She found this appealing in a strange, visceral way.
Perhaps she envied him.
“We’ll be keeping coopers, cartwrights, and woodmen furnished with custom,” she said, taking a dainty bite of her own food. “The brewery itself will employ dozens. It’s good for the entire parish. The plans are sound.”
“Be that as it may,” he said, scratching the light growth of whiskers he hadn’t shaved. “Starting a brewery requires a tremendous investment. Hops are a delicate crop. You could lose your entire dowry, and the castle with it. Where will the farmers and coopers be then?”
“I know there’s risk. But it’s not as though I’m chasing some fickle fashion.” She nodded at the crowded pub. “Englishmen aren’t going to cease drinking beer anytime soon.”
“But you’re not an Englishman. You’re an unmarried gentlewoman with no experience in agriculture or trade.”
“Of course I lack experience. Where would I have acquired it? At finishing school?” She poked at a chunk of beef. “It’s so unfair. Women are allowed to do one-tenth of what men may do, and yet we are scrutinized for it ten times as closely. If I’m going to be found wanting, at least this time it will be different. I would rather be judged for my failures at estate management than for my failures at the pianoforte. It might be a rough start, but I have the funds and determination to make it a success. I’ll be the first to admit there’s much I don’t know. But I’m willing and able to learn.”
When she looked up, Rafe wasn’t at the table. She looked on as he walked to the bar and returned with three pewter tankards, brimming with beer.
“Brown ale,” he said, pushing the first tankard toward her. “Bitter. Porter.”
“All three? You’re very thirsty from your work.”
“They’re for you,” he said. “You said you were willing and able to learn. Let’s see you prove it.”
Ah, so he meant to give her a lesson. That was rather sweet. Ridiculous and unnecessary, but sweet.
Conscious of people watching them, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Thank you. But I know. I would not propose to open a brewery without first understanding brown ale, bitter, and porter.”
“Then let’s see if you can tell the difference.” He slid the tankards around on the tabletop, jumbling them like walnut shells with a pea underneath. “Taste, and tell me which is which.”
“I can tell you which is which by sight. This is the brown ale.” She nodded at each in turn. “This is the porter, and the bitter. But I’m not going to drink any today.”
Clio could hear Mama’s ghost hitting the floor in a swoon at the mere suggestion. Well-bred ladies drank lemonade or barley water. Perhaps a touch of cordial or a glass of claret. Small beer, at home. They didn’t drink ale. Much less porter. Not in public.
“So you want to produce beer, but you don’t want to be seen drinking it. That makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense in a nonsensical world.”
He was a man; he had no idea. Ladies were encouraged to produce all manner of things—beauty, dinner, and children, most commonly. But those productions must appear to be effortless. Drawn from feminine mystery and ether. Woe to the lady who plucked her chin hairs in public, or welcomed callers with flour on her hands. Much less dared to admit desire.
“This isn’t the place,” she said.
“This is a public house. It is, by definition, the place for drinking.” He nudged the brown ale toward her.
Her pride won out over propriety. With a cautious glance about the pub, Clio lifted and sipped from each heavy tankard in turn. “There. I’ve tasted them.”
“And . . . ?” he prompted.
“And . . . they’re fine.”
“Wrong,” he said. “Two are fine. One is swill. How can you go asking farmers to risk their harvests on the prospect of your brewery if you can’t tell good ale from bad?”
She sighed. There seemed no getting around it. “The brown ale is quite good. Freshly brewed with local water. Sweet, nutty. There’s a touch of honey in it, too. Someone had clover growing next to his barley. The porter is decent. The coffee flavors would be richer if they’d used dark malt, not just burnt sugar for coloring. But everyone’s using the light malt these days. Now, the bitter . . .” She sipped it again and tilted her head. “I wouldn’t call it swill. It had potential, but the yeast didn’t dissolve properly. What might have been crisp sky and grassy fields is just . . . swamped in fog. Pity. A waste of good Kentish hops.”
She raised her gaze to find him staring at her.
“Where did all that come from?” he asked. But his eyes phrased the question slightly differently. Where did you come from? they asked.
Oh, Rafe. I’ve been here all along.
Just waiting.
“A girl needs a hobby.” She felt a bit cheeky. No doubt the work of the ale. Or perhaps the expression on his face.
He regarded her with those intense green eyes of his, and even though he was violently attractive and oh-so-close, Clio tried not to do something silly and girlish. Such as touch her hair. Or wet her lips. Or recall the feeling of his aroused manhood pressing against her tender flesh.
Naturally, she did all three.
Vexed with herself, she lowered her gaze. “Are you going to keep staring at me like that?”
“Yes.”