She charged after it, but it was no use. It skidded over the sand as merry as you please, buoyed by the wind, and she was hampered by the damp sand under her half boots and the wind whipping her skirts around her legs.
“Oh!” She stumbled and fell to her knees as the parasol flitted away like some great pink bird, the silk fringe dancing wildly as it skipped down the beach, heading toward the seawall in the distance.
If she ran, she might yet be able to catch it before the sea took it.
She fought with her damp, sandy skirts until at last she managed to lurch to her feet and chase after it, but it was far ahead of her now, skipping and leaping like a frolicking child, but she kept after it until she’d gone so far the lone figures she’d noticed in the distance transformed from faceless blobs into actual people.
“Oh, do take care!” Dash it, the dratted thing was headed directly for a tall gentleman standing on top of the seawall, his dark hair whipping in the wind.
“Sir, sir! Runaway parasol!”
But the wind snatched her voice and sent it whirling into the air, and as for her parasol, it was almost as if it had a vendetta against the man. It sailed towards him like a moth to a very tall, sturdy flame, but he was facing the water and didn’t realize his danger.
Dear God, this was a disaster! He was seconds away from a most brutal sartorial assault. If it should hit him in the head and he should fall into the water he’d almost certainly drown, and then she’d be taken up for murdering a man with her parasol.
“Sir! Wayward parasol! Sir, please do take— Oh!”
She broke off with a choked gasp, the words dying on her tongue. He was… No, surely not. It was impossible! The wind must have addled her brains, because from this distance it looked as if he was…in a state of dishabille?
No, that wasn’t it. He wasn’t partially clothed at all.
He was unclothed. Entirely, utterly and shamelessly unclothed. There wasn’t a single stitch of cloth anywhere to be seen on the man, and he was standing atop the seawall for all the world to see, like a king overlooking his subjects.
Why, the man was as naked as the day he was born!
She forgot her parasol entirely, and quite forgot herself as well, because despite the shocking impropriety of the thing, she couldn’t quite tear her gaze away from him.
Naked, on a public beach in Brighton! Dear God, what a scandal! What did the man mean, romping about outdoors without a stitch of clothing on, where anyone might stumble upon him? More to the point, how was a lady meant to behave when she encountered a naked gentleman? Where was she meant to look?
Not at him, that much was certain.
She jerked her gaze away from him as any lady of proper virtuous restraint would do. Never mind if she was peeking at him from under her lashes. Who could blame her? Surely a lady could be forgiven for peeking under such shocking circumstances.
Prolonged, sustained viewing, however… Well, that was quite another matter, but if she was ogling him as if he were a Greek statue at the British Museum, no one had to know, did they?
To be fair, he did resemble a Greek statue. Apollo, perhaps, or Poseidon.
If he did get concussed and drown, it would be his own fault for striking her speechless. If he’d been a trifle less naked and been a trifle less like Poseidon she might have held onto her wits and shouted another warning in time to save him.
But in the next instant, it was too late.
“Bloody hell!”
The parasol swooped down upon him like a homicidal pelican diving for a fish. The wooden handle struck him in the temple with enough force he should have been knocked clean off his feet and tumbled into the sea, but he—rather impressively, really—managed to keep his balance with a nimble leap to the left.
My, he was a remarkably robust sort of gentleman. One might even say vigorous, with his muscular chest, the water streaming down his lean flanks to a pair of long, well-turned legs. Every inch of his bare skin was on display, from his broad shoulders to the taut, firm globes of his…er, his?—
“What the devil just hit me?”
“I beg your pardon, sir!” She slapped her hand over her eyes and lurched forward a step, her half boot flying off her foot as she went, any pretense at gracefulness vanishing as she fell to a sprawling heap on the sand. “The wind blew my parasol away, and?—”
“Your parasol! Are you quite sure that’s all it was?”
“Yes. I’m terribly sorry.” She mustn’t look up! Whatever else she did, she mustn’t venture so much as a glance. Goodness, this was dreadfully awkward.
“A proper bludgeoning, for a parasol.” There was a shuffle of footsteps, then a thud like a pair of feet hitting the sand, followed by a rustle of clothing. “Are you quite sure you didn’t throw a brick at me?”
She bristled at the accusation. “Of course I’m sure. Why would I throw a brick at a stranger? Where would I even get a brick?”
