Not Quite A Gentleman

time buried in the country? Don’t you find it desolate?”

“No. It’s peaceful.”

“There’s no excitement.”

“Tranquil.”

“No Regent or Bond streets.”

“Thank God.”

“Lonely.”

He paused at that, a small frown burrowing between his brows. “Sometimes,” he said quietly. “But I have my books and my animals and my patients.”

“No woman anxiously awaiting your return?” She tossed out the question with a lightness that was in complete contrast to the hard thumping of her heart.

“No one.” One corner of his mouth quirked upward. “At least that I know of. Perhaps I have several secret admirers who are pining away for me even as we speak.” He popped a bit of cheese into his mouth. After he swallowed, he said, “I imagine Branripple and Dravensby eagerly anticipate your return to London.”

God help her, she almost asked Who? before her inner voice chimed in to remind her, Your earls. One of whom you‘re going to marry.

Were they eagerly awaiting her return? Most likely they were busy attending the whirlwind of parties associated with the Little Season. Where, given their eligibility, they would be much sought after by a bevy of marriage-minded young women. Who would fawn over them. Flirt with them. Dance with them. Perhaps even share kisses with them. The thought of which…

Didn’t bother her at all.

A frown yanked down her brows. Surely that should bother her. Surely she should feel something at the thought of another woman capturing Branripple or Dravensby’s attention. Some fissure of concern. A twinge of annoyance. A pang of jealousy. Yet she felt… nothing.

But then she turned to Nathan, who was regarding her with heated intensity, and suddenly she did feel something. A sizzling whoosh of something that curled her toes inside her leather riding boots. And it hit her in a lightning flash of realization that the thought of another woman kissing this man made her stomach cramp. Made her want to break something. Made her want to slap the other woman so hard that the lips that had dared to kiss Nathan fell off. Onto the ground. Where she could then grind them into the dirt with the heel of her shoe.

“Are you all right, Victoria? Your expression looks quite… ferocious.”

Victoria blinked away the image of a slapped, lipless woman and beat back the claws of jealousy that were as undeniable as they were confusing. What on earth was wrong with her?

“I’m fine,” she said, taking a hasty sip of cider.

“Good.” He set aside his empty plate, then patted his stomach. “Delicious. But now comes the best part of a picnic.”

“Dessert?”

“Even better.” He slipped off his jacket, folded it-none too neatly-then lay back, using the bundle as a makeshift pillow. “Ahhhh…” The deep sigh of contentment pushed from between his lips, and his eyes slid closed.

Victoria sat perfectly still and stared. Well, perfectly still except for her eyeballs, which performed a thorough downward ogle, er, survey. Skeins of sunlight illuminated burnished streaks in his mussed hair and cast his face into an intriguing pattern of golden light and smoky shadows. Snowy linen, marked with wrinkles from his jacket, stretched across his broad chest and shoulders. His hands rested on his abdomen, his long fingers loosely linked just above the waist of his fawn breeches. Ah, yes… those fawn breeches that hugged his muscular legs in that fascinating, speech-robbing way. The breeches disappeared just below his knees into well-worn black riding boots. The picture of utter relaxation was complete with his casually crossed ankles.

Good Lord, had she just claimed she was fine? She must be mad. The man was spread before her like a banquet feast. A feast from which she desperately wanted to partake.

When precisely had the male form become so fascinating? Clearly the blame rested on the explicit descriptions of a man’s anatomy in the Ladies’ Guide. While she’d always possessed a natural curiosity, she’d never felt anything like this. Neither Branripple nor Dravensby had ever inspired this desperate compulsion to touch. To explore. To remove their clothing.

With her eyes riveted on him, she had to swallow twice to locate her voice. “Wh-what are you doing?”

“Enjoying the last phase of a picnic.”

“I don’t think taking a nap here is a very good idea, Nathan.” Heavens, she sounded prim. If only she felt prim, as opposed to feeling like an overly ripe peach about to burst from its too tight skin.

“I’m not napping. I’m relaxing. You should try it. It’s very good for the digestion.”

“I’m perfectly relaxed, thank you.” Yes. And if liars caught on fire, she’d be incinerated on the spot. Nervous words gathered in her throat, and she knew she was about to start babbling. “Tell me, what made you want to become a doctor?” The words came out in a breathless rush, but she heaved an inward sigh of relief that at least they made sense.

“I was always drawn to healing, even as a boy. Birds with broken wings, dogs with mangled legs, that sort of thing. That, combined with my love of science and my curiosity for the workings of the human body, and there was never any question in my mind what path I would follow.”

She’d watched, as if in a trance, his beautiful mouth form each word, and her fingertips tingled with the overpowering need to touch his lips. To prevent herself from succumbing to the temptation, she raised her knees, wrapped her arms tightly around her legs and gripped her hands together. There. Now she was saved from making a fool of herself. “And if you hadn’t become a doctor? What profession would you have chosen?”

“A fisherman.”

“You’re joking.”

“What is wrong with being a fisherman?”

“Nothing. ‘Tis just not a very…” Her voice trailed off and suddenly she felt foolish.

“Not a very what?”

“Gentlemanly pursuit.”

“Perhaps not, but it’s honest work. Certainly more useful than the gentlemanly pursuits of gaming and running foxes to the ground. But then I’ve always made my own rules. I never understood why I should spend my life doing things I didn’t enjoy simply because it was what was expected of me. I think I’d have made a fine fisherman. Mount’s Bay is good fishing ground and offers protection even when the seas turn rough, as they often do. I’ve always enjoyed fishing, any time of year, but summer was by far the best. Every July, I eagerly awaited the annual excitement of the great catch of the pilchard.”

“What is that?”

“The Cornish pilchard, a local fish. Men in boats launch massive nets that form an enormous circle around the entire group of fish, called a shoal. The procedure is comparable to the way sheep are herded into pens. Dozens of people, myself included, waited on the shore, where we hauled the tremendous nets filled with thousands of fish onto the beach. We then piled those thousands of fish into every available container, basket, and bucket. It was exhausting and exhilarating and the most anticipated event of the season.”

“What did you do during the rest of the summer?”

“Walked the beaches. Collected shells. Read. Raised mischief with Colin. Studied the stars. Enjoyed picnics. Caught crabs and lobster.”

“You caught them yourself?”

“Yes.” He peeked one eye open at her and grinned. “They hardly walked onto the dinner plates of their own volition, you know.”

Victoria smiled in return and an image materialized in her mind, of a handsome tousle-haired youth, tanned golden from the sun, scooping up crabs, walking along the sand, his hair blowing in the brisk sea breeze. The image was then replaced with one of her, as a young girl, and the contrast was jarring.

“While you were doing all those things, I was learning how to dance and embroider and speak French. You spent your time here, by the sea, while I was raised in London. Even our country home is only a three-hour journey from Town. You enjoyed the company of your brother, while my brother would have rather been shot than spend time with me. You grew up knowing you wanted to be a doctor, I grew up knowing I would have to marry well to