She stepped carefully across the room, picked up her work, then checked the marquess again. The cloak was fur side up, which could be why the planes of his face looked so strong in the firelight. The line of his dark lashes seemed almost too delicate for that setting, like the sweep of a skillful Chinese brush.
His hair was loose, and one long tendril lay along his jaw, close to his slightly parted lips. Her hand moved as if to clear it, though she went no closer. Deep, earthy longings stirred between her thighs.
She’d retained both virtue and virginity, but her body had learned passion. She’d been engaged to marry, and had allowed Walsingham some license.
They’d been in the Mediterranean at the time. In summer. Burning days and long sultry nights—a combination that always seemed perilous to English propriety, perhaps because common sense dictated the lightest possible clothing.
But this man was covered by layers of cloth, so she could see only hair and the elegant bones of his face. How could they have such a potent effect?
When his lashes flickered, she was caught staring.
A pistol appeared in his hand, pointed at her.
Genova stepped back, caught her slipper on something, and sat on the floor with a thump.
They sat there for a heartbeat, staring at one another.
Then he shook himself and put the pistol down, uncocking it.
He’dcockedit?
Had she been a hair’s breadth from death?
He pushed tumbling hair off his face, sparks flashing from his emerald ring and gold earring. “I’m sorry if I alarmed you, Miss Smith. You require something?”
His nightshirt gaped open in a vee down his chest. Any woman who spends time on board ship sees men’s naked torsos. Most are not constructed in heroic style, but she knows a fine one when she sees it.
Genova moistened her mouth. “No, my lord. Except my needlework, that is.” She waved it as feeble excuse.
“Isn’t the light poor for stitchery?”
Perhaps it was the cloak that stole her wits. His admirable torso rose from fire-gilded fur like some sea-god from the foam.
She was running mad! She could weep, however, to be in her plain, practical nightclothes, her hair in a dull plait.
She was in hernightclothes!
What must he be thinking?
She scrambled to her feet, almost falling again as her slippers tangled with her robe. She grabbed a chair back for balance.
“What is that?”
“What?” Dazed, she followed his eyes and saw the hoop and cloth in her hand. She grasped the answer as if it could explain everything. “My needlework.”
“Yes, but what is it? I was admiring it last night, but it’s not a handkerchief. All that gold thread in the middle would scrape a nose raw.”
He was sitting there, one knee raised, an arm resting on it, as if talking to a night-clad lady in his bedroom was nothing.
What had she expected?
He was a rake.
“It’s the cloth for beneath apresepe, my lord. Apresepeis a Nativity scene. The gold represents straw.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Ah, yes. I saw such in Italy.”
They might have met in Italy?
