He waited. The wriggling and rustling did not resume. His arms were getting tired. “Are you finished?”
“No.” There was a pause, then, “Did you say I should take off everything that was wet?”
“Yes. Unless you want to catch an inflammation of the lungs.”
“But . . . I’m soaked to the skin.”
To the skin. He closed his eyes. He did not need this, the thought that this unknown, filthy and yet somehow appealing female was going to be naked, with nothing but a fur rug between them. He said in a hard voice, “Take it all off, then. Your virtue is safe with me.”
“Oh, I know that, Mr. Galbraith.” There was not a shred of doubt in her voice.
He was almost insulted. He had a reputation as a rake, dammit! Who the devil was this girl—who on the one hand seemed like a virtuous maiden, unless he misread her completely—and yet she would climb into a carriage with a perfect stranger and happily strip to the buff at his command.
Trusting him not to ravish her.
Though it seemed that to her, he was not a stranger. How did she know his name?
He pondered that conundrum as she wriggled and panted and tossed soggy white garments onto the pile on the floor, garments he preferred not to think about. First a petticoat, then a chemise, followed by stays, and oh, lord, there went the stockings. He waited for a pair of drawers to join the pile, but there were none.
Only three kinds of females didn’t wear drawers: the sheltered, old-fashioned kind; women who couldn’t afford them; and tarts.
He waited. The suspense was unbearable. “Are you finished?”
“Yes, but I’m still quite damp. Do you have anything I can dry myself with before I put your shirt on?”
Damn. He should have thought of that. “Hold the rug for a minute.”
She took hold of it and lowered it to her chin. Her eyes were light gray, rimmed with long dark lashes, and gleamed in her dirty face like polished pewter. The pupils were huge and dark and looked slightly unfocused. The effects of the drug, he assumed.
“It’s strange but I don’t feel as cold without my wet clothes, even though—” She blushed and looked away.
Ned didn’t need to complete the sentence. He was only too aware of her naked state. He fished in the valise, found a small towel, tossed it over to her side of the rug then took the rug back, raising it again to block out the sight of her.
“How do you know my name?”
“You’re a friend of my brother’s. We met at his wedding.”
Ned frowned. He usually avoided weddings. They invariably sparked his grandfather to fresh attempts to match him up with some female he—Grandfather—considered suitable.
“You were his best man.”
His best man? Ned almost dropped the rug. He’d only ever been one man’s best man. “You’re Cal Rutherford’s sister?”
She grabbed the drooping rug from his nerveless grasp and tucked it around her naked body—she had not yet donned his shirt—not showing the slightest awareness of her appalling situation as she gave him a warm and trusting smile. “Yes, don’t you remember me? I was one of the bridesmaids.”
He stared at her—she’d wiped her face clean—and tried not to let his gaze drop to where the fur rug was nestling like an animal against lush, bountiful breasts. This was Cal Rutherford’s sweet-faced little sister? Naked in his carriage—naked!—covered only by a rug? “You’re . . . Lucy?”
Her smile dimmed slightly. “It’s Lily. I’m Lily.”
“Put the shirt on,” Ned said gruffly. He wasn’t up to taking the rug from her grasp, so he stood and turned his back. Cal Rutherford’s little sister. Good God.
“Make sure you tuck the rug around you as well. The shirt isn’t very warm. You don’t want to catch a chill.” He needed her to be wrapped in thick, opaque, shapeless layers—preferably dozens of them—and not just because of the possibility of a chill. She was a luscious little armful—too luscious for his peace of mind.
His friend’s little sister. Not so little anymore.
Marriage bait.
“You can turn around now,” she said after a moment.
He turned. She sat huddled on the seat like an orphan from the storm, her feet tucked under her, swathed to the chin in silky dark fur, the white edges of his shirt collar just showing beneath it. Her pale complexion, clean now and flawless—except for the deepening bruise on her cheekbone—glowed like a pearl in the shadowed interior of the carriage. Her mouth was full and lush, but her eyes were ringed beneath with heavy purple shadows. She looked exhausted.
How the hell had a sister of Cal Rutherford ended up in such a sordid mess?
He leaned forward and gently cupped her chin, tilting her face toward the light to examine the bruise. She sat quietly under his examination, blushing slightly. Her innocence, her open, trustful expression frustrated him. She had no business trusting strange men. Even if she knew—or thought she knew—who he was.
No one was who they seemed to be. No one. Not even him.
Especially not him.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, then silently berated himself for a fool. Of course it hurt.
“Not very much.”
He didn’t believe her. That bastard hadn’t held back with that backhander. A nasty blow from a ruthless villain. God help her if she’d ever married him.
Her gaze dropped to his knuckles, skinned and raw. “Your poor hands, are they—”
“No.” He shoved them in his pockets and sat back. The movement drew his attention to the soggy pile of clothing on the floor. “Faugh, that stench!” He opened the carriage door and kicked the pile of sodden, muddy clothing out onto the road.
“My clothes!” she exclaimed. She peered out the window, then turned to him accusingly. “What did you do that for?”
“They were filthy.”
“But that was my favorite dress.”
“You can buy another one.” She continued exuding silent indignation, so he added bluntly, “Look, whatever muck you fell in stank like a midden. I’m not traveling all the way back to
