Her hand faltered as she gently swept a curl away from Char-char’s brow. Nothing about the duke had seemed either ruthless nor cunning since she had renewed her acquaintance with him—albeit grudgingly. But she had not known George was secretly dabbling in criminal activities, either.
That he had been paid by unscrupulous men to commit even more unscrupulous acts. Reprehensible acts. Acts that saw innocent men imprisoned. Or worse.
Their sweet, innocent baby daughter slept on, oblivious to the sins her father had committed. Just as unknowing of the dangers he may have brought to their door. It was just as well. Pippa would bear all the pain, the weight of George’s mistakes upon her shoulders instead, that it would never harm Char-char.
Quietly, Pippa dressed, taking care not to cause too much noise. Her lady’s maid was somewhere else in the house, and Pippa wanted her daughter to get her rest. Fortunately, her dress did not require a tightly laced corset. A simple affair, it was olive-green silk with a modest line of buttons to the neck and a fall of antique lace over her bosom. Good of Primrose to bring a dress that did not require much underpinnings.
She checked on her sleeping daughter once more before leaving the chamber. Croydon answered her door after one knock, and Pippa informed the nurse Charlotte was still asleep. It was decided that Croydon would sit with Charlotte while Pippa sought out their host’s servants, that she might arrange for their return home.
Pippa had no wish to see Northwich this morning, nor to take breakfast with him. The sooner she left his home, the better it would be for them all. Surely the danger would be gone by the light of day.
An icy chill swept down her back as she descended the staircase, determined to find the duke’s kindly housekeeper, Mrs. O’Malley, or his butler, Blaine. Although the hour was early, the servants would already long since be awake, going about their days.
It was not a servant whose path she crossed first, however.
Past the drawing room, the doors to another chamber were open. Her steps faltered as her gaze settled upon the Duke of Northwich’s bare back. He was seated on the floor, hands gripping a pulley of sorts, which he used to leverage his body forward and then back into a supine position. Again and again, he repeated the motion, the muscles of his arms and shoulders on unashamed display.
She had never seen a man without his shirt aside from George, and her husband had not possessed Northwich’s lean strength. The duke’s back was sculpted and honed, his skin smooth. For a brief, foolish moment, she wondered what it would be like to run her hand up his spine. To feel the naked heat and power of him.
But then she banished the ridiculous urge.
This was the Duke of Northwich, she reminded herself. The scoundrel she had once believed herself in love with. The man who had used her and broken her heart. He had no conscience. And whilst he may have been kind to her last night, his hospitality did not render him any more trustworthy than he had been before. Nor did his masculine form ameliorate any of the pain he had inflicted upon her and others.
She ought to have announced her presence rather than watching him.
For some reason she refused to contemplate, she remained where she was, transfixed by the sight of him engaging in his exercise. He released the handles on his pulley, and they retracted into a mahogany base. With a quick, fluid motion, he rose to his feet and then began stretching.
Oh my.
If she had thought before that he had fulfilled the promise of manhood, she had been wrong. He had more than fulfilled that promise. He was as beautifully formed as a sculpture.
And he was looking at her, his head cocked in her direction, a mocking half smile curving his lips.
“Do you intend to watch me from the hall as I finish my morning exercises?” he asked.
Humiliation rushed through her, manifesting in a severe flush on her cheeks. “I was looking for Mrs. O’Malley,” she blurted, cursing herself for her foolishness.
Next, he would believe she had been standing in the hall admiring him.
Which she had been.
What was the matter with her?
The upheaval of the last few days had rotted her mind. There was no other answer.
Slowly, he spun about to face her completely, giving her an unobstructed view of his chest. “Judging from the last time I had a glance in the looking glass, I do not resemble that fine lady in the slightest.”
There was a teasing note in his voice, in the amused twist of his lips. He was mocking her. Making light of her discomfiture. Her cheeks went hotter still.
And her traitorous eyes, they could not help but to travel down his torso. To follow the bold lines of sinew and muscle. To admire the narrow hips, the long, well-muscled legs.
“Why are you not wearing a shirt?” The rude demand was torn from her before she could recall it.
He chuckled. “The hour is early, Lady Philippa. I did not expect anyone else to be about. Shall I dress for you?”
No. Yes. No.
He had her so much at sixes and sevens that she did not bother to correct him when he referred to her as Lady Philippa once more.
