When Beauty Tamed the Beast
Page 17“Oh.”
“I swim naked as well,” he said, “but without a bathing machine.”
“What about privacy?”
They were making their way down the rocky path that led to the pool. He negotiated it with ease, seeming to know precisely where to place his cane.
“I can’t say I really give a damn, but Prufrock kept sending patients down here, so I finally decided to keep my pump-handle to myself. See that sign?” He nodded toward a piece of wood hammered into the ground, with a red crossbar. “If I swing the crossbar vertical, like that”—he pulled it up—“no one in the household dares to continue.”
She nodded.
He pushed it horizontal again. “If you decide to go swimming, be sure to put up the crossbar.”
Linnet opened her mouth to say Oh, I couldn’t, and then shut it again. Why couldn’t she? She wasn’t a debutante who had to watch herself every moment to make sure she wasn’t labeled improper.
She was a ruined woman. If nothing else, ruined women were presumably allowed to swim.
The very thought made her grin.
“What’s so funny?” Piers asked, irritably.
“The thought of you wiggling around in the water,” she said. Adding, “Lord Marchant,” just to annoy him a little more.
“I don’t wiggle,” he retorted. “I’ll show you, if you like.” They had reached the edge of the pool, so he dropped her arm. “I generally dive in here.” He pointed to a flat rock overlooking the basin of water.
Linnet bent down. The water was deliciously cool, running past her fingers as if it were alive.
“You could go in right now,” Piers said, watching her. “You look a bit sweaty and hot. Your face is all red. It’s probably all that stuffing you have around your waist.”
“It’s very impolite of you to mention the color of my face,” Linnet said, feeling a bit stung. “And I am certainly not going swimming in front of you!”
She straightened up. “I am sorry for that,” she said.
“Why? Because I’m not susceptible to your undoubted charms? I can see that would be a bit of a shock.”
“Naturally that. But also because men . . .” She trailed off, unsure how to phrase it.
“Because men are lusty creatures, and I’m not? Most women are as well.”
“I’m not,” she said cheerfully.
He cocked an eyebrow. “The prince must have been so disappointed.”
“Probably,” she said. “Though I was never quite sure why he was flirting with me. We both knew that we had no future together.”
“He probably liked to laugh,” the earl said. It was the first nice thing he’d said to her.
“I should return to the castle,” Linnet said. “I’m going to sprout freckles.”
He shrugged. “Pigmentation spots can be quite charming. Though I did once treat a patient who’d bought freckle-water at the chemist. It took quite a bit of skin off her right cheek.”
Linnet shuddered and started back up the path.
“Aren’t you waiting for me?” he growled behind her. “I was starting to think that you couldn’t walk without a prop on one side. At least we had that in common: the basis for a beautiful friendship.”
He held out his arm and she took it. “I don’t know why I even suggested swimming,” he said. “A lady would never put a toe into the ocean here. It’s cold.”
“I would,” Linnet stated. She didn’t care how cold it was; she was longing to throw herself into that sapphire sea. “So the household truly obeys you with regard to that sign?”
“They’re terrified of me.”
“You should be as well.”
She gave him a grin. “Maybe you should try harder.”
“Maybe you should marry me,” he said.
She laughed aloud at that one.
Chapter Eight
Piers walked into the drawing room that evening to find that he was the first to appear, which was precisely what he intended. Sébastien tended to cast a nasty eye at his brandy-drinking, and as Piers didn’t care to come to fisticuffs with him, he preferred to drink before his cousin appeared.
Like a drunk, now he thought on it.
He put his glass of brandy on the sideboard. Prufrock opened the door and said, “Miss Thrynne,” and closed it behind her.
His fiancée entered, looking, if possible, more radiant than she had that morning.
She was damned beautiful. Really. His father had outdone himself. First he’d produced Prufrock, and now her. Linnet looked like a princess, all curves and sweetness and creamy skin. Definitely more beautiful than the sun and the moon.
And she had a hell of a bosom. Which is nothing more than a functional mammary gland, he reminded himself.
“Fiancée,” he said, by way of greeting. “Would you like some brandy?”
“Ladies don’t drink brandy,” she replied. She was wearing a white evening gown with little pleats on top and transparent floaty bits down below, embroidered with flowers at the edges. Very ingenious, as it gave a man the idea that he could see her legs if he stared hard enough.
“Nice,” he said, gesturing toward her gown with his cane. “Though I think you would look better in green.”
“My evening gowns are white,” she said. “Would you pour me a glass of champagne?”
“Unmarried ladies wear white in the evening.”
“Ah, virgins!” he said, catching on. “So you’re advertising your erotic inexperience on the open market, are you?”
“Precisely,” she said, taking hold of the champagne bottle and wrestling with the cork.
“For God’s sake,” he said. “Let me have that. I didn’t know you were desperate.” He eased out the cork and poured her a glass. “What’s happened to the cushion you were wearing around your waist earlier?”
She was clearly not wearing it. Her body looked like a fine specimen of English womanhood. Slender in all the right bits and plump in all the others.
“I left it off. You were right. It made me hot.”
“My father will be horrified. You’ve barely arrived, and the royal baby lost already. He’s completely obsessed by our family history, you know.”
“He has to know sometime, so what does it matter? I hadn’t realized you were so tenderly concerned about your father’s emotions.”
“Huh.” He took another gulp of brandy.
“Why are you just meeting your father for the first time in years? After all, to have acquired your charming reputation, you must have been living in England for some time.”
It was actually rather unnerving being around someone as beautiful as she was. Her eyes were wide-set and blue. The kind of blue he saw in the ocean just before a storm blew in.
“I managed to earn this reputation at Oxford,” he said. “I practiced in Edinburgh as well, and news of my winning personality apparently spread. People have nothing better to talk about, obviously. So why aren’t your lashes red? I suppose you paint them.”