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“Undress?” Lizzie echoed blinking. She looked down at the nightgown buttoned up to her neck.

“Get in the bed,” he recommended. “There isn’t room to swing a cat in here, and it’s my turn.” He poured the remaining water into the bowl and started unbuttoning his waistcoat. Behind him he heard her move over to the bed and climb in.

“I wonder where that saying comes from,” her muffled voice remarked from the bed. “Why would anyone swing a cat about in any event? It makes no sense as well as being inordinately cruel.”

“I believe,” Benedict remarked as he flung his waistcoat on top of one of the wooden boxes and started unfastening his shirt, “it refers to a cat o’ nine tails.”

“Oh,” Lizzie sounded impressed. “So, it refers then to flogging?”

“Apparently.”

“Room to wield the whip,” she pondered. “Yes, I suppose that does make sense. Though of course, it is still a very cruel metaphor.”

He added his shirt to the pile, plunged his hands into the basin of water, and started to vigorously wash his face and neck. By the time he was shaking the water out of his ears, she had thought of some other line of enquiry.

“I wonder how your family contrive to sleep in just two wagons,” she remarked. “I suppose your brothers must share.”

Benedict set the bar of soap aside and unbuttoned his trousers, stripping down to his long underwear. “They manage,” he said shortly. Then he remembered she was likely nervous and forced himself to elaborate. “In the summer they build a tent with branches and a leather cover, and Jack sleeps in that.”

“How curious.”

He stripped and washed the rest of himself in record time and even considered for a moment climbing back into his underwear. Glancing over his shoulder, he found her staring up at the ceiling in any case. There seemed little point in putting them on only to take them off again. Instead, he made for the bed and climbed in. When his naked body came into contact with hers, he let out a sigh of relief between his teeth, despite the enveloping nightgown.

Lizzie lay stiff as a board as he shifted against her side. Small wonder for she must feel what was poking into her hip. He wound an arm about her, drawing her closer as he breathed out, striving to calm himself. His excitement was disproportionate. He needed to calm down. “I suppose I’m the first naked man you’ve seen,” he commented. “Except for those Greek statues of yours.” Lizzie gave a nod. “Were they wearing fig leaves?” he asked huskily.

Lizzie cleared her throat. “The exhibition wasn’t intended for a female audience,” she replied in a slightly strangled voice.

“Which means?” he prompted.

“They weren’t wearing fig leaves.”

There it was again. He liked how she didn’t lie however tempted she might be. “So, mine isn’t the first cock you’ve seen, then?”

She gave a horrified gasp. “I didn’t look! At yours, I mean,” she added conscientiously.

“So, you did look at the museum?” he laughed softly.

Lizzie plucked at the coverlet. “Well – yes,” she admitted in a rush.

“And what did you think?”

Her color deepened. “I didn’t really know what to think.” She ventured a glance at him. “Would you say art faithfully represents the appendage?”

Benedict felt inclined to laugh again. Not a pastime he indulged much in. “I don’t know about that,” he said unevenly. “I’m not much of an art connoisseur.” He rolled onto his back. “Why don’t you tell me?”

She gave him a scandalized look as he drew down the sheets, baring himself to her shocked gaze. He didn’t feel cold at all right now. He felt blazing hot as he displayed himself for her pleasure, or rather he should say for her edification. For all her embarrassment, he noticed her gaze was riveted to what curved away from his thighs, standing for her attention. Her eyes widened, then flew to meet his, then returned once again to contemplate his erection.

“How do I compare?” he asked curiously as the moment stretched out. She must be impressed, he reflected. He couldn’t remember a time he’d been more aroused.

Lizzie sucked in a breath. “They did not have hair there as you do,” she observed quietly. “Or if they did, not much of it. And they weren’t – um – ” she faltered for words, her eyes averting delicately. “That is, they did not – ”

“They weren’t hard as I am,” he supplied when words apparently failed her.

She frowned at that. “I believe they were made of marble. You are made of flesh.”

“They weren’t hard for a woman, I should say,” he corrected himself. “In everyday life, mine is not stiff like this, or it would never fit it in my breeches.”

She looked much struck by this. “Well, no, I suppose it would not.”