‘You, sir, are no gentleman,’ she said with an icy determination to put him in his place.
‘Oh, yes, I am.’ Ashe Herriard got to his feet, making her clench her teeth because she could not help but note the ease with which he stood. Some wretched feminine instinct was clamouring at her to look at him, to admire him, to exert herself to make him like her.
He came over and held out his hands to her. Puzzled, she put her own in his. Was this some way of admitting defeat in Indian society? Even as she thought it he pulled, bringing her to her feet. ‘It is just that I am not an English gentleman,’ he said and drew her close, as close as a waltz hold, as close as a kiss…
If he tries, I will slap him, she resolved. And yet the resolution did not make her twist her fingers free of his hold. Phyllida looked up into the deep-green eyes that always seemed a little amused, at the firm mouth and the chin that hinted at determination, and swallowed.
‘I have been brought up to understand the jungle and its dangers. Your East End is a jungle without tigers or cobras, but a jungle none the less. I do not allow women to wander unprotected into such a place. That is not negotiable. But we can negotiate a truce,’ Ashe said. ‘You will promise me that you will not visit the warehouse without my escort. I promise you that I will not attempt to buy any item until you have made your selection.’
‘We cannot go in some smart carriage with a crest on the door.’ Phyllida knew she had admitted defeat. ‘We must take a hackney.’
‘Of course. It would not do to arrive flaunting wealth,’ he agreed. ‘You know this is sensible and you are a sensible woman, so why are you still unhappy about it?’
Of all the flattering things he might have said to her, sensible was not one of them. Phyllida tried to accept it as Ashe doubtless meant it. His fingers were still wrapped warmly around hers, he was so close she would smell sandalwood and linen and man if she was so foolish as to inhale deeply. Her sensible brain appeared to have taken a holiday somewhere. ‘Because it means going with you,’ she blurted out.
Ashe did not appear offended, although his dark brows arched up. ‘You dislike me so much?’
‘You know I do not. But I do not know what you want from me, why you persist in pursuing our acquaintance. You seek a wife and I am totally ineligible, as we both know. An acquaintance of my brother, a gentleman who dines with us, has no reason to be escorting me in this way.
What does that leave?’
‘Friendship?’ he suggested after just the merest pause. Why did she suspect he had almost said something else?
Phyllida stared at him. ‘Men and women are not friends in English society. Not unless they are of mature years or closely related.’
‘It is the same in European society in India. And as for Indian society—a man risks death for the slightest intimacy with a woman. But why shouldn’t we be unconventional? I enjoy novel experiences.’
There did not seem to be anything she could say. The truth—that she found him far too disturbing to be around—was hardly something she could admit. ‘Very well. Can you call for me tomorrow at about ten? And please wear something inconspicuous.’
‘Ten it is. And I promise not to look like a rich and over-eager English collector with more money than judgement.’
‘Until tomorrow then, my lord.’ She gave her hands, that had rested in his for a quite scandalous length of time, a little tug.
‘Ashe, Phyllida. Friends, remember?’ And he bowed his head as he lifted his hands, bringing his lips to her knuckles. The shock, even though she was wearing thin kid evening gloves, shot up her arm as she felt the heat. Her lips parted as though he had kissed them instead of the unyielding ridge of her knuckles. ‘Goodnight,’ he said, releasing her. ‘Thank you for a delightful dinner party. I can see myself out.’
My friend Ashe. Phyllida sat as the front door closed behind him and wondered what on earth she had let herself in for. She looked down at her hands, clasped in her lap, then slowly raised the one he had kissed to her lips.
Friends sounded safe. Do I want to be safe? Or have I just agreed to befriends with a tiger?
Chapter Seven
It was ‘Mrs Drummond’ who was waiting for Ashe when he arrived promptly at ten. She wore a brown wool gown, darker-brown pelisse with braid trim that had rather obviously been re-used from another garment, a plain straw bonnet retrimmed with a bunch of artificial flowers, darned gloves and sturdy shoes. Under the gloves, if one looked hard enough, was the shape of a thin wedding band.
‘Good God.’ Ashe stopped dead and stared at her. ‘That’s worse than the outfit you were wearing when we first met.’
‘Never mind me,’ Phyllida retorted. ‘What on earth are you doing looking like that?’
He was wearing a high-necked coat of dull black brocade, tailored in at the waist with skirts to the knee all round. Beneath were tight, dark-red trousers tucked into boots of soft black leather and a sash of the same dark red circled his waist. He had not shaved and his morning beard, darker than his hair, made his skin seem darker, too. And the final touch of exoticism was his hair, freed from its tie and touching his shoulders. As he moved his head she caught the glint of a gold ear stud in his right lobe.
‘Don’t you like it?’ One eyebrow rose. Phyllida could have sworn he had done something to make his lashes even sootier. She wished she dared ask what, it looked a useful trick.
‘You look magnificent and you know it,’ she snapped. Over her dead body was she going to let him see that he was the personification of every daydream of the exotic Orient. ‘Do not fish for compliments, Lord Clere. That is hardly the outfit for where we are going.’
‘But I look like a dealer from the East. Someone who knows about Chinese ceramics.’
‘We will see who gets the better deals,’ Phyllida said. ‘Are we acquainted with one another?’
‘I do not think so. I will get the driver to drop me off around the corner and I will go in first.’