Autumn Glory and Other Stories by Bárbara Metzger Page B

by her—and by the half-empty brandy bottle.
    “Yes, something back from you.”
    “You want something in return?”
    “Yes.”
    So he gave her a kiss.

4
    No spitting, fisticuffs, or rowdy behavior.
    Whap!
    Arthur deserved the slap, of course, had been expecting it, in fact, but who would have thought this delicate flower of femininity had a roundhouse swing? He staggered back, but his bad leg gave way and he collapsed onto his back. Fine, he thought as he waited for the room to stop spinning, now he was a clumsy jackass as well as a lecher. What in the world possessed him to kiss Miss Thurstfield? Only a world of desire that grew every time he saw the woman. But he was no libertine, and she was no doxy to be mauled about. She was a lady, and an affianced one at that. Her blasted betrothed had every right to call him out. Thunderation, if she were not already engaged to be wed, he’d owe her an honorable offer. All he could offer now was his sincerest apologies, although he did not regret the kiss for an instant. “I am ashamed, Miss Thurstfield,” he told her, still prone, looking up into her concerned eyes. “Perhaps I did have too much to drink after all. For my leg, don’t you know,” he hastened to add. “I swear such a thing will never occur again, gentleman’s honor.”
    But he wasn’t a gentleman, Hope thought. He was a jumped-up clerk, taking liberties not even Sir Malcolm had dared. The nerve of the scoundrel! The magic of his lips on hers! Why, she hadn’t even struggled when he kissed her, hadn’t so much as taken a step backward. In fact, Hope very much feared she’d put her own arm around the cad’s neck. She knew for sure that she’d stared at him, dumbfounded or moonstruck, for ages before recalling that her virtue had just been assaulted. That’s when she finally got around to slapping him. Angry at herself for not resisting the handsome rogue, she had swung with all her might, toppling poor Mr. Arthur. Good grief, she’d struck a crippled person! “I am so sorry, Mr. Arthur. I didn’t know my own strength. Here, let me help you up.”
    “No, I can manage, thank you.” He wasn’t in his dotage yet, by Jupiter. “If you could just hand me my cane, I would be grateful.”
    Hope found a walking stick leaning against the desk and put it in his hand, then turned her back so she would not witness Mr. Arthur struggle to his feet. Bad enough she had to see the red imprint of her hand on his cheek when he finally stood and scrawled his initials on her jewelry inventory list. “There, now you have a receipt. If you think you can trust me, that is.” Hope was not sure. There was definitely something peculiar about Mr. Arthur, and the expensive, ornately carved lion’s-head cane was merely one more discordant note. On the other hand, he obviously had a position of trust at the hotel, so her jewels ought to be safe, if her person was not. At least she was certain he was not the thief, for Mr. Arthur could never manage to sneak into the guests’ chambers, even if he could climb the flights of stairs. “I would rather see my belongings placed in the safe myself, naturally, but I suppose I can trust you to see them there.”
    Trust him? The general had trusted him to carry battle plans for the entire Peninsular Campaign, by Zeus. And this milk-and-water country miss deigned to put her trinkets in his keeping? Arthur supposed he deserved that, too. He’d told Miss Thurstfield one rapper after another, masquerading as a caper merchant, and then pressed his unwelcome attentions upon her. In the back of his mind was the niggling notion that perhaps she had enjoyed those attentions, just a tad. Now was the time to confess his deceit, but how could he ever excuse such perfidy? She would despise him for sure, if she did not already, and that he could not bear.
    Moving toward the door as if to say the disastrous interview was over, the captain nodded to acknowledge her tepid endorsement. “Your