Saints above, there was amanin this hazy, heated enclosure. And not justanyman. Her eyes widened as she took in the sight before her—tall and muscular with shoulders broad enough to hold up an entire house. His green gaze pierced through her as a lazy smile curled up on his lips.
“Do you like what you see?” he said with a smug smile, crossing his arms over his impossibly broad chest.
Impossibly insufferable, too, she realized as she felt the warmth creep up to her cheeks.
“You… you, sir, are a cad!” she hissed furiously at him. “Appearing before a lady in such a state of undress, what were you thinking?”
A dark eyebrow slowly rose, and her heart pounded even harder against her ribcage. Heaven help her, but she had never met a man who was the very picture of masculine beauty, and the worst part of it all?
He seemed very,veryaware of that particular fact.
No, the worst part was that she was dressed in one of her dowdier gowns, one that had gone out of fashion two Seasons ago. It was a travesty of vast proportions. Embarrassingly so.
“I was thinking that it is far more unusual for a woman to suddenly burst into a gentleman’s bathhouse,” he drawled. “And an extremely exclusive and private one at that.”
Horrified, Juliana quickly whirled, turning away from the hazy vision before her. She could feel her heart thudding against the package held to her chest. A strange sensation unfurled low in her belly as her breath came out in a soft gasp.
It must be the heat. And the steam. Yes, those were the things that were clouding her wits and not the strange, perfect man standing just behind her.
“I… I thought this was a tea room,” she murmured, hating the way her voice came out in a plaintive squeak. “They called it theTurkish Rooms, for heaven’s sake!”
How was she to know that it was a room of an entirely different nature?
Juliana closed her eyes in mortification. She was going to murder Kit when she returned, sole heir to the House ofHawthorne or not!
“And what reason have you to visit the Turkish Rooms, then?”
“I was only ever supposed to deliver this parcel to a Mr. Anderson,” she muttered. “This errand has proven to be more trouble than it is worth.”
“Mr. Anderson?”
Juliana clutched the parcel to her chest, blinking back the tears of frustration that had begun to sting her eyes. “Do you know him?”
“The question is why a young woman such as yourself should have dealings with such a man,” he growled. “What is your name, madam?”
“Oh… I am not married. Yet,” she added quickly, embarrassment making her cheeks hot once more. After two failed Seasons, Juliana had thought that she was well past the usual discomfiture that came with that particular fact. “My name is Juliana Hawthorne.”
“Hawthorne.” Her name came out in a scoff. “You would not happen to be related to Christopher Hawthorne, would you?”
“Do you know Kit? I am his sister.”
“I should have known,” he growled from behind her. “You Hawthornes have a penchant for getting into all sorts of trouble.”
Indignation flooded Juliana. “What is that supposed to mean?” she demanded. “You do not know our family!”
She should hope not. The House of Hawthorne no longer held the same prestige as it did a generation or two prior. How elsewould the head of the household stoop to sending his sister out on these foolish and dangerous errands?
“Oh, I do know your precious family—more than you can imagine.”
Juliana heard a faint rustle behind her as she whirled angrily around once more. To her disappointment, he had already donned the robe, but she could still see the triangle of golden skin on his chest peeking through. His lips quirked into that amused, knowing smile that she had learned to despise, and that same feeling wound tighter in her lower belly. Her chest, too, felt rather constricted even by her worn stays.
“Why, Miss Hawthorne,” he smirked at her. “I do believe that you are enjoying the view more than you would care to admit. If you desire it, you can join me. I have reserved the entire bathhouse for the rest of the afternoon. I assure you we will not be disturbed…”
His voice wound around her like a potent spell. A spoken snare that he employed with lethal precision on unsuspecting young women who stumbled upon his infernal baths.
She felt his fingers wrap around her wrist and noted the way his brows furrowed when he looked down at the worn gloves she had hastily pulled on before she left the townhouse. Of all the times she failed to care for her appearance, it had to be today.
“If you have a penchant for collecting ladies’ gloves, then go get your own as I have none to spare,” she snapped at him, drawing her hand—and her embarrassing glove—back.
