Not Quite A Gentleman

“Th-Thank you,” she said, keeping her attention on the dog while she struggled to regain her balance, which Nathan had so effectively shifted. “And thank you for the meal you had sent to my bedchamber.”

“Did you enjoy the stew?”

“It was delicious. I gobbled it down with embarrassing gusto.”

“There’s no need to be embarrassed with me, Victoria. Ever.”

Those huskily spoken words jerked up her gaze and their eyes met. “The sea and salt air tend to increase one’s hunger,” he said. “Personally, I admire a woman who isn’t afraid to indulge her appetite.”

Victoria suddenly wasn’t so certain they were still discussing meals. And no doubt in two days’ time she would think up some witty response. Now, however, her mind remained stubbornly blank.

“I suppose it’s too much to hope that you remember much of the letter?”

Letter? She blinked and recalled herself, clearing her throat. “Actually, since I studied it at length, I believe I’ll be able to reproduce it quite accurately.”

“Excellent. Shall we get started?”

“Of course.” After a final scratch to her new friend, Victoria rose and crossed to the desk. B.C., she noted with a smile, trotted along at her heels.

“I’ve never seen such a large desk,” she said, running her fingers over the smooth walnut surface and the polished brass fittings adorning the edge. “It actually looks like two desks joined at the front.”

“That’s precisely what it is. It’s called a partners desk and is for two people so they can work while facing each other. It’s very convenient for my father when he’s going over accounts with his steward.” He pulled out a maroon leather chair. Victoria sat and murmured her thanks as he pushed in the chair for her, all the while keenly aware of his nearness. With his one hand resting on the back of the chair and his other on the leather arm, she felt surrounded by him. She turned her head, intending to indicate she was quite well settled, and found herself staring directly at the front of his breeches, which were no more than a foot away.

Oh, my. She stared, transfixed, her avid gaze riveted on his muscular thighs and his…

Oh, my my my.

Heat whooshed through Victoria as if her gown had been set afire, and her imagination flamed out of control. Even though the Guide had described in detail that which his breeches covered, she still couldn’t quite fully picture it in her mind. And here, literally right before her very eyes, was what clearly appeared to be a perfect specimen. If only his blasted breeches didn’t thwart her view-

“Are you ready, Victoria?”

She snapped her chin up and found him watching her with a speculative look-one that left little doubt that he was fully aware she’d been ogling his… that which his breeches covered. More heat, this time from mortification, rushed into her face. “Ready?” she repeated, horrified that her voice came out in weak squeak.

“To replicate my note… unless there’s some other activity in which you’d prefer to engage?”

His tone was innocence itself, but his eyes glittered in a way that flared a scorching blush all the way to the soles of her feet.

“Replicate. Note. Right.” She grabbed the quill pen as if it were a lifeline tossed to a drowning victim and bent her head over the vellum.

He made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh disguised as a cough, and she pressed her lips together to stem the tide of nervous babble that rose in her throat. Good lord, this would never do. What on earth was wrong with her? She felt as if she teetered on a slippery ledge and was about to lose her balance and plunge over the edge. Never before had she felt so utterly lacking in poise. Since she didn’t have any problem talking to other gentlemen, clearly this unusual behavior was all his fault. Well, the sooner she completed the task before her, the sooner she could depart his unsettling company.

Yet as soon as the idea entered her mind, she realized that the thought of departing his company did not in any way settle her. Rather, the prospect left her… forlorn. Good lord, she’d taken leave of her senses. She dared not voice these concerns out loud lest she be relegated to Bedlam.

Peeking up from beneath her lashes, she saw him sit in a leather chair identical to her own on the opposite side of the desk. Four feet of polished walnut separated them, certainly enough of a buffer, yet she was painfully aware that she had only to reach out to touch his hands.

His hands… for a woman who had never before taken particular notice of any man’s hands, she suddenly found herself fascinated by his. Large and long-fingered, they looked capable, steady, and strong. The perfect hands, she imagined, for a doctor. The sun had tanned his skin, yet lightened the dusting of hair to a tawny gold. Although she couldn’t see his palms, she knew they bore the calluses of physical labor, something she shouldn’t have found appealing, yet did. Despite their size and strength, she knew his hands could be gentle… magically so, as he’d proven when he slowly sifted his fingers through her hair. Brushed his fingertips over her lips. Yet they could also be demanding… thrillingly so, as he’d demonstrated when he held her tight against him. Explored her curves and-

Good heavens, her thoughts had once again run amok. Yanking her attention back to the blank ivory vellum, she dipped the pen tip in the well of indigo ink and forced herself to concentrate on the letter she’d studied so thoroughly last night. The salutation rose in her mind: To my very good friend Nathan… and she set to work. She paused occasionally, closing her eyes to summon an image of the letter when a word proved elusive. Nathan, she noted, busily scratched his pen across his own vellum.

Nathan paused in writing his letter to Victoria’s father to consider his next sentence. All thoughts of words, however, fled his mind when he looked across the desk at Victoria. Her eyes were closed, a frown puckered between her brows. His gaze was drawn to the way she worried her full bottom lip between her teeth, and instantly he recalled the bewitching feel of that plump mouth beneath his. When her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips, he found himself mimicking the gesture, vividly recalling the luscious taste of her, then profoundly wishing this blasted desk didn’t separate them. Still, he had only to reach out to touch her hands, and he suddenly found himself gritting his teeth in an effort to keep himself from doing just that.

When had he ever been so drawn to a woman’s hands? The simple truth was he hadn’t. Indeed, his absorption with Victoria’s bordered on the ridiculous. They were the lily white hands of a pampered aristocrat. But that pale skin, those slim fingers, enthralled him, and he didn’t need to search very hard for the reason. It was because he knew how gentle those hands could be, how achingly hesitant as she’d tentatively touched him. And how incredible those hands felt brushing over his skin. And how they smelled of roses. And how they could become impatient with want, fisting in his hair as she demanded he kiss her again.

She resumed her writing, and he was helpless to do anything save watch her, unreasonably entranced by the sight of her fingers gripping the quill. As his gaze roamed over her hand, he noted a thin scar near her wrist. Unable to stop himself, he reached out and brushed his fingertip over the inch-long mark. She stilled and her head jerked up. Their eyes met and a rosy blush stained her cheeks. He decided that rose-hued blush was very apt, as she smelled so perfectly of that flower. He traced the scar again. “How did this happen?”

Her gaze lowered to where his finger stroked her, and he looked down as well. Her pale, slender hand and soft skin contrasted starkly to his darker, rougher skin. Bloody hell, the sight of him touching her aroused him to the point that he had to shift in his seat.

“I cut myself,” she murmured in a husky voice.

“How? When?” he asked, slowly caressing her.

“I… I was twelve,” she said, and he decided he very much liked the breathless way she sounded. “I was digging in mud and unearthed a sharp stone that cut my hand.”

“Digging in mud? Fond of gardening, are you?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t planting when I was injured.”

“What were you doing? Hunting for buried treasure?”

“No. I was making a mud pie.”

Nathan pulled his gaze away from their hands to look into her eyes. “A mud pie?”

“Yes.”

“By mud pie you mean a pie made from mud?”

“I hardly mean a pie made from apples and honey.”

“And what would an earl’s daughter know about making mud pies?”

She lifted her chin. “Quite a lot actually, as I used to make them frequently. The dirt from the lower gardens at