He knew it was irrational. Knew he needed to make his peace with it and learn to accept what he could not change no matter how much he willed it. Yet knowing that only served to make things worse. He needed air and space before he was in any fit state to see his sister. At least ten minutes before he could speak, let alone pretend everything in his new garden was rosy. Time to stop the blood rushing loudly in his ears and his heart clanging like a hammer against an anvil in his chest. Before the hovering butler could open it for him, he pulled the door open and plunged through it.
Chapter Seven
Nine circles of hell...
The first Max saw of Miss Nithercott was the startled whites of her eyes as she flew backwards and he only just managed to catch her before the force of his impact sent her tumbling down the unforgiving stone steps. Instinct kicked in and he used both his arms to drag her back to safety, winding himself in the process as she crashed back against him.
As she blinked up at him, he could see her hands curled tightly around his lapels to anchor herself. Just below that, God help him, was one of the most magnificent cleavages he had ever seen. Two perfect rounded mounds strained against the thin fabric and the solid wall of his ribs as her panicked breath sawed in and out. Perfect because they were neither too big nor too small. Encased in soft, peachy skin kissed by the sun. He could feel the press of them through the layers of his coat, waistcoat and shirt. In every nerve ending, too.
Not wanting to be caught staring, he pushed her brusquely to arm’s length and tried to gather his wits. Something which proved near impossible when the woman who had made him yearn in breeches suddenly made his body rampant in a dress.
An outrageously sinful, seductive and spellbinding dress.
One which he was suddenly overwhelmed with the need to peel away.
‘Oh, Miss Nithercott—are you injured?’ Eleanor’s shriek brought him back to his senses. She barrelled past and took control, stealing the new bane of his life cruelly from his arms to check.
‘No. Just a little stunned.’
‘Hardly a surprise when my big oaf of a brother nearly flattened you!’ She glared at him for good measure. ‘What were you thinking, Max?’
He hadn’t been thinking. Just escaping. ‘My apologies, Miss Nithercott. I had no idea you were there.’
‘No idea!’ His sister’s hand swatted his shoulder in disgust. ‘Did you not hear her knock? Did you not see Smithson about to open the door?’ Unimpressed, Eleanor took Effie’s arm and shepherded her towards the drawing room. ‘Fetch the poor thing a sherry, Max. Unless you would prefer a brandy Miss Nithercott? Or tea?’
‘Sherry would be lovely.’
Max stood rooted to the spot as they sailed past, trying and failing not to notice how the magnificent dress hugged her curves or how the glow from the lamps revealed the shadowy shape of her legs beneath the gauzy folds of her skirt, then slowly released the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.
That was certainly one way to take his mind off the panic.
Usually, when his emotions churned unexpectedly out of control it took a good fifteen minutes to talk himself down. Yet apparently, a brief collision with Miss Nithercott banished all traces of panic in a split second and replaced it with inappropriate lust. He wasn’t entirely sure which of his body’s reactions was worse. The panic left him fighting for breath and an armful of Miss Nithercott left him breathless.
‘Shall I tell the kitchen to postpone the soup for a few minutes while Miss Nithercott recovers, my lord?’ Smithson appeared at his elbow, carrying the bane’s tattered leather satchel aloft like a tray and the silliest, flimsiest shawl he had ever seen was sat on top of it. A garment so frivolous it was entirely incongruous with the bafflingly intelligent and academic woman who plainly owned it. Without thinking, he took it from the butler to feel the fabric and only just resisted the urge to bury his nose in it when a waft of lilac and rose floated up his nostrils to torture him some more.
‘Yes, Smithson. Apologise on my behalf and tell them it shouldn’t be too long.’ Or at least he hoped it wasn’t. Having her back in his house unnerved him. Although goodness only knew what had brought her back again this time. Miss Nithercott was falling woefully short of her promise to keep the hell out of his way and the more he saw her the more unnerved he became.
She was a peculiar combination and one he really did not understand at all. On the one hand she was an unbelievably learned scholar and as such had the single-minded, dogged and bookish characteristics of all the great minds he had ever encountered at the Admiralty or at the society balls and parties Eleanor insisted he attend each time he was home on leave. On the other, there was an undeniable and overt femininity about his new neighbour which contradicted the absent-minded professor aspects of her character. Then—and he would need a third hand for this one—she possessed a quiet, proud vulnerability which called to him. Max was entirely certain he never wanted to have to think about her, yet since the first moment he’d met her he had. Near constantly. Which rattled him.
‘Max?’ His sister’s impatient, clicking fingers wrenched his gaze from the shawl to the doorway. ‘Any chance you could pour that sherry before the week is over? Pleasetryto be a good host.’ And with that, she spun on her heel.
Host?
In the recesses of his mind he heard an alarm bell ringing andbecause he had a very uneasy feeling, took himself to the dining room. The table was set quite plainly for three.
‘Smithson!’
The butler scurried back from the kitchen and skidded to a wary halt. ‘Yes, my lord?’
‘Is Miss Nithercott joining us for dinner?’
‘She is, my lord.’
‘And when, pray tell, were you apprised of this fact.’
‘This afternoon, my lord. After Mrs Baxter returned from her ride.’
‘But before the tea she took with me at four?’
