Read Online Romantic Rebel by Joan Smith - Free Book Online Page A

“You mean it is all a trick? There is no one at all?”
    “Only that sorry old critic, Paton. Practically no one.”
    The word “critic” jumped out of the conversation and into my mind. Was it possible he was going to review my essay after all? The next term’s Review was probably being written now.
    “And what does the critic think of my essay?” I inquired hopefully.
    “It was a very spirited attack on masculine arrogance. It certainly made me think.”
    “Then you will give it a good review?”
    His mouth, which had been formed in a smile till that moment, fell open in surprise. “Ah—well, I am only a scribe for the Review, you know. I do an occasional piece for them, but it is the editors who determine the contents, the works to be reviewed. I broached the matter of your essay. They felt it would not be of interest to our readers.”
    A weak “oh” was all I could manage. My hopes were dashed to the ground. “Why did you wish to meet me, then?”
    Another of those intimate smiles glowed in his eyes. “I am not only interested in the anonymous writer, but in Miss Nesbitt herself.”
    The cakes and tea arrived, along with a sudden rush of customers into the room. We surveyed the throng till we spotted Annie and Mr. Pepper. They were with the rest of their card table, as Lord Paton had prophesied. He went and made my excuses to Annie, and returned just as I was setting down the teapot.
    “I wish you had waited,” he said. “I like to watch a lady pour tea.”
    “Drink up, then, and you shall see me pour the next cup. It is hardly a performance to anticipate. I lift the pot by the handle and tip, hopefully in the direction of the cup.”
    “But the curve of the wrist, the height at which the pot is held, are revealing. Is the pourer a venturesome lady who has confidence in her ability to hold the pot high and let the steaming liquid gush like a waterfall? Or does she let it hug the cup and trickle in with no flare? That is what I should like to have seen, Miss Nesbitt.”
    “This is a new method of character revelation, to read the pouring rather than the leaves. I shall be very careful at what height I hold this creamer. You go first, milord. I shall try to spoon the sugar into the cup unseen while you are occupied.”
    “I take my tea straight, but neither milk nor sugar count in any case. There is no threat in milk and sugar, except to the figure. Hot tea, on the other hand, is something to be handled.”
    I felt uncomfortable all the same as I poured the milk with his dark eyes observing me.
    “I see you have put off your turban this evening,” he mentioned after we had tested the tea and found it acceptable.
    I felt a little blush at this reminder of the past. “Just as well. No doubt you noticed its eagerness to leave my head when last we met.”
    Paton put back his head and emitted a very natural-sounding laugh, deep and masculine. “You will never know what fortitude was required to prevent me from running after you and giving that tail a yank as you strode majestically from the party. You handled the contretemps admirably, by the by. I do admire a lady with a countenance.”
    “It wasn’t a real turban.”
    “So I gathered. At least they don’t usually come equipped with a fringe. I shouldn’t think you care much—yet—for my opinion, but I think you look lovelier sans turban. Why were you so eager to don the disguise of an older lady?”
    This brief, offhand speech gave me pause for thought. The “yet” suggested the time was coming when I would care for his good opinion. “Lovelier” gave rise to the hope that even avec turban I was not grotesque, and of course the suggestion that I was not an older lady was most pleasing of all.
    “I did not wish to appear different from all the other literary ladies. Would you have me draw vulgar attention to myself by being the only one there without a turban and paste brooch?”
    “A case of when in Rome ...” He examined the pearls at