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Chris’s head snapped back. What the bloody hell was she doing? He didn’t curse out loud, however. Because he’d already used profanity in her presence once and she’d promptly made fun of him.
Why did he care about what one silly girl thought? Well, that had been her phrase, actually. He’d been thinking something more like beautiful or delightful. Regardless, he was Lord Christian Craven, a baron, who would someday inherit his father’s title of viscount. Why did he remain silent because one little country miss disapproved?
To be fair, he was often quiet. But in the case of Miss Bianca Moorish, he’d avoided speaking for several other reasons as well. To begin, she was uncommonly beautiful. The sort of pretty that made every muscle in his body clench. And she had this innocence. Like her smile lit heaven instead of the small village square of Seabridge Gate.
She had light blue eyes that sparkled in the sun and dark hair curling just enough to dance in the breeze. Her face had a lovely heart shape and her lips were full and sweet as though they’d been kissed by summer strawberries. Just looking at her made him ache.
Women like that didn’t fancy men like him. They preferred Dane Dashwood with his striking blue eyes and his windswept hair.
He grimaced as she placed a foot on one of the lower branches. First because he caught a generous glimpse of a slender ankle and shapely calf but mostly because he couldn’t believe she was actually going to climb. “Miss Moorish,” he bit out, ducking under the branch that separated them.
Bianca waved, not looking at him. She’d hardly looked at him the entire morning they’d been searching for that damnable cat. Which was infuriating considering he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her.
He watched her slender hand wrap around a branch. “Y-you’ll dirty your glove.” Damn. Had he stuttered? He hadn’t done that in at least a decade. His fingers clenched around the branch as he snapped his jaw closed. Had she noticed?
She stopped, dropping her foot again. “You’re right.”
She pulled the gloves from her hands, first deftly undoing the row of tiny buttons. It was like watching the intricate inner workings of a clock the way her fingers undid those little pearls with such ease. Then, she pulled the cloths off, exposing her long, tapered, creamy fingers. He gulped. They were as beautiful as the rest of her.
“Don’t tell my family I did this,” she said, dropping the gloves until they fell into his waiting hand. When had he stuck the damn thing out to catch them? Not that she noticed. She still looked up into the branches again.
He drew in a steadying breath, not daring to answer. As a child, he’d stuttered constantly. Of course, his father beat him every time he did, which only seemed to make the stutter worse. So he’d just stopped talking. Eventually, he’d mastered the damn impediment but not before he’d learned the art of silence. And how to glare. What he’d never quite learned was how to make small talk.
She looked over at him, as though expecting an answer and then looked away again with a small frown.
He clenched a fist and tried again. “Why shouldn’t I tell your family? They don’t approve of tree climbing?” His words came out slowly, which made him sound like an imbecile, but at least he hadn’t stuttered. And why did this woman make him nervous enough to do so? Yes, she was beautiful, but he’d met beautiful women before. And certainly she didn’t approve of him, but so few ladies of quality did, he wasn’t certain why she’d unsettled him so.
“We did grow up in the country. Most of my sisters are quite adept at climbing cliffs, trees, hillsides, and even the occasional trellis.” She wrinkled her nose. “But I’m not particularly good at those pursuits so they often tell me I shouldn’t do them.”
He frowned, looking up into the tree. He should climb up to get the cat instead of her. But he rehearsed the words in his head before saying them and by the time he tried to utter them, she’d already started up the branches. He caught sight of her ankle again as she hoisted herself and moved hand over hand into the canopy of the tree. She gathered her skirts, exposing her stockings and those lovely little ankles.
“I should climb up instead of you,” he called after her.
She waved, causing the chiffon of her gown to flutter about. “No need. It’s easy climbing.” Then she started making cute little kissing noises again. “Mittens.”
He tried to relax the tight knot that had formed in his chest. As a baron he’d spent some time in the company of virtuous ladies. Mostly he just glared and they gave up attempting to speak with him.
It wasn’t that he disliked them, he just preferred the company of women who didn’t need to talk. He did his best work when no words were required. Which was probably why he was dreaming of kissing a trail up that shapely little calf and then climbing higher under her skirts.
“Oh. I’ve found the cat,” she called down. Then almost immediately, “Drat.”
“Drat?” he repeated, grabbing the branch next to him. “What’s wrong?”
“It isn’t Mittens.” Not two seconds later, a cat came streaking from the tree, landing lightly on the ground, and sprinted across the square.
“Drat,” she said again.
“Drat?” he repeated because he didn’t know what else to say.
“Yes. Drat.” He heard her sigh, a high sweet sound that vibrated across his ears. “I seem to be stuck.”
Chapter Two
Bianca tugged at her skirt again, wishing she were a man. She didn’t mean it truly. Men just seemed to have an easier time with this sort of thing. Well, lots of women too. But, if she was male right now, she wouldn’t be wearing a dress and she’d be able to curse with utter abandon at her situation. She’d like to say “bloody hell” right about now and not even feel bad about uttering such blasphemies.
But the man below her made her feel uncomfortable and awkward. She’d been trying to ignore him for the better part of an hour, but she’d mostly just succeeded in saying foolish things, and now she’d gotten herself stuck.
The tree creaked and she realized he was climbing toward her. She gripped the tree tighter, letting out a squeak. How could she ignore him in the close confines of the branches? “Lord Craven, there is no need to climb up here. I can surely get myself out of this tree. I’m sure if I just tug my skirt…” She did so, hearing the fabric tear. Well, double drat.
