Page 42 of Unmasking the Earl

Irritation flashed through her. “Must you bring him into every conversation? You just can’t let it lie, can you? You’re obsessed with the man.”

He said, more quietly, “Perhaps you’ve come in hoping for another of your indecent lessons? From me, this time.”

She put her hand over her eyes in case she was tempted to peep, and snapped, “I wouldn’t have needed to come in if you’d answered my knock.”

“I didn’t hear you. I must have been dousing my head.”

“Or singing. Was that singing I heard?”

“It may have been…” he replied, sounding puzzled. “I always sing in the bath. Now, about this flood…”

There was a swilling sound, followed by a watery sucking noise. He must be standing up.

She mustn’t look.

She truly mustn’t.

She would not look!

“I’ll get dressed,” he said, “and you can send up a servant.”

Thankfully, the man was insufferable. “Which servant would that be?” she demanded in irritation. “Ella’s doing the supper. Portia’s no servant, nor am I.”

There was a wet thud, followed by another.

“You can open your eyes now,” he said. “I’m decent.”

Reluctantly, she removed her hand.

And did her very best not to stare.

Without success.

Define decent, she asked herself.

Great Juno! The Earl of Stranraer really did have the body of a young Hercules. His form proclaimed a masculinity and strength she had never expected to see embodied in a flesh and blood man. Julian would certainly not look like this out of his clothes, though she had done quite a bit of creative imagining of that.

An almost naked Ned was, in a word, magnificent.

The towel he’d wrapped around his lean hips was totally inadequate to hide…well, anything at all.

Thank God.

No! This was…wrong.

She struggled to avert her eyes and train them on his face instead of examining every bulge of muscle in fascinated admiration. And was gifted with a glimpse of his naked buttocks in the mirror, revealed by the delightfully scant towel.

Sweet Venus. She felt a peculiar lurch at her core, a welling up of something hot and exciting that traveled quickly to every part of her body. It was getting harder to breathe, and her face burned as she tore her gaze from the tantalizing reflection and forced herself to focus on his face.

Was that a smirk? Did he know how he was affecting her? And was he enjoying it?

Mortification sifted through her.

“I suggest you clean up the water yourself,” she said testily. “You spilled it.” When he opened his mouth to protest, she lifted a finger. “Remember you are a guest in this house.”

He took a step toward her. “And may I remind you that I am not a servant, either, and that it’s not my fault you left me in that stinking cell to be insulted and humiliated by the cursed locals with flagons of stale beer.”

She moved closer, clenching her fists. “I much preferred you when you were a servant. You’re lucky we troubled ourselves at all to rescue such an ingrate. The reason you were in the cell in the first place was because of your own ill-controlled temper.”