“You want me to wear theDuke of Nottingvale’sclothes?” he choked out in disbelief. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made. “Why would the Duke of Nottingvale send you his clothes?”
“They’re nothis, precisely. They were prototypes for a fashion venture that will become all the crack in the spring. The hems are designed for ease of taking out or letting in, so I guessed at your size and asked the tailor to adjust the seams accordingly.”
This explanation raised more questions than it answered.
“You asked… the tailor?”
“He’s betrothed to the duke’s sister.” She tilted her head and squinted at Eli. “You’re built less like an idle gentleman and more like a farmhand.”
“Yes. Well.” Eli wasn’t any of those things. He cleared his throat. “When I was younger, I sneaked off to join the laborers. I hoped my physical exertion would build muscles like theirs. My father wanted me to race competitively, but who ever heard of a bulky jockey?” He flexed one of his arms and shrugged. “The habit stuck, though I’m now more likely to box or swim than chop down trees and dig trenches.”
Her gaze was startled. “Do you dislikehorses?”
“I didn’t say Idislikethem.” The beasts terrified him. “I would simply rather not ride one. Ever.”
Not the thing to admit when attempting to win the favor of a celebrated horsewoman.
“I’ll help,” she said, her voice soft. “You’ll never win Duke’s acceptance—” Or her hand in marriage, was the implication. “—but I cannot allow you to leave here believing horses are the enemy.”
Eli had been raised to believe theHarperswere the enemy.
A pair of Janus-faced, manipulative, backstabbing deceivers. Father had made it a point of pride to outdo his bitter rival on each of those scores. The feud had carried on for decades.
Until now.
The clothes were a lovely gesture. Miss Harper had helped him despite neither trusting him nor wanting him.
When Eli looked at Miss Harper, he didn’t see a foe to be vanquished. He saw a strong, compassionate, clever woman, talented and unforgettable.
He didn’t want to hurt her.
He wanted to kiss her.
It was a terrible idea. They’d tried it before. While the kiss itself had been exquisite, it had all gone to hell thereafter.
He’d vowed that this time, there would be no kissing unless he was certain they had a future.
If he crossed that line, his heart was the one that would break.
“Thank you,” he said, and reached for her hand.
Touching her skin was almost as terrible an idea as kissing her. Luckily, Miss Harper would be intelligent enough to slap his face for this impertinence.
Instead, she let him lift her hand.
Now what? His blood raced hot. Holding a woman’s hand was the precursor to kissing her fingers. Or whirling her into a waltz. Or pulling her to his chest and covering her mouth with his. There was nothing he wanted more than to taste Miss Harper’s lips.
All very, very, very bad ideas.
But he didn’t let go.
Her skin fascinated him. The back of her hand and the tops of her fingers were impossibly soft, the skin creamy and silken as though pampered with expensive creams.
The pads of her fingers, less so. They were not calloused, but tough and strong, like Miss Harper herself. They warned that here was a woman not afraid to take off her gloves and vanquish problems with her bare hands.
Eli would love to feel those bare hands skim across his naked flesh.
“So you’ll wear the riding outfit?” Her voice was gentle, inviting.
