Page 27 of A Shore Thing

“Not at the moment, no.” It hurt too much. The ice in her voice. The horror in her eyes. The idea that he’d begun to fear her—Lucy. His best mate.

“You’d rather we make haste to the nearest pub, where I will perform my second act of service for the day.”

Ponsonby’s pause was expectant. Kit glanced at him.

“Which is?” he sighed.

“Reviving your spirits, mate.” Ponsonby folded his arms. “By letting you best me at billiards.”

“Ha.” Kit’s jaw muscles eased.

“And then I’ll beat whoever steps up next.”

“Have a care.” Kit started walking again, his steps more fluid. “Your spirits might never recover. Let alone your purse.”

Later, at the Smack, after he’d been stood a drink by every joust-goer in the house and made thirteen points on a single shot at the billiards table, he wedged himself in a corner, wondering if his spirits had, in fact, revived. His eyes felt hot, and his lips felt numb, and tiredness stole through him with blissful languor.

A petite woman with upswept blond hair was gazing at him across the crowded room. She wore a narrow silk dress in the latest London fashion. Her smile was bold, perhaps even intrepid.

He considered making his way to her, discovering her thoughts on bicycle touring, and her availability for the week after next. Instead, he let Ponsonby put a fresh tumbler in his hand and pull him into conversation.

He wasn’t ready to look for a new riding companion.

But surely he’d feel differently tomorrow.

8

“You are that gel.”

Muriel barely registered the starchy voice. She’d chosen a table near the window, so she could eat her breakfast looking out at the bay.

“Reginald,” came the voice again. “Is it not that gel?”

Muriel turned her head and met the gimlet eye of the older woman seated at the nearest table. Her high-collared black gown looked costly and too warm for the weather. She was studying Muriel with her thin brows angled down and her lips pursed.

Muriel gave her a slightly puzzled smile.

“I believe you are right,” said the woman’s breakfast companion, lowering his paper to reveal a youthful face, round and blandly pleasant.

“I believe you are wrong,” offered Muriel, as politely as possible. Her head was throbbing. She’d risen with the sun and spent two disappointing hours at the rock pools, before a dog with matted fur and a frenzied bark sped her down the beach and up to the hotel.

A poor start to the day. She’d hoped to avoid dining room chitchat.

“Reginald,” said the woman. “What did that gel say?”

“She believes you are wrong,” the man responded.

“But I am never wrong. Tell her.”

“Excuse me,” said the man, louder. “Sir Reggie here. This is Lady Chiswick, my mother. She is never wrong.”

Muriel frowned.

“I am hardly a girl,” she informed Sir Reggie. “I have reached the far side of thirty.”

“Have you?” Sir Reggie raised his brows, impressed. “Dang it. Well preserved. I say.”

“You’ve said quite enough, Reginald,” said Lady Chiswick. “What is your name, gel?”