Free Untamed by Hope Tarr Page A

thrilling but brief interlude with the stimulating Scot, she must have his birth country on the brain.
    Pulling her thoughts back to the practical, she’d modified the recipe to add a few strips of candied orange peel, which she fancied would prove to be a nice touch. Certainly the simple fare was nothing of which to be ashamed. On the contrary, the bone-china teapot had a rather large chip in the curved handle, which explained why the pawnbroker had given her such a very good price. Fortunately, most of her callers would be older ladies whose eyesight was no longer the best. To stay on the safe side, she’d camouflaged the damaged spot with a hand-knitted cozy.
    Congratulating herself on her ingenuity, she was dusting the gilded hallway mirror when the knock sounded. Hattie, their maid-of-all-work, was in the kitchen putting the final touches on the tea tray, including setting doilies beneath each serving plate. Kate glanced down at the watch pinned to her bodice. It was as yet only nine thirty. So-called morning calls never commenced before midday, and usually not until after luncheon.
    She dropped the feather duster in the umbrella stand, tore off her apron and shoved it inside, as well, and peered out the peephole. Mr. O’Rourke stood upon her front steps, clapping his great hands together and blowing crystallized rings of breath into the cold.
    Kate flattened her back against the door and considered what to do. Part of her hoped that if she waited, he would grow discouraged and go away, and the other part of her hoped he would remain. Leaving it to fate, she started counting slowly to five. One, two, three …
    Another, harder knock sounded, the pummeling causing the wood at her back to shake. Drawing a deep breath, she turned about and opened the door.
    “What the bloody hell are you doing here?”
    From the step below, he doffed his bowler and smiled up at her. “Good morning to you, too, milady.” His gaze snaked around her right shoulder to the door, the turned-up knocker an undisputed indicator she was “at home.”
    Kate let out a huff, if only to distract from the pitch of her suddenly fast-beating heart. “I suppose you might as well come in.” Knees wobbly, she stepped back to admit him.
    He entered, his broad shoulders seeming to fill the narrow foyer, his presence dwarfing the delicate furnishings, making them seem almost doll-sized. Turning about, he announced, “Actually, I’m here not to come in so much as to take you out, if you will, that is. I have a friend for you to meet.”
    Even for a Scot, he must be the most indecorous man she’d ever met. “I scarcely know you.”
    He had the audacity to wink. “We could remedy that, and we
shall
remedy that, but first let me introduce you to my friend.”
    Mentally calculating whether there would be sufficient tea treats to serve two hungry men, she glanced beyond him but saw no one about. “Very well, invite him in.”
    “My friend is a ’her,’ actually.”
    Kate’s heart dropped. She might not want him, she most certainly did not want him, and yet she’d been flattered to think he might want her, if only a little. The other night at the charity ball, she’d been certain he was flirting. Could she have misread him so completely?
    He shook his head. His eyes were beaming. “And I’m afraid that’s not possible. The friend is rather large for a town house.”
    So, his lady friend was fat! Kate knew it was bad of her to feel so positively buoyant about that, but Lord help her, she did.
    “I find that difficult to fathom. Surely you exaggerate. Do invite her in.”
    He gestured toward the door she was reaching to close. She followed his gaze out to the street where two horses, a chestnut mare and a black bay, were tethered to the hitching post.
    She turned back to him. “Your friend is a horse?” He nodded. “I find that horses are the best sort of friends. Treat ’em right, and they’re loyal as the day is long. Even better, they canna