Beautiful Things: Second Sons Book One

Rosalie stiffened as Alfie’s mouth opened in a comical “O,” displaying his wide set of yellowing teeth. The masculine voice behind her was smooth as honeyed tea.

Heart in her throat, she lowered her eyes and followed the line of a leather-gloved hand up the crisp cut of a wet slicker to the man’s face, half-hidden in the shadow of his hat brim. He was tall and handsome, with the bearing of a gentleman.

He doffed his hat, and a spill of black hair swept across his forehead. His grey eyes narrowed under dark brows. “Have you been waiting long, sister?”

She blushed. “I—”

“This ain’t never yer sister,” Alfie barked.

The man’s face lost what little warmth it had. “Do you mean to say you know the members of my family better than me, sir?”

Alfie sputtered, eyes darting from her to the gentleman.

In moments, the man from the bar tugged on Alfie’s sleeve. “He didn’a mean nothin’ by it, sir,” he said, dragging Alfie away. Only when Alfie was forced out the door with complaints of not having finished his ale did the stranger release his hold on her shoulder.

“Terribly sorry about all that,” he said. “The rabble are usually better behaved. In future, if you’re dining alone, I suggest taking meals in your room, Miss…” He raised a dark brow, waiting for her name.

“Harrow,” she supplied. “Rosalie Harrow.”

“Miss Harrow,” he repeated.

“And you are…”

His stoic countenance gave way to a smirk. “Happy to have helped.”

Rosalie noted how every eye in the room watched him with a combination of stolen glances and open stares. A few murmured behind their hands. Surely, he must be someone of great importance. No doubt a lord.

Before she could ask another question, he tipped his hat. “Good evening, Miss Harrow.” Then he turned and left.

Rosalie finished her meal in silence, thanking the innkeeper for her generosity. With her travel case in hand, she found her way outside, determined to wait at the back of the inn for the delayed coach. Perhaps she could persuade the coachman to take her all the way to Alcott. What was five more miles to him?

She slipped into the alley between the inn and the milliner’s shop. As she passed a stack of barrels, she heard a pained groan. In the dark she could just make out the silhouette of a man hunched in the shadows. She held tighter to her case as she tried to slip past.

“S’that you, black beauty?”

Heaven’s sake. It was the drunk from the bar.

Alfie stumbled to his feet, holding onto a barrel for support. “Gimme yer arm. I’m in need o’ help.”

“You’re in need of sleep.” She’d dealt with the drunken fits of worthless men all her life. She was in no mood to deal with another. “Go home to your wife, sir. She is surely wondering where you are.”

Alfie stumbled forward, trying to grab her shoulder.

She darted away, ready to sling her travel case in his face. “Do not touch me—”

“I wanna feel yeh…feel yer curls…such a black beau’y,” he mumbled.

“You’re drunk. Go home, before I scream and bring a constable down on you.”

“Yeh rotten drab,” he growled. “Come ‘ere!”

He pressed forward and Rosalie shrieked. On instinct, she balled her left hand into a fist and swung with all her might. Her knuckles cracked across his nose and they both let out yelps of pain. He dropped to his knees, hands covering his bleeding nose.

“I think ye broke it, yeh bitch!”

Heavy footfalls from just behind Rosalie had her turning sharply on her heel. She felt quite feral as she swung her travel case with another shriek.

“Whoa, easy!” The handsome gentleman from the pub slid to a halt. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, throwing both hands up. He looked down at the prone figure at her feet. She could barely make out his eyes under his hat brim, but he simmered with tension. If Alfie tried anything again, this man would stop him.

Her arms sagged to her sides as she stifled a sob.

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she said, shaking out her left hand. That wasn’t entirely true. She was a mess—filthy and exhausted, penniless, trunkless, and she probably just broke her hand punching a drunk square on the nose.

Alfie moaned on the ground between then. “The bitch clocked meh nose!”

The gentleman snatched Alfie up by his untidy necktie. He lowered his face inches from the drunk man’s bleeding nose. “Call the lady that again, and I’ll give you two eyes to match your worthless fucking nose. Now get the hell out of here!” He shoved the drunk away, aiming a kick for him when he didn’t move fast enough.

Alfie squealed and crawled off into the shadows like a stray dog.

Rosalie was breathless as she watched the gentleman right himself. “You didn’t have to do that.”

She could feel his smile, even if she couldn’t see it. “Clearly not. You seemed to have things well in hand. You have a powerful left hook, Miss Harrow.”

She gave him a sheepish look. “I didn’t mean to break his nose.”

“Oh yes, you did. And the lout deserved it. Let’s see your hand then.”

She stilled, her stomach doing another flip as he took a half-step closer.

He paused. “Perhaps…let’s go round back towards the light, eh?”

She breathed a sigh of relief and nodded, following him as he led the way to the carriage yard. It glowed amber, lit by a few lanterns. The gentleman turned and she could better see his features in the light.

He held out his gloved hand. “Now, let’s see it.”

She hesitated only a moment before she placed her left hand in his. He looked at her reddening knuckles, touching each with a gentle stroke. She winced but moved each finger as he bent them.

“Nothing broken,” he murmured. “I told you it would be best to stay to your room, did I not?”

She bristled at being chastised by a stranger and jerked her hand away. “I have no room, sir. I am not staying at the inn.”

His eyes narrowed. “Then where are you staying? Clearly you have no need of a bodyguard, but I’d like to offer my services all the same and see you safely home.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“It’s a matter of honor,” he said. “You rendered me useless back there. I must redeem myself.”

“I’m waiting here, sir,” she replied. “My hired coach broke a wheel about a mile north of the village. It still has my trunk.”

“That explains the mud,” he said with a murmur. His steely gaze bore into her. “It has your trunk…but you’re not staying at the inn. You must have some destination in mind. Or do you intend to sleep up a tree like a squirrel?”

She huffed. “Fine, if you must know, I am expected at Alcott Hall. There was supposed to be another coach waiting to take me, but it came and went, and I’m stranded here.” She gestured around the empty carriage yard. “I’ve no money for a room, and I’m waiting for the coach to arrive to beg their mercy to bring me the rest of the way.”

“You’re going to Alcott Hall?”

“Yes, sir.”

He gave her another appraising look. “Are you a new maid there?”

“No, sir. I am a guest of the Dowager,” she replied.

A frown tipped his lips. “You are a guest of the Duchess?”

She bristled. “Not that it’s any of your business, sir, but yes. I am the personal guest of the Dowager Duchess of Norland. Do you want to see my invitation? I didn’t know you were a person of authority entitled to verify my credentials.”

That damnable smirk again. “Well, Miss Harrow, you’re in luck. I’m on my way to Alcott Hall and would be happy to deliver you there. I’m on horseback, mind you, so we’ll be snug. But it’s only a couple miles.”

She blinked. “You’re going to Alcott Hall? Now? Tonight?”

“I am,” he replied, then leaned in. “Would you like to see my credentials?”

Her heart raced as she considered her options. One, wait for the coach and beg them to take her. Two, find a cozy spot in the barn next to the mice in the hay. Three, trudge there herself in the dark, dragging her trunk through the mud. Or four, accept the help of this handsome stranger, who refused to offer so much as his name.

“I…”

He sighed, checking his pocket watch. “While you pretend to think about it, let me just pop in and tell Mary to have your trunk delivered as soon as it arrives. We can’t have you sleeping naked tonight for want of a clean shift,” he added with a wink.

Her mouth opened on a gasp of indignation as he walked away. The man was insufferable, downright irksome…and so handsome it made her want to laugh…or cry. And now he was offering to take her to Alcott Hall. Quite a turn of events from how the day started. She’d already suffered the attentions of two horrible men. Perhaps she owed it to herself to let mankind offer redemption in the form of Mr. Grey Eyes. She had the sense she wouldn’t be quite so perturbed by feeling the warmth of his breath on her neck…

He emerged from the back of the inn and offered out his gloved hand again. “Well, Miss Harrow? Are you coming with me?”

Taking a deep breath, she placed her hand in his. Before his fingers could close around hers, she jerked back. “But I insist on carrying the whip, sir. And you will tell me your name.”

He blinked. “Why should you want to hold the whip?”

She squared her shoulders at him. “Because you men have not been at your best today, and I reserve the right to strike you with it should your hands begin to wander anywhere I don’t want them.”

His eyes flashed with some unreadable emotion, but he gave a curt nod. “Done. You shall hold the whip. Hell, hold the reins if you want. Leave me to run alongside you. I’m sure the exercise would do me good.”

She fought her own smile, giving him a level stare. “And your name, sir?”

“My name is Burke,” he replied. “Pleasure to meet you.”