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“No. Just sleeping too soundly.”
“It’s nearly time for dinner.”
He rubbed a hand over the nape of his neck. “I’d best dress then. Thank you for waking me.”
When the door began to close, Cynthia huffed and slipped past him into the room. “Nick, I’m terrified. I don’t think I should attend.”
He shut the door with an irritated snap, then leaned against it with his arms crossed. “Whatever are you talking about?” His teeth chattered a bit over the words.
“Perhaps you should get back into bed. Are you sure you’re well?” She started to reach a hand toward his brow, but changed her mind at the way he stiffened.
“I’m only chilled and I’d like to dress, so if you could excuse me…”
“Would you simply dress then? I have seen it all quite clearly before. Though not in the past few days, I might mention.”
He scowled at her as he passed. “Agree to marry me and I’ll agree to see to your needs again.”
“Arrogant cur,” she muttered. “And I would recommend against your taking naps. They seem to leave you in a foul mood.”
“After catching a glimpse of that portrait you started of Emma last night, I found myself incapable of sleep.”
“Lout.”
Ignoring her, he shucked off his robe and tossed it on the bed. Cynthia forgot her irritation, and lost herself in the sight of his naked back as he rifled through the wardrobe. His buttocks tensed and relaxed in a fascinating rhythm as he shifted and moved. His muscles created hollows that begged her fingers for a thorough study of the contours of his body. And his thighs looked so hard, nothing like hers. Solid muscle dusted lightly with fur. She’d never touched his thighs, but now her mouth watered with the lust to do so. Her sex melted.
But Nick’s uncooperative mood foiled her fantasy. He pulled a starched shirt over his head and the hem fell to cover him all the way to the tops of his thighs.
Cynthia sighed.
“Are you ogling me?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Yes.”
He tugged on trousers with a smirk, facing her fully as he buttoned them closed. “My. I do believe Somerhart’s a tad slimmer than I.”
“If I had an extra set of stays I’d let you borrow them.”
“Oh, I’ve got my own,” he said with a wink. “That’s why I wanted you to leave, damn you.” His eyes sparkled as he took a starched cravat from the wardrobe, and Cynthia’s stomach let go of its worry. He looked better. The sweat had dried and the blood had returned to his face.
His eyes dipped down her body. “You are breathtaking.”
“Really?” She ran a reverent hand down the deep gold silk of the dress. “You seemed to be breathing quite easily for a while there.”
“An illusion.” His gaze lingered on her décolletage. “I assure you I am quite weak.”
Cynthia raised her chin. “Your weakness would have been better served before you dressed.”
Winding the dark blue cravat around his neck, he kept his eyes on her. “I’m not sure you are entirely decent, Cyn. Even aside from the danger of a chest cold, I don’t like it at all.”
She glanced down to the rise of her breasts above the gown. She’d spent a good fifteen minutes studying them in her room. “Emma told me my breasts were perfection.”
“And so they are. Too much perfection.”
She tugged at the neckline. “Stop it! I am nervous enough without you making me feel like a cow past the milking hour!”
“Have mercy, Cyn,” he choked out before collapsing against the wardrobe in laughter.
She tugged again. “Is the dress inappropriate? Emma had it taken out just for me, and I’d hate to be ungracious, but I don’t think I should go. I won’t go.”
