Jacquie D'Alessandro - [Regency Historical 04] (13 page)

She sent him an arch look. “You needn’t sound so surprised.”

“Actually, I am.”

“Why, thank you. I can’t recall ever hearing a more delightful compliment. Truly.”

“I meant it as one. B.C. is normally more reserved with strangers.”

“Perhaps because strangers tend to be reserved with him? His size
is
intimidating, you know.”

“I suppose so. You realize that he’ll now want you to rub him like that every time he sees you. In fact, I’d wager that he’d give you a fortnight to stop it.”

“A fortnight?” She smiled. “And then what?”

“Oh, then he’d get very nasty and probably smother you with wet dog kisses.” He halted next to the sofa, then reached down to pat B.C.’s back. “You like all this attention, boy?”

B.C. barked. “That means yes,” Nathan translated. His glance slid over her, and warmth that had nothing to do with her vigorous rubbing of the dog crept up her neck. “You changed your clothes. Fixed your hair.”

“I thought it best. Otherwise B.C. might have been tempted to bury me in the garden. As it was, I think my hideous hair situation scared five years from your footman’s life.”

“Not at all. Everyone looks like that after a windy day on the beach.”

She refrained from pointing out that
he
hadn’t looked hideous. On the contrary, he’d looked utterly masculine and devastatingly attractive. Like a tall, ruggedly handsome pirate, his dark hair windblown from the sea air. She
noted that he’d changed his clothes as well, donning a fresh linen shirt and midnight blue breeches. He’d again forgone a cravat, and her gaze settled on the golden tanned column of his throat. He was completely out of fashion—indeed, some circles would label his attire as scandalous. But even so, she couldn’t deny that she very much liked that tantalizing glimpse of his skin.

“Your hair wasn’t hideous, by the way.”

His voice jerked her from her rapt contemplation of his throat and her gaze flew upward to see him studying her hair. Warmth rushed through her and a shaky laugh pushed from between her lips. “You’re right. Horrifying is probably a more apt description.”

He shook his head. “No. That’s not the word I would use at all.”

She drew in an exaggerated breath. “All right, I’ve braced myself. What word
would
you use?”

His gaze met hers. “Exquisite.”

That single softly spoken word stunned her. Before she could even think of a reply, he gave B.C. a final firm pat then rose. Striding toward the desk, he said, “I’ve set out vellum, a pen, and ink for you.”

“Th-Thank you,” she said, keeping her attention on the dog while she struggled to regain her balance, which Nathan had so effectively shifted. “And thank you for the meal you had sent to my bedchamber.”

“Did you enjoy the stew?”

“It was delicious. I gobbled it down with embarrassing gusto.”

“There’s no need to be embarrassed with me, Victoria. Ever.”

Those huskily spoken words jerked up her gaze and
their eyes met. “The sea and salt air tend to increase one’s hunger,” he said. “Personally, I admire a woman who isn’t afraid to indulge her appetite.”

Victoria suddenly wasn’t so certain they were still discussing meals. And no doubt in two days’ time she would think up some witty response. Now, however, her mind remained stubbornly blank.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that you remember much of the letter?”

Letter?
She blinked and recalled herself, clearing her throat. “Actually, since I studied it at length, I believe I’ll be able to reproduce it quite accurately.”

“Excellent. Shall we get started?”

“Of course.” After a final scratch to her new friend, Victoria rose and crossed to the desk. B.C., she noted with a smile, trotted along at her heels.

“I’ve never seen such a large desk,” she said, running her fingers over the smooth walnut surface and the polished brass fittings adorning the edge. “It actually looks like two desks joined at the front.”

“That’s precisely what it is. It’s called a partners desk and is for two people so they can work while facing each other. It’s very convenient for my father when he’s going over accounts with his steward.” He pulled out a maroon leather chair. Victoria sat and murmured her thanks as he pushed in the chair for her, all the while keenly aware of his nearness. With his one hand resting on the back of the chair and his other on the leather arm, she felt surrounded by him. She turned her head, intending to indicate she was quite well settled, and found herself staring directly at the front of his breeches, which were no more than a foot away.

Oh, my
. She stared, transfixed, her avid gaze riveted on his muscular thighs and his…

Oh, my my my
.

Heat whooshed through Victoria as if her gown had been set afire, and her imagination flamed out of control. Even though the
Guide
had described in detail that which his breeches covered, she still couldn’t quite fully picture it in her mind. And here, literally right before her very eyes, was what clearly appeared to be a perfect specimen. If only his blasted breeches didn’t thwart her view—

“Are you ready, Victoria?”

She snapped her chin up and found him watching her with a speculative look—one that left little doubt that he was fully aware she’d been ogling his…that which his breeches covered. More heat, this time from mortification, rushed into her face. “Ready?” she repeated, horrified that her voice came out in weak squeak.

“To replicate my note…unless there’s some other activity in which you’d prefer to engage?”

His tone was innocence itself, but his eyes glittered in a way that flared a scorching blush all the way to the soles of her feet.

“Replicate. Note. Right.” She grabbed the quill pen as if it were a lifeline tossed to a drowning victim and bent her head over the vellum.

He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh disguised as a cough, and she pressed her lips together to stem the tide of nervous babble that rose in her throat. Good lord, this would never do. What on earth was wrong with her? She felt as if she teetered on a slippery ledge and was about to lose her balance and plunge over the edge. Never before had she felt so utterly lacking in poise. Since
she didn’t have any problem talking to other gentlemen, clearly this unusual behavior was all
his
fault. Well, the sooner she completed the task before her, the sooner she could depart his unsettling company.

Yet as soon as the idea entered her mind, she realized that the thought of departing his company did not in any way settle her. Rather, the prospect left her…forlorn. Good lord, she’d taken leave of her senses. She dared not voice these concerns out loud lest she be relegated to Bedlam.

Peeking up from beneath her lashes, she saw him sit in a leather chair identical to her own on the opposite side of the desk. Four feet of polished walnut separated them, certainly enough of a buffer, yet she was painfully aware that she had only to reach out to touch his hands.

His hands…for a woman who had never before taken particular notice of any man’s hands, she suddenly found herself fascinated by his. Large and long-fingered, they looked capable, steady, and strong. The perfect hands, she imagined, for a doctor. The sun had tanned his skin, yet lightened the dusting of hair to a tawny gold. Although she couldn’t see his palms, she knew they bore the calluses of physical labor, something she shouldn’t have found appealing, yet did. Despite their size and strength, she knew his hands could be gentle…magically so, as he’d proven when he slowly sifted his fingers through her hair. Brushed his fingertips over her lips. Yet they could also be demanding…thrillingly so, as he’d demonstrated when he held her tight against him. Explored her curves and—

Good heavens, her thoughts had once again run amok. Yanking her attention back to the blank ivory vellum, she dipped the pen tip in the well of indigo ink and forced herself to concentrate on the letter she’d studied so thor
oughly last night. The salutation rose in her mind:
To my very good friend Nathan
…and she set to work. She paused occasionally, closing her eyes to summon an image of the letter when a word proved elusive. Nathan, she noted, busily scratched his pen across his own vellum.

Nathan paused in writing his letter to Victoria’s father to consider his next sentence. All thoughts of words, however, fled his mind when he looked across the desk at Victoria. Her eyes were closed, a frown puckered between her brows. His gaze was drawn to the way she worried her full bottom lip between her teeth, and instantly he recalled the bewitching feel of that plump mouth beneath his. When her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips, he found himself mimicking the gesture, vividly recalling the luscious taste of her, then profoundly wishing this blasted desk didn’t separate them. Still, he had only to reach out to touch her hands, and he suddenly found himself gritting his teeth in an effort to keep himself from doing just that.

When had he ever been so drawn to a woman’s
hands?
The simple truth was he hadn’t. Indeed, his absorption with Victoria’s bordered on the ridiculous. They were the lily white hands of a pampered aristocrat. But that pale skin, those slim fingers, enthralled him, and he didn’t need to search very hard for the reason. It was because he knew how gentle those hands could be, how achingly hesitant as she’d tentatively touched him. And how incredible those hands felt brushing over his skin. And how they smelled of roses. And how they could become impatient with want, fisting in his hair as she demanded he kiss her again.

She resumed her writing, and he was helpless to do anything save watch her, unreasonably entranced by the sight of her fingers gripping the quill. As his gaze roamed
over her hand, he noted a thin scar near her wrist. Unable to stop himself, he reached out and brushed his fingertip over the inch-long mark. She stilled and her head jerked up. Their eyes met and a rosy blush stained her cheeks. He decided that rose-hued blush was very apt, as she smelled so perfectly of that flower.

He traced the scar again. “How did this happen?”

Her gaze lowered to where his finger stroked her, and he looked down as well. Her pale, slender hand and soft skin contrasted starkly to his darker, rougher skin. Bloody hell, the sight of him touching her aroused him to the point that he had to shift in his seat.

“I cut myself,” she murmured in a husky voice.

“How? When?” he asked, slowly caressing her.

“I…I was twelve,” she said, and he decided he very much liked the breathless way she sounded. “I was digging in mud and unearthed a sharp stone that cut my hand.”

“Digging in mud? Fond of gardening, are you?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t planting when I was injured.”

“What were you doing? Hunting for buried treasure?”

“No. I was making a mud pie.”

Nathan pulled his gaze away from their hands to look into her eyes. “A
mud pie
?”

“Yes.”

“By mud pie you mean a pie made from mud?”

“I hardly mean a pie made from apples and honey.”

“And what would an earl’s daughter know about making mud pies?”

She lifted her chin. “Quite a lot actually, as I used to make them frequently. The dirt from the lower gardens at Wexhall Manor was far superior to that in the upper gardens. But the soil near the pond was the best of all.”

Nathan shook his head. “I simply cannot imagine you playing in the mud. Getting…dirty. Why did you do it?”

She hesitated, then said, “I loved the pies our cook made and I wanted to learn how to bake them. But Mother forbade me from spending time in the kitchens. Therefore I had to pretend.”

“You weren’t allowed in the kitchens but you were permitted to dig in the mud?”

“No. Mother would have flown into the boughs if she’d found out. Actually, the day I received the cut that left that scar was the day she found out. After I was properly bandaged, Mother treated me to an extremely long-winded lecture on the proper decorum of young ladies—one part of which is that they never,
ever
make mud pies.”

“And did you ever make another one?”

Her lips twitched and a whiff of mischief crept into her eyes. “Hmmm. I’m not certain I should answer that question.”

“Why not?”

“You might well be scandalized. Besides, I’d hate to dispel your exalted opinion of me as a hothouse-flower earl’s daughter who would never deign to dirty her hands in the mud.”

“After the things I’ve seen in my profession, I assure you, nothing could scandalize me. And as you’ve already managed to poke a number of holes in my perception of you, you might as well poke another.”

“Very well. Yes, I did make more mud pies. Many more. Mother never found out, and those hours I spent pretending to be the finest baker in all of England were amongst the happiest of my childhood.”

An image of her preparing her culinary mud delights popped into his mind, bringing with it a warm feeling he
couldn’t put a name to. “Did you ever learn how to bake a real pie?”

She gave a short laugh. “No. It was merely a silly childhood wish.”

Nathan studied her for several seconds, then said, “Just when I think I’ve pinpointed the sort of person you are, I discover something else about you, such as a fondness for mud pies, that…”
Enchants me. Bewitches and beguiles me. Intrigues and fascinates me
. “…surprises me.”

“I could say the same about you—except for the mud pies, of course. Unless you were fond of them yourself?”

“I’m afraid not. Not that I didn’t relish getting dirty at every opportunity, but growing up near the sea, it was always sand castles for me.”

Her eyes sparkled with interest. “A castle made from sand? The sort of castle a princess would live in?”

“Good God, no. The sort fearless warriors resided in as they prepared for battle.” He looked up at the ceiling with an air of exaggerated manly exasperation. “Princesses. Heaven help us.”

“Well, if I were to build a castle from sand,” she said with a haughty sniff, “it would be for a princess.”

He couldn’t help but grin. “This does not surprise me, what with you being so very
girlish
.”