Tempt Me at Twilight (The Hathaways #3)(72)

Leo had never understood why they had started off on such bad footing, or why she was so determined to hate him. And even more perplexing, why it mattered. Prickly, narrow-minded, sharp-tongued, secretive woman, with her stern mouth and haughty little nose . . . she deserved green hair, and she deserved to be mocked for it.

The time for revenge was at hand.

As Leo approached nonchalantly, Marks lifted her head, the sunlight flashing on the lenses of her spectacles. “Oh,” she said sourly. “You’re back.”

She said it as if she had just discovered a vermin infestation.

“Hello, Marks,” Leo said cheerfully. “Hmmm. You look different. What can it be?”

She glowered at him.

“Is it some new fashion, that wrapping on your head?” he asked with polite interest.

Marks maintained a stony silence.

The moment was delicious. He knew, and she knew that he knew, and mortified color was creeping over her face.

“I brought Poppy with me from London,” Leo volunteered.

Her eyes turned alert behind the spectacles. “Did Mr. Rutledge come, too?”

“No. Although I imagine he’s not far behind us.”

The companion stood from the stone wall and brushed at her skirts. “I must see Poppy—”

“There’ll be time for that.” Leo moved to block her way. “But before we return to the house, I think you and I should reacquaint ourselves. How are things with you, Marks? Anything interesting happen lately?”

“You’re no better than a ten-year-old,” she said vehemently. “All ready to sneer at someone else’s misfortune. You immature, mean-spirited—”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” Leo said kindly. “Let me have a look, and I’ll tell you if—”

“Stay away from me!” she snapped, and tried to dart around him.

Leo blocked her easily, a muffled laugh escaping him as she tried to shove him. “Are you trying to push me out of the way? You don’t have the strength of a butterfly. Here—your headgear is askew—let me help you with it—”

“Don’t touch me!”

They struggled, one of them playful, the other frantic and flailing.

“One glance,” Leo begged, a laugh ending in a grunt as she twisted and jabbed a sharp elbow against his midriff. He snatched at the kerchief, managing to loosen it. “Please. It’s all I want from life, to see you with—” another swipe, and he snagged the edge of the cloth, “—your hair all—”

But Leo broke off as the kerchief pulled free, and the hair that spilled out was not any conceivable shade of green. It was blond . . . pale amber and champagne and honey . . . and there was so much of it, cascading in shimmering waves to the middle of her back.

Leo went still, holding her in place as his astonished gaze raked over her. They both gulped for breath, worked up and winded like racehorses. Marks couldn’t have looked more appalled if he had just stripped her naked. And the truth was, Leo couldn’t have been any more confounded—or aroused—if he were actually viewing her naked. Though he certainly would have been willing to try it.

Such a commotion had risen in him, Leo hardly knew how to react. Just hair, just locks of hair . . . but it was like setting a previously undistinguished painting in the perfect frame, revealing its beauty in full luminous detail. Catherine Marks in the sunlight was a mythical creature, a nymph, with delicate features and opalescent eyes.

The most confounding realization was that it wasn’t really hair color that had concealed all this from him . . . he had never noticed how stunning she was because she had deliberately kept him from seeing it.

“Why,” Leo asked, his voice husky, “would you conceal something so beautiful?” Staring at her, nearly devouring her, he asked more softly still, “What are you hiding from?”

Her lips trembled, and she gave a brief shake of her head, as if to answer would prove fatal to them both. And, wrenching free of him, she picked up her skirts and ran headlong to the house.

Chapter Twenty

“Amelia,” Poppy said as she lay her head on her sister’s shoulder, “you’ve done me a terrible disservice, making marriage look so easy.”

Amelia laughed softly, hugging her. “Oh, dear. If I’ve given that impression, I do apologize. It’s not. Especially when both individuals are strong willed.”

“The ladies’ periodicals advise to let one’s husband have his way most of the time.”

“Oh, lies, lies. Only let your husband think he’s having his way. That’s the secret to a happy marriage.”

They both snickered, and Poppy sat up.

Having put Rye down for his morning nap, Amelia had gone with Poppy to the family parlor, where they sat together on the settee. Although Win had been invited to join them, she had tactfully declined, sensitive to the fact that Amelia had a more maternal relationship with Poppy than she did.

During the two years that Win had spent away at a health clinic in France, recovering from the damages of scarlet fever, Poppy had grown even closer to their oldest sister. When Poppy wished to divulge her most private thoughts and problems, Amelia was the one she always felt most comfortable with.

A tea tray had been brought in, and there was a plate of treacle tarts made according to their mother’s old recipe, strips of buttery shortbread topped with lemon syrup and sweet crumbs.