The Secret of Pembrooke Park(97)

“Are you na—dressed?” she squeaked. The word naked refused to come.

“Uhhmm . . . not really, no. I didn’t expect to encounter anyone. I am wearing breeches, never fear.”

“Oh. Well. That’s all right, then.” A lame chuckle bubbled from her lips. As if those snug breeches, low on his hips and as pale as his skin, were all the clothing required for this season’s well-dressed man.

He stepped out from under the tree, and moonlight shone on him more fully. She tried not to stare but couldn’t help herself. She had no brothers. She had never seen a shirtless, half-naked man before. And she might never again, once Louisa arrived.

He slowly walked toward her, and her mouth went dry. His shoulders were broader than she would have guessed, even without the aid of a well-cut and padded frock coat. They curved in a smooth bulge of muscle above equally taut and strong-looking arms. His shoulders angled deeply to a narrower waist, his chest defined, his abdomen flat and masculine. She was glad the darkness hid her blush.

She had noticed his lean but defined legs before—fitted pantaloons regularly revealed all. But she had never seen the shape and contours of his upper body. He must help his father around the grounds, or row, or ride a great deal. Or perhaps he chopped great piles of wood and played ball with his friends for hours on end.

Moonlight glistened on his damp bare skin. She swallowed and dragged her gaze to his face. His wet hair hung in dark tendrils across his brow. He lifted his arms, and she realized he held a small towel in his hands. He rubbed it over his hair and face. Lifting his arms like that caused his biceps to swell, his chest to rise, his abdomen to elongate. So impossibly fair. Were all redheads so pale?

“Perhaps you could . . . em, wrap that towel around yourself.”

He tilted his head to one side, amusement and moonlight glimmered in his eyes. “I am afraid this towel is barely bigger than a facecloth. Sorry.” He grinned, not looking sorry at all. “What brings you out at this hour, Miss Foster?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, thinking, And now I never shall. . . .

“Nor could I.” He raked a hand through his hair, and it remained sculpted off his forehead. He looked different with his hair waving back instead of falling forward. He had such a handsome face.

He stepped closer, and Abigail drew in a shallow breath, pulse quickening. Her flush moved from her face, down her neck.

“Do you often swim late at night?” she asked, to dispel the tension between them.

“When I was younger, yes. But it has been some time. I thought I ought to get in one last swim before more ladies move in and increase my chances of discovery. I promise you I had no intention of shocking maidenly sensibilities.”

He looked at her. “Are you shocked?”

She pressed dry lips together and lied. “No.”

“Well, thank goodness I wore breeches.”

“Yes. Thank goodness. How is your shoulder?”

“Much better.” He twisted his shoulder forward and craned his neck to look at it. “See?”

Her glance skittered over the scarred skin, to his chest and arms once again. He was standing so close now that she could have reached out and touched him.

“How does it look?” he asked, eyes on his wound.

“It looks . . . good,” she murmured, eyes on the rest of him.

“That reminds me . . .” he began, looking back at her.

She guiltily snatched her gaze away from his torso, struggling to meet his eyes. Had he noticed her staring? Even her ears heated at the thought.

“It is because of your quick actions that my burns were not worse. I never thanked you properly for dousing me with water.”

Nervously, she said, “Tell me you don’t plan to douse me in return. . . .”

“A few years ago, I might have done just that. Or picked you up and pretended I was going to toss you in the river. But when I look at you now, those are not the first impulses that come to me.”

“No?” she said breathlessly. “Well. Good.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you. . . .”

Her gaze flew to his. He was looking at her with such intensity, such warmth, that her heart ached to see it.

His hand touched hers, and she felt a jolt of surprise. Long fingers encircled her wrist like a pliable bracelet, tickling the delicate skin of her inner wrist with feathery pleasure. Then he bent his head as if in prayer and pressed a warm kiss to the back of her hand. “Thank you, Abigail Foster.”

Her heart raced. Her knees felt soft and unsteady. He had kissed her hand before, but this time no laudanum influenced his actions.

Keeping hold of her hand, he lifted his head and studied her. Then, as if gauging her reaction, he slowly, slowly moved his face toward hers.

Her breathing came shallow and fast as he neared.

His breath tickled the hairs at her temple as he whispered, “I am in your debt forever.”

She stood perfectly still, all of her focus on that spot where his mouth hovered. He pressed a kiss—warm, delicious—on her cheekbone, and she closed her eyes to savor it. When her eyelids fluttered open, he had moved slightly, his eyes on hers and then lowering to her mouth. She looked at his. What would it be like to be kissed on the mouth—by that mouth? Kissed by a man? She nibbled her lower lip at the thought.

He stared, riveted. Then he drew in a long shaky breath and took a half step back. She breathed deeply as well and returned her gaze to his injured shoulder. Safe territory.