One Night Scandal

A cold November rain dampened his breeches. He pulled his legs in under the archway of the stoop and took another long draught of the stolen brandy to chase the chill away. He couldn’t go home drunk and furious. First, he had to determine exactly what he would say to his lying father when he confronted him.

He’d never felt so lost and alone in all his life. Not even when his mother had died. He shook his head. But she wasn’t dead. She left them to go sell herself to anyone who would have her. He dropped his head to his knees.

How could she have left her children?

The rain turned to a steady downpour as he sat there drinking the brandy. His mind turned hazy as he watched the carriages drive by his spot. Suddenly something, or rather someone, stumbled over his feet in an effort to be out of the rain.

“Bloody hell,” he mumbled. “You almost spilled my brandy.”

Blinking, he tried to get his eyes to focus on the small body huddled in the opposite corner. The fresh scent of oranges washed over him. It was her. His orange blossom. The woman he’d truly wanted tonight.

“It doesn’t appear to be much left in the bottle,” she replied, holding it up.

“Help yourself.”

“I intend to.” She held the bottle up to her lips and drank some down.

Fascinated, Anthony stared at her slender neck as she tilted her head back and drank from the bottle. “Who are you?”

“No one.” She handed the bottle back to him. “Thank you.”

“Why are you here?”

She laughed softly. “The same reason as you, to get out of the rain.” She shivered and her teeth chattered.

He pushed the bottle back toward her. “Drink.”

She accepted it back greedily. “Th—thank you again. It’s helpin’ me get warmer.” She sipped some more before asking, “What’s yer name?”

He hesitated just a moment. “Tony.” Although, only Genna called him that. “Why were you out selling oranges so late tonight?”

“I tried to sell all the oranges. Today wasn’t a good day.”

“No. Definitely not a good day,” he agreed, staring at the basket half full of fruit.

“Did you lose too much gamblin’ tonight?”

“How did you know I’d been gaming?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Isn’t that what most young bucks do? It’s either gamblin’ or whorin’.”

Maybe she wasn’t the innocent she pretended to be, he thought. “Actually, I won a substantial sum tonight,” he said, pride lacing his voice. “What do you do with your money?”

“You mean the measly amount I get by sellin’ oranges?” She pressed her lips together. “I just try to get ahead.”

He shifted and his shoulder collided with hers. A jingle of coins rang from the pocket in his coat. “What if I offered to buy the rest of your lot?”

“I don’t take charity. I work for the extra money I need.”

“Hmm, a woman with scruples.” He inched closer to her warmth. “I like that.”

“I should get home,” she whispered.

“Don’t.”

She turned her head toward his. Mere inches separated them. The urge to move slightly until his lips touched hers was almost too much to resist. Would she taste sweet like the oranges she sold?

“Have another sip.” He shifted away and handed her the bottle.