Page 21 of How to Be a Wallflower

“I didn’t have a governess as a girl and learned no languages. I plan to make an extended trip to Paris. Perhaps visit Cognac and Armagnac as well. I do love brandy, and their food is far better than that we cook in England.”

“‘Better’ is arguable. It’s certainly fancier. The French never saw a liver that they didn’t want to make into a rissole and plunk down in front of an unwary customer,” Addison said. “In Paris I had a cock’s comb served up to me. Laid across the plate like a scarlet feather.”

Cleo was taken aback, but he seemed serious. “Was it good?” she asked cautiously.

“It did pass through my digestive system, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I was not!” Cleo said tartly.

“In as many words you were.”

Cleo had to suppress a smile. Addison was recklessly ungentlemanlike. Her mother would have been horrified.

Not necessarily, her mother observed, in the depths of her mind.

“Since we’re on the subject,” Addison continued, “I can tell you that French drains are excellent, but their commodes are not, so they could use your intervention.”

“Stop smiling at me like that,” Cleo ordered. “We are not friends.”

“What are we, then?”

“Not even acquaintances.”

“I beg to differ,” Addison said, his eyes glinting at her. “I wish to be friends. Unless I am wrong, you’ve decided not only to deprive my theaters, but to destroy my future happiness altogether.”

“And how, pray tell, shall I do that?” Cleo inquired. The brandy was giving her an irresistible wish to giggle, and she never giggled.

“You plan to ban me from Lewis Commodes,” he said, a little smile playing around his mouth. “My wife will loathe me for it, and then she’ll leave me for a man whose house is fixed up with the best water closets.”

Cleo barely stopped herself from jerking back. “You have a wife, Mr. Addison?”

“Not yet. Though I plan to marry soon. Won’t you call me Jake? All my friends do. Are you certain that you don’t wish for a sweet course? This brandy would be complemented by an apple tart.”

“How do you think they’ll respond, downstairs, when they discover a supposed hotel footman sitting at my side?” Cleo asked, shaking her head at him. “There would be a frightful scandal. You aren’t so keen to buy Quimby’s that you think to compromise me into a forced marriage?”

“Absolutely not.”

She gave him a direct look. “Just in case I furnished you with an idea, Mr. Addison, you should know that such tactics will never work with me. I don’t give a damn about my reputation. I’ve already weathered that particular storm.”

“You refuse to marry me?” he asked. His eyes were dancing over the rim of his glass. It was extraordinarily provoking.

“Yes, I do,” she said, keeping her voice even.

“If it gives you peace of mind, I’ll point out that I haven’t proposed to you, and I have no intention to do so. Under any circumstances, including scandal.” He laughed aloud. “To be frank, only a madman would go to such an extreme measure merely to acquire a costumier, excellent though Martha Quimby may be. I am not mad.”

His eyes were disconcertingly honest. A flash of irritation zipped through her. Unmarried men did consider her attractive enough for marriage, especially with a fortune in the offing. She may have chosen to be a wallflower, but she certainly didn’t have to be one.

Whereas Addison seemed to believe that neither a fortune nor Quimby’s was enough to make up for her personal deficits.

Even with hair. Of course, hers was very red.

His brows drew together. “Am I to understand that some rogue tried to compromise you?”

“Yes. Though he didn’t put on livery to do so.” Cleo took another sip of brandy and let its comforting warmth slide down her throat. Addison’s opinion of her was irrelevant. She didn’t care what an American thought of her.

What any man thought of her.

“Appalling,” he said, looking as if he meant it. “To reassure you, Miss Lewis, I have no plans to court you by fair means or foul, no matter how delectable the prospect of gaining Quimby’s might be.”