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He paused at the sound of a squeak emerging from a bush partway up the gravel path. An animal perhaps? Branches swayed and leaves rustled. Too big to be an animal. An intruder?
He approached with deliberate steps, aware of the tiny crunch beneath his feet, despite moving slowly. His breath held, he rounded the bush.
An unholy scream ripped through the leaves.
He jumped back a few steps and clapped a hand over his eyes. Not just someone.
Chastity.
“What the devil are you doing?” he asked from the comforting darkness behind his hand.
She huffed. “Trying. To. Get. This. Wretched. Dress. Off.” She huffed again. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he muttered and split his fingers to peer through the gap. Lace, petticoats and a hint of bare back made up the crouched pile that was Chastity.
He lowered the hand slowly. “Why are you dressed like that?” He gestured to the expensive silks.
“I had to meet with my sisters.” She narrowed her gaze at him, remaining low behind the bush.
If anyone looked out, they would see him having a conversation with a plant and conclude he had well and truly lost his wits.
“You know, you could cease staring and help me.”
He jolted. Had he been staring? His gaze landed back on the bare shoulder marred only by a thin strap and grimaced. Yes. Yes, he had.
Ducking behind the bush, he eyed the back of her open gown and hesitated. It had been a long time since he’d undressed a woman. Even in—what?—five years, things could have changed.
“Come on, Valentine,” she urged. “I need to get back to work before someone notices my absence.”
“There must have been an easier way to see your sisters.” He hovered a hand over the tiny buttons at the back of her gown. “How did you even get into it in the first place?”
“With difficulty,” she said. “But it was easier than trying to get it undone. I am not used to doing this alone.”
She meant without the aid of a lady’s maid. But he could only picture some strange man’s hands upon the buttons, and he clenched his jaw when a rush of blood seared through him. She was a widow, after all, and it would not be at all against Society if she took a lover, so long as she remained discreet.
But he’d be damned if he liked that thought.
“Valentine?” She glanced over her shoulder, her chin against the bare skin.
He doubted she had any idea of the coy image she created—the lover beckoning some lucky man to bed.
God’s wounds, what was wrong with him? Just help the woman out of her clothing and not think about lovers. He’d gone this long without sex—he could survive a few more weeks with her in his house. After all, if silks and talk of lady’s maids did not remind him of her station in life, then nothing would. Chastity was no maid but a duke’s daughter. She was everything he hated about Society.
If only he could remember quite why he hated it so much now.
He fumbled his way through the buttons then rose, turned his back, and waited, listening to the rustle of clothing and the odd huff of annoyance. Fists clenched so tight his knuckles hurt, he stared at the row of rose bushes lining the pathway and the oak trees just beyond.
“You can turn around now.”
He inched around and eased out a breath to see her back in her plain uniform and cap. A strand of hair coiled down the back of her neck and he flexed his fingers whilst fighting the desire to tuck it into the cap.
“You need to be more cautious. What if someone had spotted you?”
“Why do you think I was behind this bush?”
“I spotted you,” he reminded her.
“Well, you are the only member of the household who would be strolling around here in the heat of the day.”
