“Good God, man, I can’t imagine why you would. Especially with a beauty like Lady Julianne here. Who, as you will recall, is the much-needed heiress. And not in the least bit…spinsterish.” His gaze narrowed and turned speculative. “But something about this Moorehouse has captured you—in much more than a simply wanting to discover her secrets sort of way. If that’s all it was, your eyeballs wouldn’t be shooting daggers at Jennsen. And you wouldn’t be eyeing her as if she were a juicy piece of fruit you wanted to nibble upon.”
“I assure you nothing could be further from the truth,” Matthew said stiffly.
Liar, sneered the stupid little voice.
“If you say so.”
“I do. I’m simply…surprised at Moorehouse’s amiability toward Jennsen.”
“Surprised? That an unmarried woman, especially one so plain, would revel in the attention of an attractive, unmarried, ridiculously wealthy man?”
“While Moorehouse is unmarried, she is not…unattached. Her affections are engaged by a man named Franklin.” His fingers involuntarily tightened around the stem of his wineglass.
“How do you know this?” Daniel asked.
“I saw a sketch of him she’d drawn.”
“And her feelings are reciprocated?”
An image of the intimate sketch flashed in Matthew’s mind. “I believe so, yes.” He frowned. “I wonder what this Franklin’s last name is?”
Daniel shook his head and chuckled. “Good God, now I’ve heard everything. How you get yourself into these messes, I’ve no idea.”
“A bit of sympathy for my financial and marital plights wouldn’t be unwelcome, you know.”
“Oh, believe me, I’m sympathetic.” Daniel lifted his wineglass and raised it toward Matthew in salute. “I wish you the best of luck, my friend. I’ve no doubt you’re going to need it.”
Sarah quietly opened her bedchamber door and cautiously peeked out. After ascertaining that the dimly lit corridor was empty, she quickly exited her room. Heart pounding, she forced herself to walk at a sedate pace and arrange her features into her most innocent expression. In case she happened upon anyone, her excuse for wandering about when she’d already retired for the night was at the ready. I borrowed my sister’s handkerchief earlier and forgot to return it. Should she be informed that her sister’s bedchamber was in the opposite direction, she’d simply pretend confusion, apologize, then turn around.
But hopefully she wouldn’t come upon anyone. All the gentlemen were in the drawing room, partaking of brandy and whatever else gentlemen partook of after dinner, and all the ladies, including the chaperones, had retired. The chaperones were hopefully both asleep—because the Ladies Literary Society of London was meeting in her room at one A.M—exactly two hours from now.
And she had a shirt to procure before they arrived.
Thanks to a conversation before dinner with the very informative maid Mary, Sarah knew which bedchamber belonged to Lord Langston. All she had to do was slip inside, grab a shirt, then slip back out. With Lord Langston in the drawing room and his valet Dewhurst enjoying his normal eleven P.M tea break—another helpful tidbit courtesy of Mary—how difficult could this be?
A moment later, during which time she didn’t meet anyone in the corridor, she finally stood outside Lord Langston’s bedchamber. She drew a bracing breath then softly knocked, prepared to claim that she’d believed the room was her sister’s, should anyone answer her summons. If someone did, she prayed it would be the valet and not Lord Langston himself, as he’d appeared to be in a bad temper during dinner. Every time she looked in his direction—which had annoyingly occurred far more frequently than she liked—he’d been scowling.
When no one answered her knock, she cautiously twisted the doorknob and slowly pushed open the door. After another quick glance up and down the corridor to make certain she wasn’t being observed, she stepped over the threshold and closed the door quietly behind her.
She leaned her back against the oak panel, taking a few seconds to allow her accelerated heartbeat to slow. When she drew a deep breath, her senses were instantly inundated with his scent. Freshly laundered clothing and a hint of sandalwood. Just the sort of scent that would tempt her to heave a noisy, feminine sigh—if she were the sort to do such heaving—which she thankfully was not.
Her gaze slowly swept the room, noting the low-burning fire in the grate, which cast everything with a warm golden glow. The large copper bathtub set before the fireplace. The leather sofa and matching chairs near the hearth. The beautiful mahogany furniture. A dressing cabinet, washstand, and several chests of drawers. The huge bed, the navy blue counterpane neatly turned down. The night tables flanking the bed. A kidney-shaped desk and a reading stand. Her gaze lingered longingly on the trestle book stand filled with leather-bound volumes, but she shoved the longing to examine them aside and forced her gaze back to the dressing cabinet and the chests of drawers.
Which one held his lordship’s shirts?
Pushing off from the door, she headed toward the closest chest of drawers. Grasping the brass handle on the top drawer, she pulled. And found herself staring at a pile of neatly folded shirts.
A breathless laugh rushed from her lips, and she quickly snatched up the top shirt. By God, this had been almost too easy!
She closed the drawer and clutched her prize to her chest. Once again Lord Langston’s delightful scent filled her senses. She stilled and stared down at the snowy shirt. There was something unsettling and intimate about seeing that white material pressed against her breasts. As if in a trance, she slowly raised the garment. Then closing her eyes, she buried her face in the soft material and breathed deeply.
A vivid image of him rushed into her mind, walking with her this afternoon in the sunshine, the warm, golden rays bouncing off his thick, dark hair. His slow smile. The way his eyes crinkled in the corners when he laughed. Those hazel eyes, which, even when he laughed, somehow looked sad to her. His deep voice—
“That will be all, Dewhurst,” came Lord Langston’s deep voice from the corridor. “Good night.”
“Very well, my lord. Good night.”
Good God.
Sarah’s head jerked up so fast she knocked her glasses askew. She looked frantically about for a hiding place, but unlike her bedchamber, there was no dressing screen. With no choices and even less time, she dashed toward the heavy velvet drapes covering the windows. She’d no sooner secreted herself than she heard the door open. Then close.
She squeezed her eyes shut for several seconds and fought to contain her panic. And annoyance. Vexing man! Why wasn’t he in the drawing room as he was supposed to be?
The sound of a long sigh reached her ears, followed by the gentle squeak of leather. Recalling that the leather chairs and sofa didn’t face the windows, she risked peeking around the edge of the curtain.
Lord Langston, his profile clearly visible, sat in the leather chair. With his elbows set upon his knees and forehead resting in his palms, he looked incredibly weary. And inexorably sad. His dejected posture reminded her of the way she’d seen Carolyn looking whenever her sister believed herself unobserved, and sympathy arose unbidden within her. What was making him so unhappy?
Before she could consider the possibilities, he leaned down and grasped his boot. After pulling it off, he removed the other. Then he stood and, to her fascination—er, alarm—began undressing.
She felt her eyes widen and she somehow forgot to breathe, to so much as blink, as she watched him slowly remove his jacket. Then his cravat. Then his shirt.
Oh, my… The Ladies Literary Society had definitely chosen the correct candidate from whom to take a shirt, because the shirtless Lord Langston indeed qualified as perfect. Her fingers curled around the edge of the curtain and her stupefied gaze ran greedily over his broad shoulders. A fascinating sprinkling of dark hair ran across his chest then narrowed to a thin ribbon as it bisected his flat, muscle-rippled abdomen.
She was still drinking in the e
xtraordinary view when his fingers began working the buttons on his black breeches. And before she could so much as draw a breath into her stalled lungs, he swiftly removed the garment.
If she’d had the wherewithal to do so, Sarah would have given thanks that her eyeballs were permanently attached to her head, otherwise they surely would have leapt from their sockets and bounced across the floor.
The only thing to which she could compare Lord Langston was the scandalous statue she’d stumbled upon in Lady Eastland’s conservatory during her musicale last month. So amazed and impressed had she been by the sight, she’d drawn a sketch from memory—the sketch Lord Langston had seen in the garden that morning. The one under which she’d written Franklin N. Stein after the ladies had decided to make the Perfect Man. Because up until then, she’d believed that statue was as perfect as one could hope to find.
Clearly she’d been harboring a gross misunderstanding.
For surely there could be no more perfect a male specimen than Lord Langston. While the statue had been lifelike in size, nothing could have prepared her for seeing an actual naked man—literally in the flesh.
Her avid gaze tracked down his muscular form, noting the narrow hips and long legs, then settled on his groin with the sort of mesmerized fascination she normally only experienced in bookshops and gardens. On the intriguing thatch of dark hair that surrounded his equally captivating manhood.
Dear God, was there no air in this room?
Before she could pull in a much-needed deep breath, he turned, treating her to an equally entrancing rear view. Merciful heavens, there wasn’t a single inch of him that wasn’t utterly beautiful.
The desire to move closer, to study every rippling muscle, to touch every bit of skin, nearly overwhelmed her. She actually had to brace her knees and grip the curtain to keep from giving in to the urge. Her lenses grew foggy and she frowned, blinking rapidly to clear the view-distorting annoyance. Then she realized the cause was her own rapid breaths bouncing off the velvet curtains. She leaned back slightly and forced her lax lips closed.
With a smooth grace that caused a heart-pounding, breath-stealing ripple of muscles, he approached the large copper tub. And for the first time she noticed the tendrils of steam rising above the polished rim. Her lips once again dropped open as realization enveloped her like a hot, steamy cloud.
She was about to see the very naked, very perfect Lord Langston take a bath.
Chapter 6
Heat sizzled through Sarah’s body, and if she’d been able to tear her gaze from Lord Langston’s naked form, she most likely would have looked down to ascertain that her skirt wasn’t ablaze. Like a centuries-old elm, she stood rooted to the spot, barely breathing so as not to refog her lenses, not so much as blinking, for the sight of a naked Lord Langston lifting one muscular leg to step over the edge of the tub was not a sight to be missed.
Unfortunately, her conscience chose that moment to cough to life and make itself known.
Cease this reprehensible spying at once! Her haloenwreathed inner voice demanded. Avert your eyes this instant and give that poor man the privacy he deserves.
What the poor man deserved, Sarah decided, was a standing ovation. He lifted his other leg and she tilted her head to maximize the stupefying view. Another wave of heat rolled through her. Heavens. Lord Langston was indeed blessed. Everywhere.
Her conscience once again attempted to speak, but she flicked it away as one would an annoying buzzing insect. Because really, she had to look. How else would she know when he finished his bath so she could determine when it was safe for her to escape? And besides, she was a scientist—of sorts. Granted, her area of expertise was horticulture and not anatomy, but she certainly possessed a scientist’s love of learning. A scientist’s thirst for knowledge.
Yes, and look how badly the quest for knowledge turned out for Frankenstein, her inner voice said slyly.
Stuff and nonsense. Things would have gone much better had Frankenstein’s creation in any way resembled Lord Langston. Her gaze wandered down his masculine form and she barely suppressed a gusty sigh.
Much better.
She was quickly developing an unexpected expertise—and appreciation—for the male anatomy.
She watched him slowly lower himself into the steaming water, then lean his head back against the curved lip. After exhaling a long breath, he closed his eyes.
Sarah studied him, noting how, due to his height, his bent knees rose from the water. Although his features were more relaxed, she still detected signs of strain around his mouth and closed eyes. What troubled him so that even in repose peace seemed to escape him?
Her gaze rested on a lock of his dark hair that fell over his forehead, and her fingers suddenly itched with the desire to brush back the strands. Discover if they felt as silky as they looked. She allowed her imagination to wander, and in her mind’s eye she envisioned herself walking toward him. Kneeling beside the tub. Sifting her fingers through his hair, then tracing them over his features. Memorizing the texture of his skin. The shape of his lips…
As if beckoning her, his lips parted slightly, drawing her attention to his mouth. In spite of her best efforts to ignore such things—for what was the good in admiring that which she could never have?—she always seemed particularly attracted to men’s lips. And this man’s were truly lovely. Perfectly shaped and enticingly full. How did they manage to look so firm yet so soft at the same time?
Again she imagined herself kneeling next to the tub, this time slowly tracing the outline of his mouth with her fingertips, then leaning forward to touch her lips to his. Her eyes slid closed and her breath caught. What would his mouth feel like against hers? And his skin…how would it feel beneath her palms? Rough? Smooth?
Heat pulsed through her, settling low in her belly. It was a sensation she recognized, the one that often came upon her as she lay alone in her bed, in the dark, yearning for…something. The sensation that left her restless and overheated and made her feel as if her skin had somehow shrunk. She shifted slightly, pressing her thighs together, but the movement did nothing to relieve her discomfort; rather, it only served to further inflame nerve endings that already throbbed.
She opened her eyes and her fingers tightened around the velvet curtain as he reached out and grabbed a thick bar of soap from a ceramic dish set on a small table next to the tub. Transfixed, she watched him drag the soap across his wet skin, washing his neck, arms, and chest. Then his hands disappeared, presumably to skim the soap over his lower body, and she cursed the copper tub that thwarted her view. Hoping to improve her line of vision, she rose up on her toes. Botheration, that didn’t help.
When Lord Langston finished with the soap, he set it back on the ceramic dish, then slid low in the water to rinse, disappearing from her view. Before she could pull a much needed breath into her lungs, he reappeared and ran his hands over his wet face. Then slowly stood.
She hadn’t believed anything could look more perfect than a naked Lord Langston, but obviously something could.
A naked and wet Lord Langston.
Water sluiced down his body, tapering into silvery trails that glittered in the glow of the low-burning fire. God help her, she didn’t know where to look first. Didn’t know in what order to feast her eyes upon the delicious banquet stretched before her. He raised his arms, tilted back his head, and slowly pushed his wet hair away from his face.
Sarah felt as if she’d backed into the fireplace. The sight of him was so captivating, so stimulating, so…arousing, her knees actually felt weak. Indeed, she needed to lean against the wall before she slithered to the ground in a heated, steaming lump—a most unexpected and vexing turn of events, as she did not in any way consider herself the sort of female prone to swooning. With her gaze locked upon him, she took a small step back.
And the floorboard beneath her foot squeaked.
Sarah froze as the sound seemed to echo through the room—along with the frantic pounding of her heart. Her gaze flew
to Lord Langston’s, but he clearly didn’t suspect anything amiss, as he didn’t lift his head nor hesitate in his ablutions.
Thank God. How humiliating would it be if he were to catch her in his bedchamber? Ogling his nakedness—although really, who could blame her for ogling? The mere thought of him discovering her tied her stomach into knots. Scarcely daring to breathe, she carefully moved her foot from the offending spot, relief filling her when no further sounds arose.
She watched him briskly rub a large white towel over his body then slip his arms into a dark blue robe. Part of her breathed a silent sigh of relief that he was now covered and would hopefully go to his dressing room so she could escape. But the other part of her, the bigger part, lamented the loss of the most perfect view she’d ever beheld. Indeed, she couldn’t wait to get to her sketch pad to commit the sight of him to paper—although she knew that even if she survived into the next century, she would never forget what he’d looked like. She supposed she should feel some sense of remorse over her zealous gawking, but instead her only regrets were that the show was over and that she hadn’t thought to bring a telescope.
Or a fan—because by God, it was hot in here!
He secured the robe’s sash around his waist then moved toward the darkened corner of the bedchamber farthest from her. She held her breath, hoping he would exit the room through the door there, which she assumed led to a dressing chamber. What sounded like a drawer opening met her ears, and seconds later, instead of leaving the room as she’d hoped, Lord Langston once again emerged from the shadows then started across the room, his gaze fixed upon the desk. The desk that was situated no more than five feet away from her hiding place.
Botheration, what was he doing? With the way her luck was going this evening, he’d probably taken it into his head to write a letter. Vexing man. Why couldn’t he simply go get dressed as any man wearing naught but a robe would do? Had she recently thought him perfect? Obviously she was daft. He was a nincompoop who’d ruined her perfect escape and distracted her with his nakedness. His eyeball-searing, knee-weakening, brain-numbing, breath-stealing, magnificent nakedness. Which he’d had the nerve, um, decency, to cover up.
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