House dr #2
“Listen,” she said, “if you don’t take me up on it soon, I’m going to lose my appetite altogether.” She shivered, glancing around the restaurant. “This place gives me the creeps anyway.”
“It does?”
“Yeah. I keep seeing blokes I know from work. See that fellow over there?” She pointed out a painfully aristocratic fellow, who sat across from his painfully aristocratic wife.
He stared over said wife’s shoulder, his gaze fixed on Bryony with an expression of absolute terror.
“He’s afraid I’m going to wiggle over there and say hi and ask after his lumbago.
” Bryony snorted. “As if I give a hoot about him or his lumbago!” She shook her magenta curls dismissively.
“He’s starting to regret that tenner he slipped me the other night, and I can’t have that.
Wouldn’t want him not to show up tomorrow night, you know? And look at that fellow over there.”
This time, she indicated a member of the wait staff, who stood near the kitchen entrance very upright, very alert, flicking nervous glances toward their table.
“Saw him just last night, actually. He can’t take his eyes off me, and that’s all right when I’m at work, but here?
” She shivered again, pale shoulders rounding. “I don’t like it so much.”
Their waiter returned, setting down a fresh pink cocktail.
Bryony picked it up and, foregoing the straw, downed the whole thing like a shot then spat ice back into the glass.
Following this, she looked at Nigel across the table and said, “So what do you say? Want to take me somewhere I can get out of these tight duds and breathe a little?”
Nigel opened his mouth. Closed it again. Then he leaned rather less sensuously across the table himself. “Miss Braithwait,” he said, lowering his voice to what he hoped was a respectful tone, “I fear you, erm, may be under some misconception. About the nature of my, erm, intentions.”
“Oh, don’t it talk posh, though.” Bryony’s eyes narrowed, her tone less effusive than usual.
“I mean for us to enjoy an evening of each other’s company,” Nigel persisted. “That is, conversation. A meal. A few laughs, maybe. And, erm, that is all.”
She raised a perfectly-plucked eyebrow. “That’s all, hmmm?”
He nodded.
“And what, Mr. Grimm, did you think I had in mind, exactly?” She propped all of her fine self forward and stuck out her lips in a prodigious pout. “Spell it out for me slowly so’s I can follow you. No big words, you get me?”
Nigel gaped. For the moment, his mind seemed to have drawn a complete blank.
He was spared by the arrival of Bryony’s dessert.
He sat back with a little sigh of relief while she turned her attention to layers of cream and ganache and confectionary doodads, fighting the powerful urge to whip out his handkerchief and mop his brow.
That, however, could only make him look more of a fool than he already was.
Gods, but he wished he’d never left The Arcane Bouquet tonight!
He should have resisted Luna’s insistence, should have called off this ill-conceived date.
Should have ordered a proper meal for the two of them from Simmer Down Deli, made Luna prop her feet by the stove, while he finished the clean-up.
Then he should have brewed her a pot of tea.
They might have discussed the wild events of the day.
Or not. They might have simply sat for a while in one another’s company.
Until something inevitably reminded Luna of some ridiculous story from her childhood, and she’d be off on a recounting, sweeping him along with her, making him laugh until he couldn’t hide it anymore, and—
“Done,” Bryony said, setting down her fork. Then she pressed her palms into the table, stood, and declared, “I don’t feel like lobster.”
Nigel blinked up at her. “You don’t?”
“No. I feel like beer. And dancing. And you’re going to take me out and treat me to both. Maybe something can still be made of this evening once you’ve got a pint or two down your gullet.”
“Oh, Miss Braithwait, I don’t—”
“If you tell me you don’t drink, Mr. Grimm, I’m going to whip the tablecloth off this here table and strangle you with it.” She softened her words with a pouty grin, just on this side of dangerous, and planted her hand on an angled hip. “You get me?”
Nigel nodded, fishing for his wallet. “I’ll just, erm, settle up then.”
“You do that. I’ll be waiting in the foy-yay.”
With those words, she sauntered away like her hips were born for this moment alone, drawing the eye of more than one gentleman from surrounding tables.
Nigel gulped and hastily paid his bill. What a fool he was!
Bryony had seemed so very clear about her intentions, only .
. . maybe he’d misinterpreted all that. Out of pure vanity and wishful thinking.
And now he’d offended her. Which was not what he’d meant to do.
After all, she didn’t deserve to be embarrassed.
She’d been nothing but friendly and pleasant, and here he’d gone and acted like a regular cad.
“The least I can do is treat her to a little beer,” he whispered. “And”—he grimaced—“dancing.”
She met him in the glittering foyer as promised, already wrapped in her furs, which was something of a relief. Nigel ordered a cab, and the two of them stood at the hotel doors, waiting for it to arrive.
“Miss Braithwait,” Nigel said, breaking the long silence at last, “I fear I may have given offense.”
“Oh, you may have, mayn’t you?” She sniffed.
“I would like to apologize,” he persisted valiantly. “I would never want to imply . . . That is, it wasn’t my intention to infer . . . That is, a little clarity between friends is . . .”
Bryony looked at him from her heavily-painted eyes, her expression more pitying by the moment.
Finally, she shook her head. “You poor little bunny,” she declared.
“You just haven’t a clue, have you? For all your posh suits and your melt-mama’s-butter voice.
” She took his arm then, leaning up against him, and grinned.
“Tell me honestly, Mr. Grimm—have you actually been with a woman before?”
The directness of the question was something of a shock. Nigel felt all the blood drain from his cheeks then rush back again in a brilliant flood. “Yes, of course!” he blurted.
She lifted an eyebrow. “Mmmm hmmm.”
“I’m actually quite, erm . . . that is to say, my former partners have expressed a, erm . . . What I mean is, I strive to be generous when, erm . . .”
She heaved a huge sigh. “Save it until after the beer, mate. Then we’ll see what’s what.”
The automagic cab pulled up just then, sparing Nigel from further humiliation.
Still gripping his elbow, Bryony dragged him through the glass doors of the hotel, down the steps, and into the cold street.
He held the cab door for her, averting his eyes as she climbed inside.
She settled herself comfortably, moving her skirt and the end of her wrap to make room for Nigel to join her.
“Where to?” the cabbie asked.
“Erm—”
“Number fifteen, Seething Lane,” Bryony answered at once.
And the engine roared to life, and the cab carried them away down the snowy street.