With a sigh, taking a slow sip of his scotch, he admitted he could have handled that better. Probably should have eased into it a bit more, worded it a little differently. And how often were the blokes here referred to as gentlemen? Most were laborers, dockworkers, bricklayers—not that he found anything wrong with those occupations. He’d once been a dockworker himself.

But in Mayfair any man who crossed her path would have been a lord, a noble, a true gentleman. Referred to as such, treated as such. What the hell was she doing here?

It wasn’t for a lark. When Gillie had first opened the place, on occasion he’d helped out. The work was demanding. He preferred the docks. At least there he hadn’t been required to be polite to people upon whom he wanted to dump ale. Which might have been what prompted him to threaten Jimmy last night. Normally, he would have just told him to leave off and that would have been sufficient. But something about the quick flash of fear on her face when Jimmy had tumbled her onto his lap had set Beast’s back teeth on edge. He didn’t believe she was accustomed to the frequent roughness of this area of London. So his words had been accompanied with a warning.

After finishing off his scotch, he removed his watch from his waistcoat pocket, checked the time, and tucked it away. An hour before they closed. It was bloody cold out, and he intended to make sure the bloke who’d come for her last night came for her tonight.

As she appeared to be deliberately avoiding any reason to look in his direction, it took him a while to catch her attention and hold up his empty glass. While he’d been unable to stop looking at her.

Bloody hell, she was beautiful. But her attractiveness had little to do with her heart-shaped face, the sharp cut of her cheekbones, the delicate bridge of her small nose, or her kissable lips. Although when taken together they created a stunning creature.

It was the command she had over those features that intrigued him. They never revealed anger or irritation or impatience. No matter how long it took some people to tell her exactly what they wanted, asking questions about the offerings as though they’d never been in the tavern—or any tavern—before and didn’t know what could be had. No matter how many times she had to return to the same table with additional drinks. No matter how often she had to replace a beverage because the person decided that what he’d ordered wasn’t to his taste after all.