Larkin McAdams had seen him coming.  Him--the man who’d filled her dreams since childhood, foolish, wistful, impossible dreams, who had dominated them since he lifted her from the floor, wiped her tears, kissed her scraped knuckles and called her a brave little lady--the most handsome and forthright being ever created: Ashford bloody-beautiful Blackburne. 

If only he were not of the lowest and most feeble-brained of God's creatures ... a man. 

Practical to a fault, Lark sighed and admitted that for dreaming purposes, Ashford Blackburne’s manliness did not seem so much a failing, as an advantage.  His male shortcomings paled in comparison to his masculine strengths, as exhibited by her nightly fancies, in which he played a leading role.

Ashford--as she dared call him in her mind--sat now in his favorite chair at his favorite corner table from which he liked to survey the room at large.  And she, on the far side of the enclosed stair-wall behind him, sat on the bottom step, her temple against the rough wall board, as near to him as she dared to get without being seen.

If she closed her eyes, she could ignore the stench of ale and tobacco about her and remember the special scent of him that day eleven years before, like the most exotic of spices.  And when she did recall it, a yearning for more than she could ever have overtook her. 

As always, she fought the pull.  Being so near the object of her fancies never failed to rush her blood and pummel her heart with the kind of wild sentiment she hated, yet at this moment, there existed no place on this earth she would rather be. 

Her dissatisfaction with life would pale with his departure, she knew, and reality would return, however rude and unpleasant, though her yearnings never seemed to end. 

Lark slid to the floor just behind him and stretched her arm as far as she could reach, far enough to touch the hem of his frockcoat, bold unworthy creature that she was, and stroke its fine and fancy cloth between her callused fingers.  Too greedy by half, and ignoring the risk such abandon wrought, she slid her hand into his pocket, and out as fast, for nobody picked pockets better, not even her Da. 

She palmed a silver snuffbox with curls that might be letters cut into it, a glove the color of wheat, and a perfumed lady’s calling card.  Lark's jaw set at the cloying scent of the card, but she brought Ash’s butter-soft kid glove to her face, let the wash of his nearness shiver through her, and forgave him.  ‘Twas the spicy scent she remembered from that long-ago day mixed with a strong touch of ... lavender, as if he’d crushed a sprig in his gloved hand. 

Lark slipped the calling card between the stair treads and watched it disappear from sight with utter satisfaction.  Ash was only a man, after all--human, weak, selfish and self-serving, like the rest--but kinder than most, infinitely more honorable, and much, much better on a poor maiden’s eyes. 

Lark pushed the remainder of her bounty into her trousers’ pockets and sat in the stairwell so long, her legs cramped.  The drinkers, Ash and his two cronies, at first rowdy, then silent, then morose, in turn, called for three more bottles, then three more. 

For a while dust motes danced in the slant of daylight piercing the grimy bay window near Lark’s perch, then the light changed direction, lost its brilliance, and disappeared altogether.

Ash stopped swilling whisky long enough to belch and grin, and Lark was glad he was coming out of his sulks.  Something must have gone terribly wrong, for the enigmatic Ashford Blackburne could be a rogue of a charmer, when the world went his way.

The friend he called Myles caught his mood, winked, and slapped him on the back.  “You’re running out of time to get you a bride, old boy.” 

Ash clutched his friend's neckcloth and pulled him strangling close.  “No bloody fooling,” Ash said with another belch and another charming grin.

“God's teeth,” Myles said, pulling from Ash's hold and loosening his neckcloth.  "If you cannot persuade someone to marry you--” 

Ash growled at that and Myles reared from harm’s way.  “I meant ... what the bloody chance do I have, I’d like to know?”

“Not a chance in Hades,” said the third rogue-- Hunter, Lark thought Ash called him--his whiskey-induced grin somewhat endearing, she thought, if rather dangerous to the female population.  “Though I do think your grandfather’s ultimatum is rather absurd, not to mention, damned-near impossible to achieve.  At this rate, you'll never inherit.”

“Stubble it, Hunter,” Myles said to both the personal slight to himself, and the discouraging commentary on Ash’s dubious future.

Hunter shrugged and returned his attention to Ash.  “Devilish bit of bad luck, there, getting yourself jilted again.”

Again?  Larkin sat straighter, ignoring their banter as it escalated toward disagreement.  Jilted?  Ashford Blackburne had been left at the altar?  More than once?  Were society women daft? 

“Does the first count as a real jilt?” Hunter, with his whiskey-grin, put in.  “You ran off to fight Boney without a word, after all, and Ellenora was desperate to marry; we all knew that.  She could hardly wait to see if you would survive, and Ames was a Duke with a fortune as big as hers, so she would take him.”

Ash leaned over the table, fisted a quick hand, and knocked the sot of a speaker on his arse.  “Thank you for the patronizing reminder, but she took the man too bloody fast, if you ask me.  She did not even wait two months and that I cannot forgive.   Fact is, I’d rather run this pub than be stuck with the fickle likes of either jilt.”  

Whoever the women were, they must be lacking in wits, as well as eyesight, to jilt a handsome rogue like Ashford Blackburne, Lark thought, ignoring the talk of trade and pub profits that ensued. 

She would have waited for Ash, however long it took him to return, Lark admitted to herself, no matter the issue of low funds, for Ashford Blackburn would know how to treat a lady.  Then again, she did not need much--a cot, a warm blanket, a monthly bath.   

“Well now, I don’t feature sellin’ ye me pub, me fine Lord, but I’d sure like a go at playin' ye for it.” 

With rude dispatch, and no small shot of panic, the warm haze of Lark’s musings popped at her father’s words.  What?  What had her Da just said?  Rat's whiskers, she wished she'd been paying attention.

“Name your stakes,” Ash said.

Oh no.  Lark sat straighter and peeked around the stair-wall as Ash rubbed his clean, strong hands in glee, the fool.  He’d had a great deal too much to drink, if he was thinking of playing her Da for The Pickled Pigsty. 

Lark sighed as her father called for Toby, his barman, to bring a “fresh” deck--properly marked, of course--and supposed she should be glad Da hadn’t tried to add her to the pot.

“If ye win, ye get me fine pub,” her Da said, spelling out the terms and entertaining Lark with his wit.  No doubt he'd also add his secret recipe for mystery-critter stew, and call it ambrosia.  “If ye lose,” he said, shuffling the cards fast enough to make the sots dizzy, “I get a thousand gold guineas.  And just so ye don’t go home empty-handed,” he added, generous as a Lord, “I’ll throw in me beautiful daughter for wife, as a consolation.”

Ash gave an inebriated laugh and took another swallow of his whiskey, while Lark rose with a silent screech and made to leap to her own defense ... but her father shot out with a right, and liked to blacken her eye. 

She hit the floor behind Ash and scampered back into her stairwell as Ash looked up from his drink.  “Did you hear that?” he asked no one in particular.