Southwyn was slightly taller than average, and she’d have described him as handsome, if a bit lanky before now. Seeing him like this, disheveled and half dressed, it was a revelation to realize his body was long and lean, rather than skinny. Even his bare feet showed lines of muscle and sinew she wouldn’t have expected, had she ever given thought to a man’s feet before.
But those toes, curling into the carpet to balance his position, crouched and bent over as he was, caught her off guard.
Constance removed her bonnet as well, then set it and the cloak on the nearest surface—the desk chair, piled with books and several pieces of cutlery.
The earl shifted, still seemingly unaware of her presence, and the lines of his back actually rippled with the movement. A low whimper escaped before she turned the sound into a polite cough. “Milord?”
The heat building in her belly had to be discomfort or surprise, she told herself firmly. Any other emotion would be wildly inconvenient, all things considered.
He jerked his head around. “Oh good, you’re here.”
It must have been days since his cheeks had met a razor, and the effect shouldn’t have been so appealing. The fire below her navel flared, sending sparks flying through her blood in a familiar sensation. The fizzy pop of attraction acted like embers against a night sky spelling outthat’s not disgust you’re feeling.Damn him.
“The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced this is your fault. Even if it weren’t, you’re the only person I could think to ask for help.”
The pull of attraction lessened somewhat, though it didn’t dissipate entirely. Her brows pinched together. “I am not sure if that’s an accusation or a compliment.”
“Both, I think,” the impossible earl said in that samebland tone he’d used when calling the cat hell spawn. At least, that’s what she assumed he was talking to a moment ago.
“For what am I being blamed?”
“Lucifer. Hell spawn. Or possibly George, in honor of our destructive and unlikable regent. I haven’t decided yet.”
Ah, so she was correct. If this room was any indication, it seemed their plan to wreak havoc on his orderly existence was working swimmingly.
“This is about the cat, is it?” Constance crossed to where he sprawled on the carpet, looking more casual than she’d imagined him capable of being. The toes that had caused such a ruckus a moment before wiggled like a child’s playing in grass, and she wondered if he realized he’d done it. She took a seat on the floor beside him, then peered under the cabinet. “Hello, my darling. Are you giving him fits? Psss, psss.” Holding out her fingers, she fluttered them in greeting.
“If that thing comes right to you—bloody hell.” When the gray cat pranced out to Constance and climbed into her lap, Southwyn rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. “I give up.” A deep sigh rattled from his chest. His distractingly defined chest, given the way the thin shirt draped over him.
The kitten released a low rumbly purr, making Constance grin and earning a scratch under its chin. “Are some of those dishes yours? Have they been feeding you?”
“Yes,” Southwyn answered.
“I was speaking to the cat.”
“I assumed as much. As he has yet to master the King’s English, he can’t assure you that he hasn’t been starved, beaten, or abused in any manner. Well, except exposure to some strong language. My staff has kept us both fed and watered while my life spiraled out of control in this room.”
She glanced around, absently petting the cat. The animalwas slightly less bony than the last time she’d seen it, despite not warming to its new master. And given the rough appearance of Southwyn, she suspected the reluctance was mutual.
An entirely different, softer feeling grew as she took in the mess in a new light. The chaos told the story of a man who had tried.
And that… that melted her heart in a way that was dangerously close to spawning affection.
“When is the last time you left this study?”
He didn’t open his eyes and took long enough to answer that she almost thought he’d fallen asleep. “What day is it?”
“Thursday.” No wonder he hadn’t noticed his waistcoat was missing. The man was barely dressed. Without meaning to, her eyes lingered over his loose-limbed pose beside her.
“Ah.” A matched pair of deep lines appeared between his closed eyes. “When did you meet us in the park? Monday?”
“You’ve been in this room for three days?” She gaped in shock, not that he could see it.
Not only had he neglected shaving for the last three days, but with his eyes closed and lying so still, she couldn’t miss the purple shadows under his eyes, and the way his hair stood on end every which way, as if he’d run his fingers through it countless times.
“Althea gave me orders. Not only am I forbidden from losing this beast, I am to win over its affections as well. I thought I could do it, but the monster resists all efforts. You’re my last resort. You have a cat that clearly tolerates you and is thriving if its sheer size is anything to go by.” Those eyes—a rather surprising hazel—opened. Perversely, the bloodshot nature of them actually increased their green flecks, making them more attractive. Damn and double damn. “Teach me your ways, Miss Martin. Teach me how to get this thing to love me.”
Her incredulous laughter took them both by surprise. Southwyn’s eyes—still green hazel, exhausted, and far too direct for comfort—flared with what she’d think was admiration on anyone else, and she had to look away. This whole situation was so far beyond what she’d expected when plotting to upend his life. Had she wanted him uncomfortable? Yes. Inconvenienced? Of course. Had she anticipated being acutely aware of him, and his scruffy beard, and those blasted eyes? Or sitting beside him on the floor of an untidy study in which he’d locked himself while attempting to woo a mostly feral cat?
