The Proposal

Chapter 9

Gwen completely forgot about her ankle for a while. She sat with her knees drawn up, her arms wrapped about them, her feet flat on the blanket.

Her heart felt like a separate being inside her bosom, thumping to get out. She could not seem to calm it down or steady her breathing. And despite the short sleeves of her dress, it still felt more like July than March.

She had never seen a man naked, or even naked with the exception of his drawers. It was an odd fact, perhaps, when she had been married for a number of years. But Vernon had been very particular about respectability. During the day he had not liked her to see him even in as little as his shirtsleeves. At night he had come to her in a nightshirt and dressing gown.

Oh, she had seen Neville and her cousins in their drawers when they swam during childhood summers, she supposed, just as they had seen her in her shift. But they had all been just children at the time.

She was undeniably shocked that Lord Trentham would unclothe himself right in front of her. It was … well, it was barbaric. No gentleman would have removed so much as his coat without asking her permission first—and most would not even have asked simply because it would not be seemly.

But her shock owed less to prudish outrage, she had to admit as she watched him swim, than it did to reaction at the sight of his almost naked body. It was perfection itself. It was nothing short of magnificent, in fact. She had nothing with which to compare it, it was true, no one with whom to compare him. But she did not think any man could compare. His shoulders were wide, his chest broad. His hips were slim, his legs long and powerful. When he stood still, he looked like a finely sculpted god—not that she had ever seen such a sculpture. When he moved, he fairly rippled with muscle and looked like a warrior god sprung to vibrant life.

Could she be blamed for finding him knee-weakeningly, heart-poundingly attractive? For finding it difficult to breathe normally? For forgetting something as mundane as a sore ankle?

Could she be blamed for wanting a repetition of his kisses? For wanting, in fact, far more than just kisses? For feeling something as raw and unladylike as … lust?

It was a good thing, perhaps, that he had gone for a swim, that he was using up energy she knew he had wanted to use on her, that his absence gave her time to get both her body and her emotions under control. In fact, there was no perhaps about it. It was undoubtedly a good thing.

But how could she bring herself under control when he swam with such ease and grace and power, when even at this distance she could see the powerful muscles of his arms and shoulders and legs, the water and the sunlight causing his flesh to gleam as if it were oiled? She could look away, of course. But how could she do that when within a few days she would be gone from Penderris and would never see him again?

She gripped her legs more tightly and felt the raw ache of unshed tears in her throat and up behind her nose. And she also felt the dull ache of an abused ankle. She gave it her full attention and stretched her leg out again. She repositioned the cushions carefully beneath her knee and foot. She did not look toward the sea or, more specifically, to the almost naked man swimming in it.

It would serve him right if his extremities froze and fell off.

He was deliberately flaunting himself before her. A peacock used the gorgeous colors and extravagant size of its plumage to attract the female. He used his almost naked body.

Had he stripped and dashed for the water to cool off? Or had he done it to send her temperature soaring in the opposite direction?

Gwen leaned her head back against the rock behind her, felt the obstruction of her bonnet, and pulled impatiently at the ribbons so that she could toss it aside. She set her head back again and closed her eyes. The sunlight was bright. The insides of her eyelids were orange.

It did not matter why he was swimming. He did not matter. Not really. Or at least her feelings for him did not matter. They were here to relax, to take advantage of an unusually lovely day in beautiful surroundings.

But you are not courting me, are you? she had said to him. It had not really been a question, but he had answered it anyway. No, I am not courting you, Lady Muir. And somehow it was the question and the answer that had sparked everything that had followed. And she had started it. It was her fault, then.

She was thirty-two years old. She had had beaux when she first made her come-out and then a husband. She had had a lengthy widowhood interspersed with more beaux. She was not without experience. She was no innocent, naive girl. But suddenly she felt like one, for there had been nothing in her experience to help her understand the sheer lust that she and Lord Trentham felt for each other. How could she understand it when he was not at all the sort of man who could be expected to attract her, either as a flirt or as a possible husband? This, she supposed, this new, unexpected feeling, was what led people to have affairs.

She ought to hurry back to the safety of the house before he came out of the water, she thought—until she opened her eyes and remembered that she was a few miles from the house and that she still could not put weight on her right foot. She had not even brought her crutches. Besides, it was too late. He was swimming toward the beach, and then he was standing up and wading toward the shallow water and out onto the beach.

Water streamed down his body and droplets glistened in the sunlight as he approached. His short hair was plastered to his head. His drawers clung to him like a second skin. Gwen did not even try to avert her eyes.

He bent and picked up the towel he had brought with him and dried his chest and shoulders and arms with it —and then his face. He looked down at her. His swim had done nothing to lighten his mood, it seemed. He was frowning, even perhaps scowling.

“You said you would watch me with envy,” he said.

Had she said that?

“Oh, what are you doing?” she cried suddenly.

He was leaning over her and scooping her up into his arms. His skin was cold and smelled of salt and maleness. It was very … bare. She could feel the wetness of his drawers against her side before he hoisted her higher. She wrapped both arms about his neck.

“No.”

But he was striding down the beach again, and the tide was higher now than it had been when he first went in. It must be almost on the turn.

“Why come to a beach,” he said, “if one is merely going to sit and observe? One might as well stay at home and read.”

“Oh, please,” she begged as he waded into the water and she could feel a few splashes of it, cold against her bare arms. “Please, Lord Trentham, don’t drop me in. I have no change of clothes. And it must be like the arctic.”

“It is,” he said.

She was clinging more tightly then and pressing her face to his neck and laughing helplessly.

“I may sound amused,” she said, “but I am not. Please. Oh, please, Hugo.”

He was holding her higher still in his arms, she realized. And he was holding her tightly. A trick? To lull her into a false sense of security?

“I am not going to drop you,” he said, his voice low against her ear. “I would not be so cruel. But there is nothing like being out here, seeing the light create many colors and shades on the water, and listening to it and smelling it.”

He turned right about with her as she raised her head, and then spun about twice more as she lifted her head and laughed with the sheer exuberance of it. It was cooler out here, though not really cold—though perhaps his body heat had something to do with that. She had never really liked the water. But they seemed to be in a vast and shimmering liquid world, which was sheer beauty and no threat at all. She felt perfectly safe in the warm, strong arms of a man who would not drop her—who would never drop her.

She had called him Hugo, she realized. Oh, dear, had he noticed?

“Gwendoline,” he said as he stopped spinning.