Before she had a chance to protest, Mr. Forester ripped off his flannel shirt and proceeded to put on the other. Sarah gasped. She was studying his chest in the firelight. Her throat worked as she swallowed. She quickly spun on her heel, facing the opposite direction.
“I beg your pardon,” Mr. Forester said. “I didn’t think—”
“It’s quite all right,” she called over her shoulder. “Just let me know when you’re decently… I mean properly… I mean—”
“I have a shirt on,” he announced, putting Sarah out of her misery.
Despite his assurance of being properly dressed, she decided to count to ten first, to be safe. The entire time she was counting, she remembered the look of his skin in the firelight. His flat abdomen. His rippled muscles. Her mouth went dry. The man obviously did something for sport.
When she finally did turn around, his shirt was on as promised and he had an untied cravat hanging over his neck. She examined the shirt. “It’s a bit wrinkled, but it’s a fine cut. Where do you have your shirts made?”
“Not at Martin’s,” he admitted with a guilty grin.
She nodded toward the cravat. “What is your favorite knot?”
“I’m supposed to have a favorite knot?”
She shook her head and tried to squelch her smile. “Show me how you tie it, then.”
He tied it quickly in a modest, imperfect knot.
“This is how you wear it, to a ball, in London?” she asked, her hands on her hips.
“Yes, is there something wrong?”
“Well, it’s a bit… simple, isn’t it?”
“I like simple.”
“May I?” She nodded toward the cravat again.
“By all means,” he replied.
She moved closer to him. He smelled like freshly cut wood. When she reached his chest, she looked up into his blue eyes. They were twinkling with mirth. “Do you find this amusing?” she asked.
“A little. I’ve never worried much about my clothing before.”
“I’m trying to help you, as you requested.” She’d never noticed before how very good freshly cut wood smelled. It was positively distracting. She swallowed hard.
“Yes.” He nodded, pressing his lips together to keep from smiling. “Of course. I’m willing to do whatever you recommend.”
She arched a brow at him and reached up to untie the knot he’d created. Why were her hands trembling ever so slightly? “I’ll show you one of my favorite knots.”
“You are an expert at tying cravats?” he asked.
“I’ve helped Hart more times than I can count.”
“Instead of his valet?”
This time she steadfastly tried to ignore Mr. Forester’s scent. She was certain she would never be able to smell freshly cut wood again without remembering him. Without remembering him shirtless, that is. Another swallow. She also tried to ignore the fact that her hand had brushed against his short beard, sending a trail of shock down her arm. She concentrated on keeping her fingers steady. “Hart’s valet drinks.” She shook her head. “Half the time the poor man is passed out in the silver closet.”
“What? Why doesn’t your brother sack the man?”
“Hart’s too kindhearted. Father threatens to sack him on nearly a daily basis, but Hart won’t hear of it. He’s extremely loyal, my brother. Perhaps to a fault at times.”
“Funny,” Mr. Forester said, his eyes fixed above her head. “My father used to say the same thing about me.”
“It’s not a bad trait.” She kept her eyes trained on the cravat she was tying.
