“Who is Mrs. Bainbridge?” she inquired, but he snagged her wrist again and took off.
Quickly, and despite her best efforts to pull away, they were at the double doors at the end of the corridor.
“Can you at least try to look pretty?” he implored. “Pinch your cheeks. Let your hair down.”
“I don’t wish to look . . . pretty,” she claimed, oddly incensed that he didn’t think she was. “I wish to be listened to and . . . and . . . heeded.”
“Oh, Lord, spare me. Just what I need: a philosopher!”
He spun the knob and pushed her over the threshold. As she passed, he made a hasty grab at the combs keeping her neat chignon balanced on the back of her neck. Her tresses tumbled down in a golden wave.
“Are you insane?” she seethed, twirling to confront him.
“I’d better not hear any complaint from him,” he snapped in reply. “Now get on with it and get out of here.”
He slammed the door in her face and turned the key in the lock, trapping her.
What sort of asylum had she entered?
She jangled the knob, then pounded on the wood, hissing, “Release me! At once!”
But she received no answer.
Bending down, she peeked through the keyhole, and she could see him retreating. She threw up her hands in exasperation, then whipped around to survey the space where she’d been imprisoned.
Immediate escape was necessary, and she had to either maneuver the lock or find another exit. Since she had no mechanical inclinations, locating an exit was her only option.
She was sequestered in the sitting room of a grand suite, complete with several inner rooms. Hopefully, there would be servant’s stairs at the rear, and she could flee down them.
She tiptoed over to the bedchamber, and it was empty. Breathing a sigh of relief, she hurried into it, but she shielded her eyes so she wouldn’t glimpse the enormous bed in the middle. It was large and ornate, designed for a king. The blankets were on the floor, the pillows strewn about, so the maids hadn’t been in yet, or perhaps there were no maids.
What self-respecting female would work in such a madhouse?
Cautiously, she approached the next door that led into a washing room. There was a bathing tub full of water. Bars of soap and a scrub brush were stacked on a stool.
She was about to sneak in, but before she could, she was horrified to note that there was a man inside. Was it Lord Stafford?
He was a few feet away, his back to her, which she could clearly see because he wasn’t dressed. With just a towel wrapped around his waist, he was naked as the day he’d been born, and much too eagerly, she took stock of his attributes: broad shoulders, lean hips, long, long legs.
His skin was bronzed from the sun, his hair dark as a raven’s and in need of a trim, his arms muscled from strenuous endeavor. He had a perfectly-formed anatomy, the type of flawless shape a sculptor might copy when chipping away at a block of marble.
She studied him, transfixed and confused by the sight.
Her neighbors at Stafford had gossiped about him so frequently and in such derogatory terms that she’d developed an image of him that corresponded with their disparaging remarks. Though she knew he was thirty years old, in her mind, she’d painted him as aged, fat, and ugly, but the reality didn’t match the fantasy.
He was strong and youthful, vigorous and fit. His blatant personality oozed outward, his arrogant confidence wafting over her.
She hovered behind him, too terrified to move. Her heart thudded against her ribs, urging her to do something, but what? She couldn’t return the way she’d come and she couldn’t proceed.
He reached for a decanter of liquor, pulled the cork, and swallowed down the amber liquid—swigging directly out of the bottle. The ease with which he gulped it proved that he was well acquainted with intoxication. He was drinking and he was naked, and she was tempting fate.
Any bad thing could happen to her, and unless she found an escape, it probably would.
Why, oh, why had she sent Mr. Templeton away? Why had she visited on her own? Would it have killed her to bring a companion?
He set the liquor on a nearby dresser, then—stunning her—he bent over the bathing tub, palms braced on the rim, and dunked his head under the water. For several seconds, he was submerged, then he stood.
Like a wet dog, he shook himself, droplets cascading everywhere. Rivulets glistened on his shoulders, streaming down to disappear under the towel.
His hair was drenched, and he pushed it off his forehead then, without warning, he spun and grinned at her. It was an evil, wicked grin, informing her that she hadn’t been furtive in the slightest. He knew she’d been lurking just outside; he knew she’d been spying.
She was mortified and wanted to run, but she was held in place by the mesmerizing indigo of his eyes.
He was incredibly handsome. He had a face that brooked no argument, that would have women swooning and men happy to follow wherever he led.
For an eternity, they stared and stared, and they might have tarried forever, but he shattered the interlude by speaking. His voice was a rich, soothing baritone, that made her knees weak, that made her keen to do whatever he asked.
”I am Captain Nicholas Price, Lord Stafford.”
She blanched with dismay.
This wasn’t the appointment she’d envisioned at all. She’d pictured a stuffy library, uncomfortable chairs, stilted conversation, tea on a tray. How would they engage in a rational debate about the crops at Stafford when she’d seen him without his trousers?
She gave him the fleetest curtsy in the world. “Hello, Lord Stafford. I am Emel—”
He cut her off. “I don’t need to know your name.”
“Well!”
He grinned another wicked grin. “Are you impressed by me?”
“Not particularly.”
“I hate your outfit. It’s too dowdy.”
“I don’t care.”
“You’re not arousing me in the least.”
“Arousing you!”
“Take off your cloak. Let me see what
