Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Liam had come to the Drunken Piebald prepared for his weekly pint and the usual banter that met him in such public places—did he have any tip offs for next week’s races at Newmarket? Would his three-year-old colt, Morningstar, be up to the task for the season? Was it true he’d met the king?
Nothing that couldn’t have been easily answered with a straightforward no, yes, and no.
Yet it wasn’t coincidental timing that he’d picked this night for his weekly pint.
Tomorrow, he would be starting his racing memoirs.
He snorted.
Actually, tomorrow he would be meeting the person who would be committing his career to paper.
He still didn’t know what to think about it.
Likely, he shouldn’t have agreed. But one didn’t say no to Lady Viveca Calthorp, as she was three years ago and who was now Mrs. Blaze Jagger.
One didn’t say no to Mrs. Blaze Jagger, either.
Not easily, anyway. And three years ago, it had been easier to say yes in the moment and let the future sort itself out.
Well, the future was now—tomorrow—and it hadn’t forgotten that long-ago yes.
But tonight, while he’d been in pursuit of the steadying usual, something new in the Drunken Piebald had snared his eye—or rather someone.
The instant he’d entered the taproom, he’d noted her standing at the bar chatting with old Sam.
Over the years, he’d honed that ability—to locate every pretty lass in a room within ten or so seconds.
As she returned to her table, he’d seen that she was, indeed, pretty with her light strawberry-blonde hair and figure that curved in all the right places.
Even the round spectacles perched upon her straight nose added, rather than detracted, to her appeal.
So, as he’d greeted his way through the taproom, he’d kept her at the edge of his eye.
The truth was that though he noted every pretty lass in a room, he didn’t usually seat himself at the table next to hers.
Which was what he did.
Arabella.
The fact was this Arabella possessed something both familiar and unique, and he wanted to understand why. So, he settled against the table at his back. “And what is it you’re drinking tonight, Arabella?”
There.
She’d done it again—gathered her brow ever so incrementally and blinked at her own name.
Well, she blinked at the name Arabella, anyway.
All wasn’t what it seemed with Arabella. He’d gathered that much from her first utterance of her name. For in the split-second hesitation before she’d uttered Arabella, it was as if she’d forgotten her own name. People didn’t forget their own names, that was the thing.
Arabella was a false name.
Of course, people had their own reasons for concealing their identities.
Five years ago, he and his twin sister, Gemma, had needed to do so when they’d taken to the road to escape their father’s reach.
So, Liam wouldn’t judge this pretty lass for that.
And really, whatever Arabella’s reasons, why should that stop them from having a little fun tonight?
“What is it you’re having?” She smiled, tremulously, as if she suddenly had too many teeth in her mouth.
He twisted around and called out, “Melton, all right if we have a dram or two of your whiskey?”
Without glancing up from his conversation, Melton waved him on.
When Liam turned, he was holding a bottle. “Whiskey.”
Arabella’s apprehensive smile returned, and he realized he was in the company of two women—the woman this woman was pretending to be and the woman she truly was.
And the woman she truly was had never taken a sip of whiskey in her life.
A surprising, bold smile found its way to her lips. “I adore whiskey.”
His brow lifted. He could only admire her audacity. “Scottish?”
“Irish.”
“Ah, well, then.” He grabbed two small glasses with the hand not holding the whiskey bottle, then efficiently transferred himself from his bench to hers, straddling it as he faced her. “You’re in luck, Arabella, as Irish whiskey is what we’re drinking.”
He poured a dram into each glass and held one out to her. She accepted it in a manner that suggested she couldn’t fully believe events had come to this.
He held up his glass. “To new friends. Sláinte.” Then he tipped his whiskey back and drank it down in one smooth gulp.
Smile frozen on her mouth, she took a quick sip of air, held her breath, and did exactly as he’d done, tipping the amber liquid back into her mouth—which was where all similarities between them ended.
She sputtered.
She coughed.
Her eyes watered.
And when her fit ended, and she was able to open her eyes, he had a glass of water held out for her. Gratefully, she accepted and drank it down to the last drop in three large gulps.
When she’d somewhat composed herself—her eyes still glassy…her skin still prettily flushed—Liam suspected she might confess her deception, and he wanted to have a little more fun with her first. So, he poured more whiskey into their glasses and asked, “Now, how do you spend your days, Arabella?”
He hoped she hadn’t detected the irony in that Arabella.
“I’m, erm, an actress.”
“Is that so?” He could only admire her quick thinking, for in keeping with the lie, she was telling a truth. She was, indeed, an actress. A poor one, aye, but an actress, nonetheless.
She took a second tentative sip of whiskey. “And you?” She was wise not to dwell on Arabella’s career as an actress, which would swiftly lead her down the murky path of more lies. “How do you spend your days?”
He shrugged. “I’m Liam Cassidy.”
A single strawberry-blonde eyebrow lifted as if to say, “That full of ourself, are we?” and Liam felt like, at last, he was seeing the true woman below Arabella.
A woman who wasn’t afraid to take the piss out of Liam Cassidy.
Perhaps, he allowed, he’d come across as a hair too confident.
Arrogant, even.
All right, breathtakingly arrogant.
Yet it wasn’t a sharp retort that issued from her mouth, but a chirrup of laughter. “And spending your days as Liam Cassidy is a full-time occupation?”
This woman could give as good as she got, couldn’t she? “I’m a jockey.”
She nodded. “So, riding is a favorite activity of yours, then?”
A shocked chuckle burst from him.
Arabella’s brow creased. Her head canted. “Have I said something amusing?”
His smile fell away. With her question, she hadn’t been flirting in the least. She was serious, in fact. He cleared his throat. “Well, yes, riding is very much a favorite activity of mine.”
“Then,” she continued much too earnestly for both the conversation they were having and for the one happening below it, “you must do it often.”
“Every chance I get.”
“You must be exceedingly skilled at riding.”
How? How could she possibly be an innocent?
Yet…she must be.
Still, because he couldn’t resist, he said, “On more than one occasion, I’ve been told I’m the best.”
Her head tipped to the other side, as if she’d suddenly heard the conversation they were having below their surface one.
He shifted forward, his voice gone like velvet. “I could show you if you like.”
His ears picked up her delicate, little gasp.
His cock did, too.
“Could you?” she asked, breathless.
He nodded. “Aye.”
How close they were now.
So, it was with great reluctance that he had to say, “But, not tonight.”
For here was the thing: Arabella, or whatever her name was, was tipsy.
And he wasn’t about to tup a tipsy woman he’d just met in a tavern—or not this tipsy woman.
For he had a golden rule when it came to women he was interested in tupping: if she looked the sort to regret it in the morning, he didn’t tup her.
It was that simple.
And this woman looked very much that sort.
A pity, that.
Saskia froze.
Well, her brow didn’t freeze.
It furrowed.
“Why not?”
She sounded no small bit petulant.
“It’s getting late.” Liam Cassidy came to his feet. “You should be retiring to your room for the night, yes?” He extended his hand to help her to her feet.
Her first impression of his hand when she took it was how much larger it was than hers. Then came a cascade of impressions—warm…calloused…strong.
And there was something else about his hand.
She—suddenly…voraciously—wanted it on other parts of her.
“May I carry your satchel for you?” he asked, taking his hand back once she was on her feet.
“I hardly need help carrying my satchel.”
It was only after she spoke the words that she realized they weren’t in the least flirtatious.
In fact, they might’ve been snappish.
And, in a flash, she understood why.
He’d denied her what she wanted.
His hand…on other parts of her.
Was she…drunken?
Was this—unreasonable…hot…excitable—what that state felt like?
She summoned what was left of Arabella in her and said, “But then I would miss watching a strong, capable man like Liam Cassidy carry it for me.”
A second of time ticked past, then another. He would be confused by her abrupt reversal. No more confused than she, in truth. Then he shook his head and swept his arm wide with a dramatic flourish. “Lead the way.”
Saskia had taken no more than three steps before she experienced certain effects, presumably from the whiskey.
Effects that shared a striking similarity to the time she’d imbibed a few glasses of punch at a ball only to discover some lordlings had added spirits.
Effects that somehow made her lighter on her feet and in her body and in her head. Namely, giddy effects.
With those giddy whiskey effects flowing through her, she and Cassidy edged around the taproom and up the stairs. Then it was a quick journey down the dimly lit corridor to the door bearing a brass number 3 in its center. “This is me.” She tapped the number plate for good measure.
“And the key?” asked Liam Cassidy.
She pointed toward the satchel he yet held.
Within an impressive efficiency, he’d retrieved the key, had it turned in the lock, and the door opening on silent hinges. “Arabella, it’s been a pleasure spending an evening in your company.” An amused glimmer in his eyes, he bowed.
A vertical line formed between her eyebrows. “You’re not coming in?”