What a dashing friend indeed. The ever-polite duke had a certain roguish appeal with his black eye patch and jagged scar trailing down the bottom of it. He was full of surprises. Best of all was his willingness to try something new—with her.
She advanced on him, hips swaying, skirts swishing. “I assure you, this is not a game.”
Amiable air drifted, and the same elemental threads that inhabited their stolen glances connected them. His eye was a silver-coin hue, brighter from sunlight washing the room. The pale color was uncanny. Piercing and hawkish for an otherwise proper gentleman. The pain was clearly gone, or he was distracted by the bee-like hum thriving beneath the surface of their conversation.
Her flesh prickled with awareness. There’d be no getting around this.
“I need to explain the remedy, Your Grace.”
“Yes?”
Cradling the jar with both hands, she could be a virtuous woman about to bestow a gift, which made what she said next wholly incongruent.
“First, you must remove your breeches.”
CHAPTER 3
“WHAT?” he sputtered, the second time in a single day.
“You heard me. You must remove your breeches and allow me to administer the oil. Then, you will put your injured leg in the butter churn.”
He dragged a hand over his head. “Yes, I heard you the first time. About my breeches that is.” He paced the short distance between the hearth and the settee and back to the hearth again. “I expected a tincture. Something horrid that I would endure simply to have this afternoon alone with you.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that.” She beamed as gorgeously as forbidden fruit would.
Sun bathed Mrs. Chatham in angelic light, a contradiction to the blatant sensuality thrumming between them.
“It’s for the good of your leg. You see my father was a physician. I assisted him from time to time, and one of his favorite remedies was to soak a sore limb in hot water with—” she raised the jar for visual proof “—oil of amber.”
They were in an awkward staring contest. Her smiling a tad salaciously with the jar in hand and he, gathering his wits. She must think his brains were in his ballocks.
For a moment, they were.
He’d been close to pinning Mrs. Chatham to the wall (twice!) and kissing her saucy mouth.
Thus, it took all his might to summon years of breeding to the fore. One wrong whisper and the family name would be counted scurrilous. If there was one thing he understood, it was decorum and what was at stake. His father was the epitome of goodness. No foul business dealings. No mistresses or babes born on the wrong side of the blanket. The pressure was immense, the responsibility considerable, but he would carry on the Richland banner.
He waved his hand irritably at the butter churn. “This appears to be a pediluvium. A rustic one at that. My leg pains me, madame, not my head.”
“I know, but I beg your tolerance.”
Soaking one’s foot was an accepted treatment for headaches, but what Mrs. Chatham suggested was unorthodox. And titillating. He’d had his fill of being poked and prodded, a thing he’d tolerated for months since the accident until he put down the ducal foot as it were, refusing any physicians to come near him.
“It sounds like medical heresy,” he groused.
“You’ve already taken an unusual approach with your leg.” She ambled closer, her voice soothing. “When the best doctors urged you to stay abed for a year and drown your pain in laudanum, you didn’t listen. Instead, once the bone healed, you exercised your leg.”
He swallowed peculiar dryness in his throat. She was appealing to his sense of reason, and it was working. So did the effect of her nearness. If he was honest, his current discomfit stemmed more from desiring his neighbor and suffering their mutual denial—made worse by her request that he remove his breeches.
Golden light limned Mrs. Chatham. Dust moats floated behind her, caught in the sun’s brilliance flooding the room. With her head tipped, those errant honey-blond tresses brushed her neck. She was luminescent. Well within his reach yet untouchable.
And
“Today’s bout is probably because you’ve sat more than usual,” she went on, standing close enough for him to count her eyelashes. “You’re an energetic man. Give this a try, Your Grace. You won’t regret it.”
She was mellowing him. It was true. He’d done well with long walks, advancing to building not one but two follies on Richland grounds. Physical exertion had helped. The projects staved his boredom, healed his soul, and strengthened a body grown weak after the accident.
His heart thudded against his ribs while he breathed deeply of Mrs. Chatham’s perfume. She had a talent for enthralling him. For making him
Thus, he found himself slipping free of his coat. The murmur of cloth on cloth was seductive, especially with her watching.
