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“But the others—”
“Bertram knows I’m here. He’s keeping your aunt occupied for the time I need to…apologise to you for my deplorable behaviour the last time we met, and now you’ve provided me with the perfect opportunity.” He lent across and reached for her hand and suddenly he really did feel the need to atone. Let him play the gentleman and let her peek as much as she wished.
He had to swallow to get the next words out for the effects of the curdling warmth he felt at the simple touch of her soft palm against his big, strong, calloused one took him completely by surprise. A great wave of tenderness enveloped him and suddenly he wanted only to hunker down, envelop her in his arms and…just hold her for now, she was so very sweet and appealing.
Instead he said, all manliness, “If you would avert your eyes, I’ll do what I need to in order to retrieve your aunt’s locket. We can emerge at different times to preserve modesty, naturally.” Unable to stop himself, he brushed her cheek with the back of his hand.
He was not prepared for the effect this simple act had on him.
Like a charge of lightning, the softness of her skin communicated itself to his core in a great surge of feeling, and as her large, innocent eyes looked fearfully up at him, Sylvester was swept by the overwhelming desire to be her champion. A champion in far more than simply retrieving a lost locket, or indeed showing her what delights life had to offer. That seemed suddenly venal and self serving. No, he wanted to be her real knight in shining armour. “I pledge that I shan’t do anything that might embarrass you, Miss Brightwell.” He inched his head a little closer and could hear her short, sharp breaths. Either she was distraught about the locket or his closeness was having as intense an effect on her as it was on him.
“Would you? Fetch the locket I mean? I dare not face Aunt Minerva without it.” She turned, covering her face with her hands. “Don’t worry, Mr Grayling, I won’t look.”
Sylvester rolled his eyes as he unbuttoned his breeches, staring pointedly at her back and willing her to venture a quick glance over her shoulder as he divested himself of all his clothes. Let her look now an
d see what she thought so he could gauge how he might proceed.
But she stood up and walked a little distance away, staring doggedly at the shrubbery, tense as if she were terrified they’d be surprised.
“Do hurry, Mr Grayling, though I’m so sorry for the inconvenience. I’d go amongst those trees if it wouldn’t expose me to the others,” she added, as if she truly were concerned for his modesty. “Just tell me when you’re…when it’s all right to turn around.”
She could turn around anytime, and the fact she obviously meant when he was good and dressed was not helpful for his sense of manliness, or what he intended over the next few weeks.
Perhaps, in view of her extreme fearfulness, icy water was just what he needed right now. Simply perusing the sweep of her neck as it met her shoulders and the anticipation he felt for running his tongue over the small beauty spot which peeped out like an enticement when he looked down her décolletage had made him hard with desire. Desire had, indeed, supplanted the gentler, protective feelings that had risen to the fore, earlier.
Taking a deep breath, he plunged into the water. It was not deep, but retrieving the locket required full immersion. Fortunately it was easy to locate and within a few moments he was back on dry land.
It was not appropriate to reveal himself, he’d decided earlier, yet surely she would want to know what a real man looked like. He knew it was vanity that he wished Miss Brightwell to observe the delineations of his chest; he wanted her to admire him as a well-made man with strengths; one who had no need of the padding some of his sex resorted to in order to be admired in their tight-fitting pantaloons.
So he waited a moment, not covering himself before crying out triumphantly, “I’ve got it!” as he stepped onto a flat rock just as she swung round in response to his voice.
With a cry, she clapped her hands to her mouth and swung back to look at the trees again. Sylvester grinned at her rigid back though his tone suggested embarrassment. He’d let the error appear to be Miss Brightwell’s this time.
“A thousand apologies, Miss Brightwell, I hadn’t meant for you to turn around just yet, only to announce that I’d been successful.” He shrugged on his shirt as he spoke, wishing he could see her face.
Her voice sounded strangled. “And when you were only trying to help me. I’m mortified, as you must be, sir. I…I don’t know what to say except…”
“No, I’ve shocked you and I understand the discomfort you must be feeling.” He spoke softly as he finished dressing, moving to say over her shoulder, his lips close to her ear, “I think we must pretend it never happened.”
She turned her face up to his and nodded earnestly.
“Just like the kiss,” he added, his lips just brushing her cheek.
She nodded again, staring at him as if mesmerized. A kernel as large and hard as a walnut seemed lodged in his own throat. Unable to help himself, he moved his face close to hers.
“I behaved in the most shameful manner, Miss Brightwell. I hope you can forgive me. But truly, I was overcome.”
“Overcome?” she repeated, her eyes trained on his lips…which suddenly were grazing hers.
And then she was in his arms and he was cradling her for but the briefest moment before he tore himself away, setting her back on her feet as he stepped back, as if shocked.
“I don’t know what I was thinking, Miss Brightwell. Please forgive me! I must go!”
Without another word, he took that path that led into the woods and soon was far from the intriguing, confusing—and, he hoped, confused and equally intrigued—Miss Brightwell while his own equilibrium was, surprisingly, more than a little ruffled.
Thea remained on the path watching his retreating back. He didn’t hurry away as if he were embarrassed. He didn’t scuttle away in that half-cringing manner Dr Horne had when he left a room. Instead, despite having just been observed naked by a lady, he almost sauntered. The loose swinging of his arms and his easy gait were the hallmarks of a man without a care in the world.
Oh, to have no cares would be a wonderful thing. Mr Grayling was handsome and in search of a wife. Her cousins affirmed this was so. He had a comfortable living and he was personable. And, oh my goodness but he looked utterly irresistible without his clothes on.
