Page 35 of A Shore Thing

“He hasn’t been here long.” She tried not to blink. “He doesn’t know anybody.”

“I saw a great tangle of seaweed just over there.” Griffith indicated the spot with a lazy tilt of his head. “Perhaps you should fetch him. And introduce us.”

There was mockery in Griffith’s voice. He could tell she was lying. A gentleman would play along, allow her to salvage her dignity.

He wasn’t a gentleman. He was a fiend.

Irritation swept away her restraint.

“That’s kelp,” she snapped. “And it’s as rotten as your heart.”

For a satisfying second, Griffith looked shocked.

Mr. Ponsonby coughed. Her gaze flew to him. He was looking up at them from the rowboat, but at her glance, he bent abruptly and began to fuss with his paint box.

“You don’t want it, then.”

She turned back to Griffith. No trace of surprise on his face now. His eyes had a dangerous glint.

“The kelp?” She felt a hot itch climbing the back of her neck. Of course, the kelp. He didn’t mean his heart. “It’s useless to me.”

He was studying her more closely still.

“I have fallen in your esteem.” He sounded regretful. “Because I’m unable to illustrate your lecture myself.”

“Unable?” When he put it like so, her anger seemed even more out of proportion. She wouldn’t let him twist things around.

“You are unwilling,” she said. “There’s a difference. But that’s not why I suspect a lump of diseased matter beats in your chest.”

“Allow me to allay your suspicions,” he drawled. His hand closed around her wrist, and the next thing she knew, her fingers were pressed to the side of his throat, sliding under the silk of his cravat. His skin was smooth and hot, and his pulse drummed steadily.

Her own pulse exploded into flutters.

“Everything seems in order with my heart.” He tightened his grip on her wrist, thumb pressing the tender flesh between bone and tendon. “Your heart is beating rather fast.”

She caught her breath and yanked her hand away. No one had observed them. The fishermen were concerned with fish, and the street above was all buyers and sellers, their attention trained on baskets and carts. Mr. Ponsonby had buried himself in that paint box.

Enduring Griffith’s smug look alone was bad enough. His amusement enraged her.

She drew herself to her full height.

“What is your history with cats?” she demanded.

“I beg your pardon.” His brows edged up. “Cats? I am universally beloved by feline kind. Cats trust me implicitly.”

“That makes it worse.”

“Makes what worse?”

Something clattered. Mr. Ponsonby had knocked over his easel.

“Clumsy,” he said brightly. “Time for tennis?”

She couldn’t break Griffith’s gaze. This roiling tension—it wasn’t normal, not for her. She had a quick temper, but she didn’t usually feel as though a summer storm had been trapped under her skin.

“Not for me,” she said. “I will never have time for tennis with a…a…double-dyed villain!”

After that, she’d no choice but to storm away. She couldn’t bear to witness the moment Griffith’s smile slid into a smirk. Double-dyed villain? It must have lodged in her head years ago, a phrase from a Drury Lane melodrama. If only a curtain could fall behind her, guaranteeing that this was the end. No further encounters. No further opportunities for foolishness. Her nerves had been stretched too thin. And Griffith knew how to strum on women’s nerves like a lyre. Never again.