Love in the Afternoon (The Hathaways #5)(23)

“Yes, Auntie.” The boy left through the front door, somehow managing to retain possession of the goats and the wooden sword.

Christopher stood facing Beatrix, trying not to gape. And failing utterly. She might as well have been standing there in her undergarments. In fact, that would have been preferable, because at least it wouldn’t have seemed so singularly erotic. He could see the feminine outline of her h*ps and thighs clad in the masculine garments. And she didn’t seem at all self-conscious. Confound her, what kind of woman was she?

He struggled with his reaction to her, a mixture of annoyance, fascination, and arousal. With her hair threatening to tumble from its pins, and her cheeks flushed from exertion, she was the epitome of glowing female health.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I came to apologize,” he said. “I was . . . discourteous yesterday.”

“No, you were rude.”

“You’re right. I’m truly sorry.” At her lack of response, Christopher fumbled for words. He, who had once spoken to women so glibly. “I’ve been too long in rough company. Since I left the Crimea, I find myself reacting irritably without cause. I . . . words are too important for me to be so careless with them.”

Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought her face softened a little.

“You don’t have to be sorry for disliking me,” she said. “Only for being discourteous.”

“Rude,” Christopher corrected. “And I don’t.”

“You don’t what?” she asked with a frown.

“Dislike you. That is . . . I don’t know you well enough to either like or dislike you.”

“I’m fairly certain, Captain,” she said, “that the more you discover about me, the more you will dislike me. Therefore, let’s cut to the chase and acknowledge that we don’t like each other. Then we won’t have to bother with the in-between part.”

She was so bloody frank and practical about the whole thing that Christopher couldn’t help but be amused. “I’m afraid I can’t oblige you.”

“Why not?”

“Because when you said that just now, I found myself starting to like you.”

“You’ll recover,” she said.

Her decisive tone made him want to smile. “It’s getting worse, actually,” he told her. “Now I’m absolutely convinced that I like you.”

Beatrix gave him a patently skeptical stare. “What about my hedgehog? Do you like her, too?”

Christopher considered that. “Affection for rodents can’t be rushed.”

“Medusa isn’t a rodent. She’s an erinaceid.”

“Why did you bring her to the picnic?” Christopher couldn’t resist asking.

“Because I thought her company would be preferable to that of the people I would meet there.” A faint smile played at the corners of her lips. “And I was right.” She paused. “We’re about to have tea,” she said. “Will you join us?”

Christopher began to shake his head before she had even finished. They would ask questions, and he would have to come up with careful answers, and the thought of a prolonged conversation was wearying and anxiety provoking. “Thank you, but no. I—”

“It’s a condition of my forgiveness,” Beatrix said. Those dark blue eyes, lit with a provocative glint, stared directly into his.

Surprised and diverted, Christopher wondered how an unworldly young woman in her early twenties had the gall to give him orders.

However, it was turning out to be a strangely entertaining afternoon. Why not stay? He wasn’t expected anywhere. And no matter how it turned out, it would be preferable to going back to those somber dark rooms at home. “In that case—” He broke off, startled, as Beatrix leaned toward him.

“Oh, bother.” She was looking closely at the lapels of his tweed sack coat. “You’re covered with goat hair.” She began to brush at his lapels vigorously.

It took Christopher a full five seconds to remember how to breathe. “Miss Hathaway—” In her efforts to whisk away the scattering of stray goat hairs, she was standing much too close. He wanted her even closer. What would it feel like to wrap his arms around her, and press his cheek into that mass of shiny dark hair?

“Don’t move,” Beatrix said, continuing to bat at the front of his coat. “I’ve almost brushed it off.”

“No, I don’t . . . that’s not . . .” Christopher’s control broke. He snatched her slender wrists with his hands, holding them suspended. God, the feel of her . . . the smooth skin . . . the exquisite throb of her veins against his fingertips. A subtle tremor ran through her. He wanted to follow it with his hands, smooth his palms over the supple curves of her. He wanted to wrap her around him, her legs, her arms, her hair.

But despite her undeniable attractions, he would never pursue a woman like Beatrix Hathaway, even if he weren’t already in love with Prudence. What he truly wanted, needed, was a return to normalcy. To the kind of life that would restore him to peace.

Slowly Beatrix pulled her arms free of his manacling fingers. She stared at him, her gaze wary and intent.

They both started at the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Good afternoon,” came a pleasant feminine voice.