Dominic’s raised eyebrow furrowed into a deep frown. “Whatever for? It is not cold. You have your pelisse.”
“For your daughter’s lesson,” Frances said, holding out her hand. “It cannot continue until you give me your tailcoat. Do not worry, I shall return it once the lesson is over.”
It was a fine garment of dark green, though plain by London’s standards. It became him well, highlighting his broad chest and wide shoulders, accentuating a narrower waist that gave him the appearance of a tremendous athlete, his posture excellent… if a littletoorigid. Although, that might have been a result of the request rather than the garment.
“And I am to stand out here in naught but a waistcoat?” he asked in a low voice.
Frances shrugged. “You wore no waistcoat on the evening I met you, and there is no one here who would gossip of the impropriety. Who would we tell? Each other?” She wiggled her hand insistently. “Off with it, Your Grace, so we may continue.”
She would not normally have been so brazen, but she did not want him to repeat this observation of her teaching. As such, she hoped to embarrass him into returning to the manor.
He narrowed his blue eyes at her until she could not see the freckle in his iris anymore. Evidently, he thought he was part of some trick or amusement, and perhaps there was some element of revenge to be had, but Frances just kept staring at him, waiting expectantly.
“What is going on?” Harriet called out.
“I am just waiting for your father to provide the costume,” Frances answered. “Then, we can begin.”
Harriet sat back against the bench and huffed out a breath. “Hurry up, Papa!”
Out of the corner of her eye, Frances noticed Catherine quietly correct the young lady’s posture, no doubt whispering a reminder that society women did not cross their legs but crossed their ankles behind one another. A moment later, she showed Harriet what she meant.
Harriet gently smacked herself in the forehead and sat up straighter, tucking her ankles demurely, before saying something that looked like ‘thank you’ to Catherine. In an instant, the lady’s maid brightened, the two women falling back into conversation.
“Your tailcoat, if you please,” Frances asked again.
Expelling a strained breath that sounded rather like a mutter of displeasure, Dominic slowly began to unbutton his tailcoat. “If you needed a costume, you should have said before we came outside.”
“Ah, but this way, your daughter can see that you are involved in her education,” Frances replied. “And as you were so insistent on joining the lesson, I assumed youdidwish to be involved.”
She did not like to be watched and judged and assessed. If she had wanted more of that, she would have stayed in London to face the merciless opinion of theton. Although she could not tell Dominic outright that she did not care for his observations, and he clearly had no intention of returning to the manor, she could at least gain some satisfaction from forcing him into her lessons in one way or another.
However, as he unbuttoned, she found herself less occupied with mediocre revenge and altogether more invested in what he was doing, what each popped button revealed. She could not concentrate on anything else, almost forgetting why it was that she had asked for his tailcoat in the first place.
How does a man become so… muscular? I have never seen a gentleman of thetonwith such… a majestic physique. Would those arms be hard, like stone, or… softer if they were to hold a lady?In an embrace, would a lady feel as if she were being crushed, or more protected than she ever had in her life?
A feverish warmth tingled along her skin as he undid the last button, those sculpted muscles proving they were not merely for show as he twisted to pull the sleeves from his immense arms. She could picture him in the fields, lifting haybales with ease, or with an axe in hand, chopping wood as if it were butter, or bringing an escaped sheep back to the safety of the barn, hoisted on his shoulders.
But, as he draped the tailcoat on his forefingers and held it out to her, her gaze taking in his fine waistcoat and clean shirt and loose cravat, she could just as easily imagine him at a ball, standing out among the wretched likes of Lord Sherbourne. A titan, among puny weasels with bad manners and terrible entitlement.
Oh, how that awful man would cower if I were to step into a ball besidethisman…
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Well?” Dominic prompted, frowning.
Frances snapped out of her blush-inducing daydream and swiped the tailcoat from his hand with a murmur of thanks.
Of course, there was one distinct problem with her choice of costume, that only became clear to her as she pulled on the tailcoat. It swamped her, the tails practically hitting her ankles, the front part so long it went past her hips, the sleeves hanging a great distance from her hands.
No matter.She adjusted the collar.Goodness, it smells good.
A warming, masculine scent of woodsmoke and something spicy, like amber or sandalwood or bergamot. It enveloped her as much as the tailcoat itself, distracting her for a moment.
Concentrate!
With all the confidence she could muster, she promptly rolled the sleeves up, buttoned the garment, and turned to face Harriet and Catherine. The women were staring at her as if she had taken leave of her senses, and Frances could not say for certain that she had not.
Nevertheless, she pulled her shoulders back, raised her chin, puffed her chest, and sauntered toward the bench like every eligible bachelor she had ever encountered. Imbued with a sense of privilege and appeal, walking tall—no matter their height—thanks to the bolstering fortune and title and station that made them so marriageable.
