He muttered something unintelligible, then a pair of bare feet appeared in her line of vision, followed by a large hand. “Come on then, up you go.”
“I’d rather not.” It was bad enough she’d thoroughly ogled him. She wasn’t going to touch him as well.
“It’s safe, madam. I’m decently covered now.”
Safe for whom? And was that a hint of amusement in his tone? Why, how dare he? There wasn’t anything amusing about naked gentlemen roaming the beach.
But she couldn’t lie here forever, so she clambered awkwardly to her feet, her wet hems dragging in the sand, and ventured a quick glance at him.
He was covered, but not decently so. He’d donned a banyan, but a significant portion of his bare upper chest was visible still, along with an intriguing spattering of crisp dark hair. His eyes were an unusual pale gray, and he had a hard, angular jaw and full, stern lips.
They stared at each other, neither of them saying a word, time spooling out between them, one of his dark eyebrows aloft, as if he didn’t know what to make of her.
He didn’t know what to make of her? For pity’s sake. At least she’d remembered to dress herself before she’d ventured outside this morning.
Why didn’t he say something? Better yet, why didn’t she go?
But neither of them moved. They stood there in the sand with the wind rushing over them and the waves crashing onto the shore, those gray eyes holding hers, something she couldn’t define swirling in their wintry depths.
Finally, he leaned down and swept up her shoe, which was lying in the sand.
“Here.” He held it out to her, the corners of his lips twitching. “I believe this is yours.”
If Hart had known he’d be treated to a beating during his sunrise swim, he would have made it a point to have his breakfast before he left home this morning.
As it turned out, he didn’t much care for a bludgeoning before he’d even had his coffee, but then again, he’d never been bludgeoned by a redheaded madwoman before, so at least it was something different.
The poor, daft chit was blinking up at him with a pair of startled green eyes as if he were an apparition and not a gentleman of flesh and blood.
Odd, considering how much of his flesh she’d seen.
Her cloak was askew, her skirts damp, and the wind had taken liberties with her hairpins. Wild auburn locks whipped about in the breeze, twisting around her face like a…a…nest of glorious snakes.
Or something like that. He’d never been much of a poet.
The point was, she was as lovely a lady as he’d ever seen despite her apparent madness, and one did have to give her credit. Any number of people in Brighton wanted to see him bludgeoned and drowned, but she’d come closer than any of them.
And with a parasol, no less.
“Are you hurt, madam?”
Nothing. She continued to stare at him, her lips parted and her eyes so wide they were in danger of tumbling out of her head.
Was she simple, as well as daft? “Madam? Can you hear me?”
She blinked again, then, “Of course I can hear you. How can I help it? You’re standing practically on top of me.”
Now it was his turn to blink. No one ever spoke to him like that—he was Armitage Hart, for God’s sake—but she was charming even when she was scolding, and a startled laugh escaped him. “Of course. How foolish of me.”
“Indeed. Perhaps you’ve got a head injury. You’re bleeding, just there.” She waved a hand at his head.
“Am I?” He pressed his fingers to his temple, and they came away dotted with blood. “Ah, so I am.”
“I’m afraid my parasol got away from me. I do beg your pardon.”
“Yes, so you said. I thought it was a particularly aggressive pink bird.”
She was engaged in a fruitless attempt to straighten her skirts, but she paused to eye him, her lips pinched into a disapproving line. “Oh? Do birds make a habit of attacking you, sir?”
