“Evading death’s clutches does tend to make one appreciate the smaller pleasures in life.”
He couldn’t imagine she wouldn’t be a pleasure. Based on her blush, she was very good at readinginnuendos. With her about, they seemed to roll off his tongue without thought.
“Have you a couple of additional blankets? I could make a nest here in which to sleep.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not taking the only bed while a lady is in residence.”
“You are very much aware I’m not a lady.”
“However, I am a gentleman, so you’ll be perfectly safe from any untoward advances... and alone up there.” He jerked his head toward the ceiling and the room above them.
“While you’ll be safe and alone down here.” She picked at a piece of lint or something he couldn’t quite see as her gaze traveled the back of the sofa like she was measuring it. “The bed is large enough that we could both snuggle into it, and it would probably be like sleeping in separate countries.”
No, it damned well would not. Not when she was wearing only his bloody shirt. Would she keep it on once she was beneath the covers or, like him, did she prefer to sleep without any clothing at all? “Since the railway accident, I don’t sleep all that well or that much. I’ll be perfectly fine here.”
Cramped, if not fine. He could always stretch out on the floor if need be.
“If you’re certain. I hate to inconvenience you.”
“Then the next time you see a storm brewing, stay on land.”
“Where’s the fun in that, in never taking a risk?”
“It’ll keep you out of trouble.”
“Knowing what you know of me, my lord, do you honestly believe I shy away from trouble?”
She unfolded herself and stood. He caught a peek at her toes. Since he was no longer tending to her, he decided that if she wanted to flash portions of herself at him, it would be rude not to take note. Because hewasa gentleman, he shoved himself to his feet. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
She closed her eyes, opened them. “This is no doubt a pointless question, but you wouldn’t happen to have a sewing basket, would you?”
Alarm skittered through him. “Have you a gash that needs to be sewn up?”
He hadn’t seen one and could detect no bleeding now.
“No, but I will need something to wear when you take me back to the mainland. Your trousers are far too loose. I thought I could use a blanket to sew a simple skirt. I’ll send you a replacement when I’ve returned to London.”
Had she tried on a pair of his trousers? He didn’t know why he was tempted to ask her to put them back on so he could see exactly how they fit. For some reason, the thought of her in his trousers was more alluring than her in his shirt.
“I do have a sewing basket.” He walked over to a chair beside the fire and picked up a small wicker basket with a lid. “Actually, it’s my mother’s. She comes over to visit sometimes and is firmly against idle hands. Although I think most of the thread is embroidery silk.” His mother had left the basket behind becauseone never knew when one might be in want of needle and thread.
As if he was going to mend his clothing shouldit become ripped or frayed. Or bother to reattach a button. Or begin embroidering samplers.
Still he’d graciously thanked her because he knew she was worried about him. She tended to worry over all her children, not in a smothering manner, but in a way that demonstrated her deep love for them. His mother knew of no other way in which to love than deeply.
Having grown up watching the example set by his mother and father, he’d been unwilling to settle for anything less than the sort of marriage they had. Unfortunately, he wondered if he might be left with nothing at all. What woman—when she learned the truth of him—would want him as he was now? At least as a husband. A woman of ill repute might not give a bloody damn concerning his shortcomings as long as he kept her ensconced in all the trappings that had led her down that sinful path to begin with.
With gratitude in her eyes, Marlowe took the basket from him. “Thank you.” Then she tossed aside the blanket. “I’ll leave that for you. You’ll need it down here.”
Christ. Arches. Heels, ankles, calves, knees, and a portion of her thighs. The hem of his shirt lounged only a quarter of the way down her leg. Was that a freckle on her right knee?
“Good night, my lord.” She began walking toward the doorway.
“You don’t have to be so formal, Marlowe. After all, you’re wearing my shirt.”
“An expensive one at that, based on the softness of the linen and the tidiness of the stitching. PerhapsI’ll visit your tailor to have a shirt made specifically for me.”
He could well imagine the controversy that would cause. But, after all, the woman attracted controversy the way a magnet did metal shavings. Then she was sauntering out, and it took everything within him not to follow her like a besotted fool.
