The horses.
Heat rushed her again. Of course, there were no grooms here to dash out and see to the horses. He’d poked her in a sensitive spot.
She ignored his hand and brushed past him. “Come Jenny, Chestnut needs you again.”
Fox toweled himself down,pulled on a dry shirt, and walked to the window. The lugger that had been out at sea was gone.
And no wonder. The sea was enraged, battering against the cliff that supported this cottage, gray fog blending with the sharper swirls of the water, spongy foam tipping to white. He committed the shades to his memory and found his spare waistcoat.
His only coat and his freshest neck cloth were in the kitchen drying, along with Perry and her maid and their clothing. He’d built the fire high for them to change out of their wet things and warm up, and left them there, the maid shivering, Perry fussing at him to leave.
In spite of the miserable weather, it was the first complaining Perry had done. While the storm unfurled sheets of rain, she threw herself into the unloading and unharnessing. Mud up to her ankles hadn’t deterred her. Her dress, not a particularly delicate weave, drat it, had still managed to cling to her form, confirming all the measurements he’d taken at Bakeley’s ball. The little foal was still taller than all the women and many of the men, and she’d filled out quite nicely with ample breasts and, below that small waist, hips that a man could hold onto.
His body stirred, and he cursed it, looking around at his notebooks and canvases. He’d need to keep her out of here until he could burn these.
He took the stairs down one level. The carved door of the suite of rooms belonging to the mistress of the house was closed, but not locked, he knew. He’d peeked in upon his arrival, inspecting the house, but he’d not crossed that threshold, not on this visit, not on the one ten years earlier. This was Felicity Everly’s bedchamber and it was fitting that Lady Perry should sleep here.
The Holland cloths came off the furniture easily. Stripping the counterpane exposed bare ticking, so he pushed through the door to the dressing room and rummaged through cabinets, throwing one set of bedding on a cot for the maid. Clutching the other linens, he went back to the main chamber and began laying out sheets.
His damned artist’s mind reared, seeing her here, imagining her wheat-colored hair spread upon the pillows, envisioning her stretched between the four posts, long legs extending under a rucked-up, sheer cotton nightdress.
He stood tall and took a deep breath. Hell, that wasn’t the artist in him—that was the man.
Yes, Fox, and you might as well torture yourself dreaming it because you’ll never get closer than this.
Hopeless colonial. He laughed, finished the bed-making, and went to pull the board off the fireplace. This close to the sea, the nights were chilly, and she’d been shivering today. She’d be needing a regular fire. He would have to haul up some wood.
Downstairs, at the door to the kitchen, he knocked, heard a muffled “Come in,” and pushed the door open. Damp warm air, scented with woman, made him take a step back.
“For heaven’s sake, come in and close the door. You’re letting in a draft.”
Chuckling, he obeyed.
Ye Gods,the sight of him sent a tremble through her that had nothing to do with the air. He’d changed out of the clinging shirt that had plastered him, but he was still only partially dressed. His shirt front flapped at the neck, revealing tanned skin, scattered dark hair, and a neck corded with muscles. He was as sinfully handsome as one of the sculptures of the blasted gods gracing the British Museum.
He’d never been one for painting such myths, though. She’d discovered him that year eking out a living selling landscapes. But years ago when he came to Cransdall, he was known for his paintings of horses—that skill had caught Mama’s interest—and his portraits.
Oh, yes. She’d learned more of his subjects much later: rich Cits, well-kept mistresses, and one very rich widow who’d kept him for months as aguest.
An unladylike growl rumbled out of her.
Truly, it had been the horses that brought him to Cransdall. After painting Godolphin’s progeny, Fox had stayed to do all of the human portraits—her mother’s, Bakeley’s, Charley’s, and hers. It had taken him months. He’d left behind four portraits—five counting the horse.
And he’d left with one priceless masterpiece he’d lifted from the wall in her mother’s rooms, just before Mama’s death.
Bakeley said it wasn’t so. He’d said it when Mother died, and he’d said it again a few months ago, before the ball held to celebrate his and Sirena’s marriage.
Perry had seen no proof of innocence. She’d so wanted to question Fox about the subject on the night of the ball, but he’d slipped away quietly, and when she’d had a chance to sneak off and visit his rooms, he’d left London entirely.
Fox tugged at his loose collar. “You’re warm enough, I see.”
She swallowed against the tickle in her throat. “And you are half-dressed. Where is your coat? Your neck cloth?”
He waved a hand in the general direction of clothing-draped chairs. “Are they dry yet?”
He’d found a fresh shirt and waistcoat inthishouse. “Have you more clothes at the inn?” she asked.
“No, Lady Perpetua.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling.
