. “But with all respect, Lady Katherine is a wilding. If a man hasna the—” balls, guts “—
skill
to tame her, ’tis best he step aside and set her free.”
Dutton lifted his thin upper lip and snickered. “And I suppose you fancy yourself the better man for the job?”
Not wanting to give away his matrimonial intentions so soon in the game, Rourke mustered a nonchalant shrug. “Who’s to say?”
“Care to make a small wager on it?”
Intrigued, Rourke answered, “That depends upon what you have in mind.”
This time Dutton shrugged. His expensive evening clothes hung from a scarecrow’s frame, putting Rourke in mind of a more polished version of Johnnie Black. “You have the next five days to coax a kiss from Lady Kate, a kiss in public, with at least one reliable witness present. The loser forfeits a hundred pounds. To keep things aboveboard, we’ll inscribe it in the betting book at White’s.”
Since coming to London, Rourke had passed by White’s famous bow front window while strolling St. James’s, but a glimpse from the sidewalk was as far as he’d gotten. Membership in the legendary gentlemen’s club was exclusive, meaning closed to the common likes of him.
“And you can’t force yourself on her,” Wesley interjected. “She must kiss you of her own accord.”
Rourke regarded the baronet with an icy eye. “I have never forced myself on a woman in my life, and I dinna mean to begin now.”
“So you accept, then?” Dutton asked, narrow eyes gleaming like a rat’s in the night.
Rourke hesitated. He had no need of money, and a hundred pounds was a pittance these days. Beyond that, despite her less than civil treatment of him, he had no real wish to humiliate the lady.
He shook his head. “I’ve nay wish to take your money, gentlemen, nor to compromise the lady.”
“Not so fast.” Dutton’s high-pitched drawl stalled him in his tracks. “If you’re so confident of your prowess, then prove it by putting up some of that shiny
new
tin from your pockets—or is your Scotch boasting a great lot of hot air?”
The latter was a less-than-subtle allusion to the fact that Rourke’s wealth was earned and not inherited. In a new nation such as America, being a self-made man was a point of pride, but not so in England. Here an honest, hard-working man was ground up and spit out like so much factory pulp while the most despicable ne’er-do-well was exalted so long as he bore a title.
Rourke whirled about. “I believe you must mean
Scots.
Scotch is a whiskey,
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