Regency Rogues: Outrageous Scandal. Annie Burrows

I don’t see why you have to walk so fast,’ she complained. ‘Not when we have a whole week to raise the money.’

      ‘We?’ He couldn’t believe she could speak of his possessions as though they were her own. As though she had some rights as to how he should dispose of them. ‘I am the one who is going to have to pawn my watch.’

      ‘I’m sorry. I can see how reluctant you are to part with it. But you know I don’t have anything of value.’

      ‘Not any more,’ he fumed. ‘Thanks to you.’

      ‘What do you mean, thanks to me?’

      ‘I mean that you had my purse. Which contained easily enough money to last until the end of the week. I can’t believe how careless you are.’

      ‘Careless? What do you mean? Are you implying it’s my fault you lost your purse?’

      ‘Well, you were wearing my jacket when those oafs jostled it out of the pocket.’

      ‘What oafs?’ She frowned. ‘Oh. You mean when we came in here?’

      He could see her mind going over the scene, just as his own had done the moment he’d realised the purse wasn’t where he’d put it.

      ‘So,’ she added slowly. ‘You think that is when the purse went missing, do you?’

      ‘When else could it have gone?’

      ‘How about when you fell out of the gig?’

      ‘You mean when you pushed me out of the gig?’

      They were no longer walking along the street but standing toe to toe, glaring at each other. Though what right she had to be angry, he couldn’t imagine. He was the one who was having to abandon every principle he held dear. She was the one whose fault it was.

      Yet she was breathing heavy, indignant breaths. Which made her gown strain over her bosom.

      Her unfettered bosom.

      Since her stays were in his hand. At least they were in his valise, which was in his hand.

      ‘Right,’ she said, and drew herself up to her full height and lifted her chin.

      He probably ought to warn her to pull his jacket closed. She could have no idea how touchable and tempting she looked right now.

      Tempting? No. She wasn’t tempting. She was not.

      No more than she’d been when she’d moaned in ecstasy at the flavour of his steak and onions. There was still something the matter with his brain—that was what it was. Some lingering after-effect from the drug. It explained why he’d spilled out almost the entire story of his adventure at Wragley’s. And why he kept on being afflicted by these inconvenient, inappropriate surges of lust.

      Though part of it was down to her. The way she looked all wild and wanton in the grip of anger, so much more alive and vital than any other woman he’d ever known. The way she openly stood up to him in a way nobody had ever dared before.

      Though he’d even found her appealing when she’d looked drugged and dazed and helpless. Helpless, she aroused his protective instincts. Angry she just aroused...more basic instincts.

      ‘Right,’ she said again. And with a toss of her head turned round and strode away from him.

      ‘Where do you think you are going?’ The insufferable wench was obliging him to follow her if he didn’t wish to lose sight of her.

      ‘I’m going,’ she tossed over her shoulder, ‘to sort out the mess you have plunged us into.’

      ‘Mess I have plunged us into? You were the one who got robbed—’

      ‘You were the one who left the purse in my pocket, though, once it became an outside pocket after you removed your coat.’

      ‘I—’ Dammit, she was correct. Again. He should have kept hold of the purse himself.

      ‘In my defence,’ he pointed out resentfully, ‘I had just suffered a stunning blow to the head.’

      ‘Trust you to bring that up,’ she said, rounding on him. And then, taking him completely by surprise, she reached up and snatched off his hat.

      ‘You don’t mind me borrowing this, do you?’

      ‘For what, pray?’

      ‘To collect the money.’

      ‘Collect the...what?’

      She didn’t seriously mean to go begging through the streets, did she? That would be worse by far than anything that had happened to him yet.

      ‘Yes, I do mind,’ he said, reaching round her to retrieve his property.

      But she twitched it out of his reach. And slapped his hand for good measure. And carried on walking down the street towards the market square.

      ‘Prudence,’ he warned her. ‘I cannot permit you to do this.’ It was unthinkable. If anyone ever found out that he’d been seen begging... The very thought sent cold chills down his spine.

      ‘Permit me?’

      If he thought she’d looked angry before it was as nothing compared to the way she looked now. She came to an abrupt halt.

      ‘You have no say over anything I do,’ she said, poking him in the chest with her forefinger. A habit she’d no doubt picked up from that bony aunt of hers. ‘I shall do as I please.’

      ‘Not with my hat, you won’t.’

      He made a move to get it back. But she was still too quick for him, nimbly leaping out of his reach with the agility of a professional fencing master.

      ‘Prudence,’ he snapped. ‘Don’t you realise you can be arrested for begging?’

      ‘Begging?’ She gave him a disbelieving look over her shoulder. ‘I have no intention of begging.’

      Well, that was a relief. But still... ‘Then what do you plan to do? With my hat?’

      ‘It’s market day,’ she said, as though the statement should be self-explanatory. And then added for his benefit, as though he were a total simpleton, ‘People expect entertainers to come to town on market day.’

      ‘Yes. But you are not an entertainer. Are you?’

      ‘No,’ she said indignantly. ‘But I do have a very fine singing voice.’

      ‘Oh, no...’ he muttered as she made for the market cross with his hat clutched in her determined little fingers. ‘You cannot mean to perform in the street for pennies, surely?’

      ‘Well, do you have a better idea?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Which is...?’ She planted her hands on her hips and pursed her lips again.

      Dammit, nobody ever questioned his decisions. If he said he had an idea people always waited to hear what it was, with a view to carrying out his orders at once. They didn’t plant their hands on their hips and look up at him as though they didn’t believe he had ever had a plan in his life.

      ‘I see no reason,’ he said, affronted, ‘why I should tell you.’

      ‘Just as I thought,’ she scoffed. ‘You haven’t a plan. Except to pawn your watch and then go crawling back to that nasty landlord, with your tail between your legs, in order to retrieve a horse you despise and a gig that you have trouble steering.’

      ‘I do not!’

      He was a notable whip.

      Normally.

      ‘And I have no intention of crawling. I never crawl.’

      ‘Really?’

      She raised one eyebrow in such a disdainful way it put him in mind of one