Slender muscle flowed, his motion effortless, and whatever the man was accused of, she could do naught but admire such masculine splendour.
Even though that masculine splendour was rather…marred.
To his lower back was a long ridge of scar tissue; just above his hip lay a ragged circular wound; his left shoulder was flawed by the mess of a more recent injury; to the centre of his chest was another circular scab; below his ribs there looked to be a knife slash.
And Amelia realised that Mr Hugh Cadwalader’s elegance and convivial eyes hid a seriousness and vigour. This practice of strength and agility was not some affectation of aTongentleman but a dedication to his profession.
He was skilled and resolute. And that body was not marred but magnificent, used for a purpose.
And by the looks of it, he’d fought for that purpose many times.
And won.
That damn flare of flame lit within her as he twisted in balletic stance, arm slicing through the air, and never had she seen anything so formidable and yet so graceful, bare feet dancing a path, his thighs beneath those black breeches taut yet supple.
He was that statue in the corner made real.
Would such a dedicated man really turn traitor?
Amelia could not reconcile that his loyalty to the Crown would be swayed by some seductress, as he had ladies aplenty on his coat-tails, but perhaps…perhaps his extravagant lifestyle had left him with pockets to let?
Pivoting, he kicked out a heel at an invisible foe, the manoeuvre uncommon and somewhat barbaric – naught gentlemanly about it – and yet he made it beautiful.
He was beautiful.
Curse it.
Perhaps as a consequence of her profession, Amelia had never felt desire for a male of the species, viewed them as a distraction, but on occasion, late at night, when the wind blew cold and sleep failed to claim her, her wayward mind would wonder what kind of man would stir her? Would understand her?
Not insubstantial ones, like the men she’d known in her childhood and grown up around, or inured ones like many male colleagues became. But capable. Strong. Devoted.
Which existed not as–
“Do enter, Miss Jones.” Mr Cadwalader paused in his stance. Their eyes met in the mirror – direct and afire. “Or are you just going to stand there and watch?”
A gust of breath left her, and with it all her foolish musings.
“I have your tea,” Amelia muttered.
He grabbed a towel and dabbed at his face.
Amelia covertly eyed him from beneath her lashes as he then seized a shirt from a hook on the wall and brought it over his head, shrouding those muscled arms and toned stomach behind white linen.
She glared at the teapot.
It was most improper and shameless of him to be so lacking in attire before a governess – genuine or otherwise – and she wondered if the redoubtable Miss Appleton would have anything to say about the unseemliness of employers.
“I apologise for my state of undress. I would have donned a shirt before but…” He strode towards her and tilted his head. “I failed to hear your knock.”
“No matter,” she stated. “We governesses are a dauntless lot. All the…anatomy books we read.”
“Is that so?” He crooked a brow. “Well, I have a few more scars than you would see in an anatomy book as…” He leaned so near she could smell cinnamon cologne mingled with sultry male. The skin at his throat gleamed with exertion. “I have an unfortunate knack, Miss Jones, of impeding a jealous husband’s bullet or a lamenting widow’s letter knife.”
A convenient falsehood. The scars came from his profession, and she glanced up to meet blue eyes…not full of teasingmerriment, as she’d expected, but cold ice, watchful, and with something else she understood not but it burned to her core.
“I…” She licked dry lips. “If you have no further need of me, Sir, I must plan the day’s lessons.”
He took the tray from her hands and placed it on the low cupboard. “But of course I need you, Miss Jones. I sent for you as I have a few questions.”
