“Someone in league with Davis, perhaps.”
“Aye,” he said slowly. “And I’ve no notion whether it’s our hosts or someone else.” His face was set and earnest as he spoke. “Lady de Younge extended us an invitation to stay longer, just as we anticipated. Perhaps in the coming days, I can investigate their library—”
“And I can ask Georgiana to search the rooms of the Frenchcouples. They are all familiar with Davis; they could perhaps have plotted with him.”
“Aye—mayhap Monsieur and Madame de Valiquette harbor the same sympathies toward our own Scottish aristocrats that my brother does.” He paused, his mouth turning down at the corner. “Speaking of brothers—I think yours is lying about what he’s doing here.”
Lydia stroked a finger over her lips, thinking of her brother’s quick and far too facile explanation for his presence, his rapid acceptance of her supposed elopement. “I know he is. Only I cannot fathom why.”
She looked up at Arthur to see if any insight was forthcoming from his quarter, only to find that he had frozen in place, his eyes fixed upon the place where her index finger rested upon her bottom lip.
She felt heat gather all through her body. Not only the familiar warmth of a blush in her face and chest, but—everywhere. A slow swirl of warmth in her belly, rising to throb along her skin.
Arthur did not seem to move, yet suddenly she felt as though he’d surrounded her. Her gaze caught on his chest, where his shirt gaped open to reveal a mouthwatering triangle of skin. Her nose filled with the scent of whisky, and it went straight to her head, potent, dizzying.
She wanted to dissolve under that heated look. She wanted to feel his touch again; she ached for it. Her fingers twitched, desperate to slide into the vee of his collar and see if his body was as hot and solid as she remembered.
“Disrobe,” she commanded, and then could have bitten off her own tongue.
His gaze flew to her face. His lips parted; his pupils flared.
“The whisky,” she choked out. “I meant because of the whiskyaroma. On, er, your shirt. I’m finding it… I’m finding this all a trifle…”
Overwhelming? Arousing? Will-sapping in the extreme?
“Intoxicating,” she managed, which wasn’t all that much better. “With the window closed and the whisky saturating the air.”
His deep voice was hoarse when he spoke. “I take your meaning. I’ll put on a fresh shirt in the hall, then.”
She swallowed hard and very nearly agreed with him. But no. That was absurd. She was a strong, independent woman. She would not be overcome by the sight of his bared chest.
But then again—
“That’s not necessary,” she said. “I shall close my eyes.”
To prove it, she leaned back against the wall and clamped her lids closed. She felt him retreat—her traitorous body gave a rather mournful wail—and then heard a great deal of muttering and shuffling.
What sound precisely did fabric make as it slid over skin? She had never considered it with quite so much fervency before.
Was that rustle the sound of his shirt slipping over his head? Was he, even now, bared to the waist? What would he look like unclothed? And how dreadful—how very dreadful—would she be if she opened her eyes to find out?
“I’m done.” Arthur’s deep voice interrupted her guilty quandary, and she startled.
She cracked first one eye, then the other. He wore a fresh shirt—spotted with a few scorch marks from his forge, of course—with the collar open. She tried to keep her wits about her with some difficulty.
“I shall need my trunk,” she said, “to change into my own night rail. We left it in my chamber.”
“I’ll get it.” He made for the door and then, pausing, lookedback at her. “Do you need me to”—she did not think she imagined the way his voice dropped into a lower register—“unlace your corset?”
Did she? Could she possibly ask him to—
Flustered panic overcame her. “No,” she squeaked. “This one laces down the front. I can manage it myself.”
He looked slightly glassy-eyed at that. “Right. I’ll fetch your things and wait in the hall while you tend to yourself.”
She opened her mouth, but he forestalled her. “Don’t argue. And lock the damned door while I’m out there.”
“Surely that’s not necessary,” she protested. “Are you concerned someone will break in upon me whilst I’m unclothed?”
