Authors: Heather Cullman
Oh — oh! But he had excellent shoulders …
Just like Lyndhurst.
And his chest! M-m-m, superb. So very broad and muscular …
Like Lyndhurst’s.
As for his lower torso … she couldn’t help smiling her approval of the god’s trim waist and taut, rippling belly. Perfect.
Precisely how she suspected Lyndhurst’s must be.
Then, there were those strong, sinewy thighs … why, Lydia would go into raptures over those thighs …
Like she always did when she viewed Lyndhurst’s.
Which brought her to his …
Once again, she stared at his intriguing masculinity. H-m-m. She’d never really considered what Lyndhurst might look like down there. Why would she? She’d never seen a man’s penis before, well, not in the flesh, thus she’d had no reason to take an interest in, much less speculate upon, the organ.
“Sophie? Is something amiss with the statue?”
Sophie wrenched her gaze from the god, beyond mortification. Oh, heavens! He’d caught her gawking. She swallowed hard, though her throat was as dry as burned toast. Question was, had he noticed what she gawked at?
She considered for a beat, then sighed. Of course he had. How could he not. Her scrutiny wasn’t what anyone would call discreet.
Or maidenly.
Or modest.
Or …
Suddenly desperate to flee, to hide from her humiliation and her shameful new interest in Lyndhurst’s body, she somehow managed to stammer, “S-strawberries. Her ladyship s-sent me for, ur, strawberries. I … um … mustn’t keep her w-waiting any longer.”
“Ah. Then, I take it that Mother is better this morning?” His voice was politely neutral as if nothing in the world were amiss.
H-m-m. Could it be that he hadn’t noticed her brazen perusal after all? Nervously biting the inside of her lip, Sophie sneaked a glance at his face.
If he had noticed, he certainly didn’t show it. Indeed, his expression was every bit as impassive as his voice. Deciding that he’d been too preoccupied with his daisies to note her faux pas, she smiled her relief and replied, “It appears so. She has expressed a strong craving for strawberries in clotted cream.”
He laughed. The sight of his strong white teeth flanked by those engaging dimples stirred the oddest sensation within her, rather like that she’d experienced when Julian kissed her.
Only better.
Oh, heavens!
“If Mother is demanding strawberries and clotted cream, she is most definitely on the mend. We shall know for certain when she requests a pot of chocolate with cinnamon for breakfast.”
Bedeviled almost beyond speech by a queer tingling in her belly, Sophie uncomfortably shifted her weight from one foot to the other, praying that her voice remained steady as she replied, “In that instance, you shall be glad to hear that she not only requested the chocolate, she drank the whole pot. She also ate an egg, half a trout, and two slices of toast with jam and butter.”
He laughed again.
The sensation quickened.
Oh, my!”
Still smiling, he pulled a rag from the bucket of gardening tools by his side and wiped his hands. “Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised to hear of her improvement. I felt quite certain that you’d have a curative effect on her.” Curative effect? Sophie gaped at him, stunned by the meaning behind his words. “Are you saying that it is you who had me assigned to assist Miss Stewart?”
He nodded and tossed the rag aside. “With my mother’s permission, of course.”
“B-but why?” She continued to stare at his face as he rose, her head tipping back as he reached the uppermost inches of his towering height. “After the terrible disaster with Miss Mayhew’s gown, I’m surprised that you would allow me anywhere near your mother, especially in her fragile state of health.”
He grinned as if she’d said something immensely amusing. “Your intentions were good. My mother agreed with me on that point. We also agreed that it would be far safer for all concerned if your duties were limited to those more suited to your ladylike skills. Since Miss Stewart has been in need of an assistant for some time now, well — ” he shrugged ” — welcome to life upstairs, Miss Barton.”
Beyond bafflement now, she opened her mouth to again ask him why. Why he’d granted her mercy in the matter of Miss Mayhew? Why he had taken her part when presenting her case to his mother? Most importantly, why he’d delivered her from her drudgery? None of his actions made a whit of sense. Not when his sole reason for keeping her at Hawksbury was to shame and humble her.
Before she could form the words, however, he began to stretch. The unconscious grace of his motions drew her attention to his body, which in turn diverted her mind from her questions to his apparel. To say that she liked the way he looked in his work clothes would be a sweeping understatement.
Exercising the discretion she’d failed to practice on the statue, Sophie made a show of securing her bonnet, all the while admiring his appearance.
Magnificent. That was the word for him. She must have been all about in the head to have ever thought him otherwise. True, he was taller than most men she knew. And yes, more muscular. But rather than detract from his appeal, his size served only to make him all the more alluring … all the more earthy and masculine … especially dressed as he was.
A tingle of excitement rippled through her as she covertly studied his apparel. Though he wore the clothing of a common laborer: a rough shirt of indeterminate color, coarse yet snug brown breeches, thick black stockings and muddy clogs, there was nothing the least bit common about his appearance. Indeed, he looked every bit as lordly now as he did standing amid the crush of the ton bedecked in formal finery.
Only there was much more of his lordliness displayed by his current attire, and she was definitely enjoying the superior view. Why, she’d never even seen him without his coat or waistcoat, much less stripped of both with his shirt open and his chest exposed.
The sight of his chest, so tan and sculpted to a perfection that put the statue to shame, made her shiver despite the fact that she felt warm enough to wilt.
“Sophie?”
“H-m-m?” She more purred than uttered the response.
“I asked if you would like me to assist you with the strawberries?”
“Strawberries?” she echoed absently, wondering how his chest hair would feel should she rub her cheek against it. Would it tickle her with its crispness? Or caress her with its silkiness? She had just decided that it would most probably tickle, when he reached out and laid his hand against her cheek. Without thinking, she nuzzled against it, closing her eyes in her contentment.
“Sophie?”
“M-m-m?”
“You’re not about to faint are you?”
“Um … hm-m what?” Oh, but she liked the feel of his hand, so big and strong and lightly callused.
“I asked if you felt faint from the sun?”
“Uh … no. Why?”
“Because your face is flushed, and you’re breathing rather hard.” His hand moved from her cheek to her forehead. “You feel a bit warm, too.”
Flushed? Warm? Whatever was he going on about? It wasn’t until she opened her eyes and saw his frown that her senses returned and she understood.
Talk about feeling warm! Her face felt on fire when she realized what she’d done. Why… why, she’d behaved like a lovelorn dollymop the way she’d cooed and sighed, and practically thrown herself at him. Oh! Oh! What he must think of her!
What Nicholas thought was that he had to get her out of the sun and fast, a thought that firmed to resolution as her color deepened to an even more alarming shade of crimson. Feeling helpless, as he always did when faced with female frailty, he looked around for help.
Of course there was no one near. There never was when he worked in the garden. It was an unspoken rule, one passed down through the generations of Hawksbury gardeners: never disturb a Somerville while he communed with nature. Apparently a few of his ancestors had taken violent exception to being interrupted.
Frantic now, he glanced at the manor, mentally gauging the distance. Then he looked back at Sophie’s face, which, if such a thing were possible, was even redder, and calculated her chances of reaching it before swooning.
Were she a racehorse, he’d have given her twenty to one odds … a risky gamble by any standards, and not one he was willing to take. Not in this instance. If she fainted before reaching the house, he’d have to carry her the remainder of the way. Well, unless she turned purple and stopped breathing, then he’d be forced to tend to her where she dropped.
Just the thought of opening her gown and loosening her stays was enough to make him grab her arm and pull her toward the nearest source of shade: the forcing houses. Oh, it wasn’t that he found the prospect of undressing her unpleasant, quite the contrary. The notion of holding the luscious Miss Barrington in his arms and discovering if what lay beneath all that muslin was as fine as he suspected —
Stop it! Stop mooning this instant, you fool! he chided himself. Just because the chit is being agreeable doesn’t mean that things have changed. She’s still the same traitorous baggage who betrayed you in London. If you’re wise, you’ll view her improvement with caution and question the motive for her sudden congeniality.
Problem was, he’d never been wise when it came to Miss Barrington. It now appeared that he never would be. For while he truly longed to despise her, and heaven only knew she deserved his contempt, he found it impossible to hate her when she behaved as she did now. Indeed, so disarmed was he by her flustered charm and stammering humility, that he felt powerfully compelled to forgive her her every transgression …
Which was exactly how he’d felt on Sunday when she’d chased after the Mayhews and confessed her guilt in the gown disaster. She’d been so contrite, so genuinely concerned for Miss Mayhew that he’d been moved to take her part when his father reported the catastrophe to his mother. It was during that same lapse in his wrath that he’d pointed out her ineptitude for household chores and had suggested that she be given work more suited to her talents. Hence, she now assisted Miss Stewart.
“My lord! Please! I can’t run anymore. I —
huff! gasp
! — have a stitch in my side.”
Nicholas stopped, frowning, as she yanked her arm from his grip and clutched at her side. “What?”
“I said I can’t run anymore,” she puffed out.
Run? He blinked several times, trying to orientate himself to his surroundings. When he did, he saw that they stood but a few yards from the forcing house stairs. Good Lord! They must have indeed been running, and exceeding fast at that, to have covered so much ground in such a brief time. Why, in her current weakened condition, it was nothing short of a miracle that Sophie hadn’t toppled into a swoon two grottos and a knot garden ago.
The knowledge that he, a man who prided himself on his gallantry, had forced an ailing woman to dash, made Nicholas feel like the world’s worst cad. Deeply shamed by his thoughtlessness, he murmured, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you run. Truly, I didn’t. I forgot myself in my rush to get you out of the sun.”
She continued to massage her side, eyeing him as if he’d lost his mind. “But why? Whatever made you so eager to get me out of the sun? I said I felt fine.”
“Yes, but you didn’t look fine,” he pointed out, skeptically. “Indeed, I can’t recall ever seeing you breathe so hard or turn such a distressing shade of red.”
“Oh. That.” The hue in question flooded her face again. “I — I’m sorry I alarmed you. I was flushed and a bit agitated in my — uh — eagerness to fetch her ladyship her strawberries. It’s almost teatime, you know, and I didn’t want her to suffer the disappointment of having her tray arrive without them.”
The logic of her explanation — not to mention the delightful earnestness with which it was uttered — instantly dissolved the last of his reservations.
“I truly am sorry for alarming you,” she repeated, gazing at him solemnly.
He smiled down at her upturned face. “I’ll tell you what, Sophie. You forgive me for making you run, and I shall forgive you for alarming me.”
She returned his gaze gravely for several beats, as if considering his proposal. Then she laughed, a lilting, mirthful sound that was quite unlike the forced giggle with which she’d responded to his humor in the past. “All right, my lord. Done. But only if you direct me to the Francesca’s Delight strawberries.”
He chuckled and sketched a bow, suddenly feeling more lighthearted than he’d felt in many a year. “Your servant, madam,” he murmured, presenting his arm with a courtly flourish.
She took it, grinning like an imp. “Speaking of servants, my lord, there is one more condition to winning my forgiveness.”
“Which is?” he quizzed, more enchanted by her grin than by all her tonnishly correct simpers combined.
“You must promise not to think the worst of me for shouting at you earlier. It is the way of the servants to shout at one another to draw each other’s attention. Since I am now a servant and I mistook you for a gardener, well — “
“There is no need to apologize or to explain,” he interjected, surprised and yes, touched, that she cared for his opinion of her. “I’m perfectly aware of the servants penchant for shouting.”