She’d gone about it in her usual straightforward fashion. She could see that now—dash it, she’d been able to see it then too, only she had not known how to do it any differently. She had, on one memorable occasion, accused a little circle of Cassandra’s admirers of rank avarice, only to later discover that the slight, elegant fellow in the back of the crowd was the grandson of a royal duke and also Cassandra’s favorite.
Cassandra had turned scarlet. Another one of the debutantes, her arm linked with Cassandra’s, had murmured, “Don’t mind her, Cassie. She’s only jealous that you have all the beaux and she has none at all.”
Ruby had swallowed back the hot feeling lodged in her throat and fled for the library. And the duke’s grandson had ceased calling on Cassandra.
No, she thought now. She should not confront the Pomeroy House staff directly. She was bound to say too much, too frankly. In all her well-intentioned forthrightness, she might somehow reveal that she, Alice, and Tamsin weren’t meant to be in the house at all.
She reversed course, heading away from the kitchen, and found her way outside through one of the exterior doors. If therewasa wine cellar—or a larder, or an ice house, or some other place for storing food—it would almost certainly be accessible to deliveries from the road.
The sun shone hot on her face as she prowled around the outside of the mansion in the direction of the kitchens. There were barrels of flowers everywhere out here—alliums and irises and delphiniums in a profusion of summer color. Ruby looked carefully for any apparent door that might lead to a larder or—
She froze mid-step.
Captain Malcolm Archer was standing beside the door to the kitchen.
And he was not wearing a shirt.
Ruby was a connoisseur of classical statuary. She had seen the Platonic ideal of the human form represented in paint and marble across continents, across centuries.
She had never, ever seen anything like Captain Malcolm Archer. His musculature flexed and leapt beneath his skin, all leashed power. His skin glistened with perspiration, gilded and wildly alive. His shoulders were just this side of too broad, and the tanned expanse of his skin was marked by flecked rope burns and old scars.
He was no statue. This was a body that was lived in, that had fought, that had forged its own way in a hostile world.
As she watched, Captain Archer picked up a bucket and upended it over his head. Cool, clear water spilled out, soaking his thick black hair and running in rivulets down his skin.
In the sun, the droplets sparkled, calling the eye to every place on his body they traversed. The sweep of his shoulders—the impossible ridges of his abdomen—the trail of black hair that clung to his belly and down, vanishing beneath the flimsy waistband of his—
Ruby suppressed the sound that wanted to emerge from her mouth, which she feared might have beeneek. Her left foot, she realized, was still suspended in the air, so she returned it deliberately to the ground. And then, rather squeakily if she were honest with herself, she cleared her throat.
Captain Archer had to dash the water from his brow before he could see her. There was more rippling of muscles—Rubytriednot to gape, which was impossible—and then he opened his eyes and took her in.
And then—curse the man. He smiled. Dimples carved themselves into place on either side of his mouth.
“Lady Ruby,” he murmured, “what a surprise. How may I assist you?”
She gazed at him in almost affronted astonishment. He had no shirt on, for heaven’s sake, and still he smiled like that. Could the man truly be so comfortable in his own skin?
Ruby could not imagine such self-assurance. But then again, she’d also never imagined the human form in such glistening artistic perfection, so evidently her imagination had previously unperceived limits.
“Nothing,” she squeaked—dash it, still squeaking?—and ducked around him, pressing her body to the mansion’s granite wall. “Only... taking some exercise.” She lifted her arms, then dropped them, and then wondered what in God’s name she was doing. “The Cornish air is so salubrious!”
She was going to combust, she suspected, from the shocking temperature of her cheeks and the ongoing force of Malcolm Archer’s half-naked body.
Fortunately, before her incineration could properly begin, her hand found the door to the kitchen.
And then, to her surprise, Captain Archer’s hand came to the door as well. Not to the handle—no, his palm was flat against the wooden surface, somewhere at the level of her head. He leaned in toward her.
Ruby’s brain waved pirate flags and began to play a frantic, tuneful alarm.
“Shall we walk together?” he asked smoothly. “I can escort you down to St. Petroc’s, if that’s your aim.”
“Oh—no. I’m finished, actually.” She fumbled for the handle. “All done. Fully exercised.”
He spoke more quickly. “Perhaps I can persuade you to walk with me down to the beach, then. There are some mineral formations that might interest you.”
“No. No. I’m quite certain—”
“Lady Ruby, I—”
