The Songbird's Seduction by Connie Brockway Read Free Book Online Page B

make out much. Except that she had eyes the color of the green-gold quartz he’d once seen decorating the ceremonial breastplates of an Aztec king.
    “You most certainly are not fine. Charlie laid you flat out.”
    Charlie must be the young man. “He punched me. Where is he?”
    “Gone. Let me help you up.”
    “No. Please.” He winced. “Don’t do anything. You’ve done quite enough.”
    His vision had cleared sufficiently for him to see her lips press tightly together before, ignoring his refusal, she scooted behind him and slid an arm around his shoulders. What did she expect to be able to do? The top of her head barely reached his chin and if she weighed a hundred pounds, he’d be surprised. At six two and nearly fourteen stone—
    She heaved him upright with unexpected strength, the sudden movement making his head throb. “Ow!”
    “Sorry. Someone get him a glass of water.”
    “I don’t want a glass of water.” Holding his head, he climbed painfully to his feet.
    She reached out to steady him but he scowled fiercely enough to make her snatch her hand back.
    “If you would just kindly return my pen I won’t trouble you any longer.” He made no effort to hide his sarcasm.
    She sighed. “You’re not still going on about that, are you?”
    “Yes,” he said. “I am.” The pen had been a gift from Cornelia. He’d hate to think what she’d say if he lost it; he’d lost too many of her other gifts. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t actually
lost
the pen; his having allowed it to be stolen wasn’t going to materially change Cornelia’s reaction. Not that she would cause a flap; Cornelia never flapped. But her disappointment was worse. It was so ripe with fatalistic assumptions.
    Now that it was clear he wasn’t in danger of dying or leaking blood anywhere, the crowd around them had begun to disperse. The girl, still draped in his jacket, hovered, probably due to guilt.
    She had a fresh, expressive face crowned by a cloud of rich brown waves. Her clipped chin; wide, delicate lips; straight, thin nose; and bright hazel eyes were too animated and her bones too angular for beauty, but she possessed a sort of high-strung thoroughbred attractiveness. A few freckles dusted the tops of sharp cheekbones. She was quite lovely in an odd, fey sort of way.
    “Listen, young man.”
Young man?
He was probably over a decade older than her. She looked about sixteen. “No one is paying us any attention now. You needn’t keep up this pitiful charade.”
    He stiffened. That she considered him “pitiful” wounded him in a place he hadn’t even realized was vulnerable.
    “So, let’s just call it a night, shall we?”
    Damned if she didn’t sound sorry for him.
    His pride, rarely entering into many equations—having been taught from the nursery that personal pride was vulgar—nonetheless rose to the occasion.
    “No,” he said. “We shall not. I have no idea how you have come into possession of my pen but I will give you the benefit of a doubt and assume it was in an innocent albeit highly unlikely manner.
    “Nonetheless, by whatever offices, it went missing. I left it on the table when I followed my companions to the doorway. When I returned, the pen was gone. Or rather, not
gone
, precisely. It was in your hand.”
    Despite his assurance that he trusted her integrity, he could see her take umbrage with what was, if he was being honest—and he was always honest—a very nasty implication.
    She drew up all of the few inches she possessed. The green in her eyes became shards of colored glass. “Now see here. This pen belongs to my friend Margery—”
    “Oh! Oh, dear. No. It doesn’t.” A dapper, pleasant-looking middle-aged man edged between them, smiling sheepishly. “I was in a hurry to find something for you to write with and when I saw the pen I . . . well, I borrowed it. I had every intention of returning it, I assure you,” he quickly added. He turned to the girl. “I was trying to tell you