Free Midnight Mistress by Ruth Owen Page A

exist under the anger, and the muscled body that made her feel like … like …
    She ripped her gaze from his and pulled her hood down to hide her embarrassed blush. “I came here to apologize,” she said stiffly, afraid her breathlessness might betray her unseemly thoughts. “I behaved rudely when you came to our home this evening. It was no way to treat one’s … guest. Please accept my regrets.”
    There, she’d done it. Swallowed her pride. Admitted her error. Feeling quite noble, she lifted her hood, expecting to see a thaw in his winter countenance.
    If anything, the ice grew thicker.
    “So, you come in here like Lady Bountiful, dispensing empty apologies like Christmas coins and expecting me to be grateful for it.”
    Juliana’s jaw dropped. “It wasn’t empty! It took a great deal for me to come here.”
    Connor gave a skeptical snort. “Spare me the disruptions this visit caused to your busy social schedule.”
    “That’s not fair,” she cried as she bolted to her feet. “I came here to prove how genuinely sorry I am for what I said this evening. I know how much it hurt you.”
    Connor leaned closer. “I’ve faced pirates, shipwrecks, French fortresses, and Spanish cannons. I’ve stared down death’s gullet and barely escaped with my life. I’ve done more, seen more, and loved more in the last few years than you could in a lifetime. Do you really think I give a damn about the opinions of one useless, spoiled society chit?”
    His words cut her pride to ribbons. She’d come here to offer him a heartfelt apology—but it was nothing to him.
She
was nothing. She sat back in her chair, feeling gauche, awkward and horribly embarrassed.
    “Coach is here, Captain.”
    She looked up into the well-scrubbed face of a hansom cab driver. She saw Connor place enough coins in his hand to take Meg and her to China. “Get these children out of here,” he growled as he turned his back on them. “Now.”
    She didn’t argue—there was no reason to stay. She allowed herself to be hustled out of the Bell by the coachman, who immediately launched into a long-winded story about his adventures as a cab driver. Juliana barely heard him. Instead she glanced back, watching Connor until the smoke and noise of the crowded room swallowed him. He never bothered to turn around to see that she’d left safely. It was as if he’d already forgotten that she existed.
    Useless, he’d called her. Useless as a person, as a friend … and as a woman.
    It was last call at the Bell. Most of the crowd had thinned out, leaving only the most raucous or the most quiet behind. Outwardly, Connor Reed was the latter. Inwardly, his emotions raged like a hurricane. He raised his arm for the barkeep. “Another.”
    “That makes four, my friend,” Raoul commented from across the table.
    It made five, Connor thought, but who was counting? It wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t be enough until he could no longer remember how she’d looked at him, how her confidence had crumbled to dust when he’d told her he thought she was a spoiled socialite. He’d been angry—angry at her for risking her safety to come to a place like this and angry at himself for caring. Most of all he was angry for giving a damn what she thought of him. He wanted to hurt her as deeply as she’d hurt him. And he’d succeeded, just as he won all his battles, with ruthless disregard for his opponent.
    And he’d give ten years of his life to take the cruel words back.
    “You are sure she made it home safely?”
    “
Zut alors
, have I not told you three times already? Yes, I followed the coach as you asked. Yes, I kept out of sight—though the brown-eyed
fille
looked my way more than once. I almost believe she knew I was there.…”
    “But is Juliana safe?”
    Raoul sighed. “I watched the commodore collect them in his arms and take them into the house. Perhaps you would have wished me to go inside and tuck the lady into her bed.”
    Connor’s mouth