“If you please,” she managed primly, folding her hands together at her waist as she averted her gaze to the floor. “It is most unseemly for you to be going about in a state of dishabille, particularly when I am your guest.”
“I do beg your pardon.” His footsteps traveled across the thick carpets. “I was merely carrying on with my daily routine. I had no notion you would be awake so early after the evening’s upset.”
Briefly, his feet wandered into the corner of her vision. He was barefoot! How barbarous of him. A duke, going about shirtless, sans stockings or shoes. And perspiring. She could not credit it. George never would have been so informal. Why, the number of times she had seen him without his nightshirt was probably less than a half dozen.
She cleared her throat, which seemed suddenly constricted, and kept her gaze upon the floor. “I could not sleep.”
“Was the chamber not to your liking?”
“It was lovely.”
The sound of rustling fabric suggested he was at last covering himself with the modesty of fabric.Thank heavens.
“Was the bed uncomfortable?”
Why did the wordbedaffect her so? Her ears were aflame by now. His deceptively smooth baritone did strange things to her. Unwanted things. Wicked things.
Shameful things.
This man is a scoundrel, she reminded herself. But then, just as quickly, another voice posed a far more salient question.What if he is not?
“I will not discuss something so intimate with you, sir,” she managed to croak.
“The furniture itself is hardly intimate, is it? And what of the question? As your host, I merely wished to know what kept you from sleep that I may rectify the matter for this evening.”
This evening?
Her gaze flew to his, which was a mistake. A dreadful one. His buttons were still partially undone, revealing a tempting vee of masculine flesh. “We will not be staying again this evening.”
“Of course you will.” He flashed her a calm smile, as if nothing were amiss.
As if she could and should trust him. As if she were safe here, beneath his roof, in the same chamber with him.Blast, when had she ventured across the threshold, entering the room that smelled of musky man and perspiration andNorthwich? She had not realized she had moved.
Yet, she had. She was mere feet from him, no longer in the relative safety of the hall.
“We cannot remain here,” she forced out cooly. “It is scandalous.”
“Why?” He shrugged, his long fingers still nimbly thrusting buttons into their moorings. “You are a widow with a small child. Your daughter’s nurse can act as chaperone.”
Did he have no concept of how damaging it would be for her to live openly with him? Society would assume the worst, as it always did.
“All London shall think me your mistress,” she snapped, hating herself for the emotions churning within her.
Revulsion was nowhere to be found. Anger, irritation, and hatred had disappeared as well. In their place was…interest. Longing. Hunger. An irrational desire to think better of him than she ought.
Muscles?Was that her weakness? Had this strange affliction overtaken her because she had seen a naked male torso of fine proportions?
“Hmm. We both know you would not suit me as my mistress, Mrs. Shaw.” He said the words so nonchalantly, in almost dismissive fashion.
But he had referred to her as her married name once more. What did it mean? Why did she care? Was it the latent potency of the wordmistress, uttered by him? But then, if his words at tea had been any indication, he already possessed a mistress. He had indicated another woman had been the reason for his morning preoccupation.That would have been the fault of a different lady entirely, he had said with such smooth, implacable calm.
Best to ignore the inexplicable pang in her heart. To ignore the taunt and the notion of his mistress altogether.
And yet…
“Why should I not suit?” she asked, even as she cursed her traitorous tongue.
“Are you volunteering yourself for the position?” He reached the last button, firmly setting it in place.
