He was still half naked.
He had not used the time to make himself presentable. He’d taken the chance to pour a drink. He stood in profile, making scrunched faces into a wineglass to assess its cleanliness.
“Wine?” he asked.
She shook her head. Thanks to his indecent display, a ferocious blush was already burning its way over her skin. Up her throat, over her cheeks, up to her hairline. She hardly needed to throw wine on the flames.
As he poured a glass for himself, she couldn’t help but stare at his leanly muscled torso, so helpfully limned by firelight. She’d been used to thinking him a devil, but he had the body of a god. A lesser one. His wasn’t the physique of a hulking, over-muscled Zeus or Poseidon, but rather a lean, athletic Apollo or Mercury. A body built not to bludgeon, but to hunt. Not to lumber, but to race. Not to overpower unsuspecting naiads where they bathed, but to . . .
Seduce.
He glanced up. She looked away.
“I’m sorry to wake you,” she said.
“You didn’t wake me.”
“Truly?” She frowned at him. “Then . . . for as long as it took you to answer the door, you might have put on some clothes.”
With a devilish grin, he indicated his trousers. “I did.”
Well. Now her cheeks all but caught fire. She dropped into the armchair, wishing she could disappear into its seams.
For God’s sake, Minerva, take hold of yourself. Diana’s future is at stake.
Setting the wine on the table, he moved to some wooden shelves that seemed to serve as his wardrobe. To the side, a row of hooks supported his outerwear. A red officer’s coat, for the local militia he led in the Earl of Rycliff’s absence. A few finely tailored, outrageously expensive-looking topcoats from Town. A greatcoat in charcoal-gray wool.
He passed over all these, grabbed a simple lawn shirt, and yanked it over his head. Once he’d thrust his arms through the sleeves, he held them out to either side for her appraisal. “Better?”
Not really. The gaping collar still displayed a wide view of his chest—only with a lascivious wink instead of a frank stare. If anything, he looked more indecent. Less of an untouchable, chiseled god and more of a raffish pirate king.
“Here.” He took the greatcoat from its hook and brought it to her. “It’s dry, at least.”
Once he’d settled the coat over her lap, he pressed the glass of wine into her hand. A signet ring flashed on his little finger, shooting gold through the glass’s stem.
“No arguments. You’re shivering so hard, I can hear your teeth chatter. The fire and coat help, but they can’t warm you inside.”
Minerva accepted the glass and took a careful sip. Her fingers did tremble, but not entirely from the cold.
He pulled up a stool, sat on it, and fixed her with an expectant look. “So.”
“So,” she echoed, stupidly.
Her mother was right in this respect. Minerva considered herself a reasonably intelligent person, but good heavens . . . handsome men made her stupid. She grew so flustered around them, never knew where to look or what to say. The reply meant to be witty and clever would come out sounding bitter or lame. Sometimes a teasing remark from Lord Payne’s quarter quelled her into dumb silence altogether. Only days later, while she was banging away at a cliff face with a rock hammer, would the perfect retort spring to mind.
Remarkable. The longer she stared at him now, the more she could actually feel her intelligence waning. A day’s growth of whiskers only emphasized the strong cut of his jaw. His mussed brown hair had just a hint of roguish wave. And his eyes . . . he had eyes like Bristol diamonds. Small round geodes, halved and polished to a gleam. An outer ring of flinty hazel enclosed cool flashes of quartz. A hundred crystalline shades of amber and gray.
She squeezed her eyes shut. Enough dithering. “Do you mean to marry my sister?”
Seconds passed. “Which one?”
“Diana,“ she exclaimed. “Diana, of course. Charlotte being all of fifteen.”
He shrugged. “Some men like a young bride.”
“Some men have sworn off marriage entirely. You told me you were one of them.”
“I told you that? When?”
“Surely you remember. That night.”
He stared at her, obviously nonplussed. “We had ‘a night’?”
“Not how you’re thinking.” Months ago now, she’d confronted him in the Summerfield gardens about his scandalous indiscretions and his intentions toward her sister. They’d clashed. Then they’d somehow tangled—bodily—until a few cutting insults severed the knot.
Curse her scientific nature, so relentlessly observant. Minerva resented the details she’d gleaned in those moments. She did not need to know that his bottom waistcoat button was exactly in line with her fifth vertebra, or that he smelled faintly of leather and cloves. But even now, months later, she couldn’t seem to jettison the information.
Especially not when she sat huddled in his greatcoat, embraced by borrowed warmth and the same spicy, masculine scent.
Naturally, he’d forgotten the encounter entirely. No surprise. Most days, he couldn’t even remember Minerva’s name. If he spoke to her at all, it was only to tease.
“Last summer,” she reminded him, “you told me you had no intentions of proposing to Diana. Or anyone. But today, gossip in the village says different.”
“Does it?” He twisted his signet ring. “Well, your sister is lovely and elegant. And your mother’s made no secret that she’d welcome the match.”
Minerva curled her toes in her boots. “That’s putting it mildly.”
Last year, the Highwoods had come to this seaside village for a summer holiday. The sea air was supposed to improve Diana’s health. Well, Diana’s health had long been improved and summer was long gone, yet the Highwoods remained—all because of Mama’s hopes for a match between Diana and this charming viscount. So long as Lord Payne was in Spindle Cove, Mama would not hear of returning home. She’d even developed an uncharacteristic streak of optimism—each morning declaring as she stirred her chocolate, “I feel it, girls. Today is the day he proposes.”
And though Minerva knew Lord Payne to be the worst sort of man, she had never found it in herself to object. Because she loved it here. She didn’t want to leave. In Spindle Cove, she finally . . . belonged.
Here, in her own personal paradise, she explored the rocky, fossil-studded coast free from care or censure, cataloging findings that could set England’s scientific community on its ear. The only thing that kept her from being completely happy was Lord Payne’s presence—and through one of life’s strange ironies, his presence was the very reason she was able to stay.