comfort in the fact that she was going into battle well-armed with her
The gravel drive crunched beneath her shoes, yanking her from her thoughts. She jerked her gaze away from Dr. Oliver’s back to look up at the majesty that was Creston Manor and could not deny her surprised pleasure at the grandness of the house. Two impressive stone stairways curved gracefully downward, appearing like welcoming arms to embrace any and all who approached the massive double oak doors. The windows gleamed, reflecting gilded sunshine, and the aged brick and soaring white columns lent the structure an air of old world charm that appealed to Victoria’s sense of proportion.
Settling her hand on the glossy black, wrought-iron banister, she climbed the stairs behind Dr. Oliver. She looked up and found herself staring at his backside. One would have had to been blind-and her eyesight was exceptionally keen-not to notice how his breeches hugged his muscular legs. How those muscles flexed with each stair tread he climbed. The trimness of his hips. The broadness of his back. The fascinating shape of his… bottom.
How utterly aggravating that he looked as marvelous from the back as from the front. How incredibly irritating that in spite of being filthy, sweaty, and smelling as if he’d spent the day cavorting in a dirty barn, she still had to grip the banister tighter to quell the overwhelming desire to reach out and touch him.
And how completely unsettling and frustrating that her heart had stumbled into an erratic beat the instant she’d seen him. Just as it had the first time she laid eyes on him three years ago. Botheration. What on earth was wrong with her? Clearly the long journey had addled her wits, for Dr. Oliver’s unkempt appearance alone proved that he was no more of a gentleman than when they’d last met. Well, once she’d had a bath, changed her clothes, and enjoyed a hot meal and a good night’s rest in a proper bed, she’d be set back to rights.
But, there was no denying that Dr. Oliver was still devilishly attractive. Perhaps more so. ‘Twas fortunate that she knew what sort of ill-mannered man he was, lest her head might have been turned. Yet, during those few seconds when they’d studied each other, she’d noted that there was something different about him… something in his eyes that she hadn’t noticed before. Shadows… of hurts, perhaps. Or secrets. If it had been anyone else, she would have felt sorry for the person. Indeed, a fissure of sympathy had nearly worked its way into her heart before she’d squashed it like a bug. If he had hurts, he no doubt deserved them. And as for secrets, well, that was fine. She had some secrets of her own.
She looked up and was once again treated to the sight of Dr. Oliver’s backside. Left, right, left, right, flex, flex… heavens, how many steps were there? She yanked her gaze away from his far too fascinating bottom and noted with relief that only five steps remained. When he reached the top, Dr. Oliver turned and paused, clearly waiting for Aunt Delia, who was maneuvering the stairs at a slower pace. Victoria stopped as well, and was disconcerted to find herself standing no more than three feet away from him. And the fact that she was disconcerted only added to her irritation. How was it that despite his dishevelment she couldn’t seem to pull her gaze from him? Certainly if she were dirty, rumpled, and smelled like she’d cavorted in the barn no one would mistake
“Are you all right, Lady Victoria?” he asked. “You look flushed.”
She gifted him with one of the cool, detached looks she’d diligently practiced in the cheval glass for just this occasion. “I’m fine, Dr. Oliver.”
“I hope climbing the stairs wasn’t too taxing for you.” The corner of his mouth twitched, and she realized he was making sport of her. Obviously believed she was nothing more than a hothouse flower. Arrogant beast.
“Certainly not. I’m perfectly fit. Indeed, I daresay I could sprint up these steps without losing my breath.” She fought the urge to clap her hand over her mouth. Damnation, she’d meant to say nothing more than
He cocked a single dark brow and appeared wholly amused. “A feat I look forward to witnessing, my lady.”
“I was speaking metaphorically, Dr. Oliver. As I cannot imagine a scenario that would lead me to sprint anywhere, let alone up the stairs, I fear you shall witness no such thing.”
“You might sprint if you were being pursued.”
“By whom? The devil himself?”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps an ardent admirer.”
She laughed, and mentally applauded the carefree sound. “None of my admirers would act in such an undignified, ungentlemanly manner. But even if, for some bizarre reason, they should, I’m confident I could outrun them, as I’m very agile and fleet of foot.”
“What if you didn’t wish to?”
“Didn’t wish to what?”
“Outrun him?”
“Well, then, I suppose I would be-”
“Caught?”
Victoria stilled at the intense expression in his eyes, which was at complete odds with his lighthearted tone. She pressed her lips together to stem the torrent of nervous words that pooled in her throat and noted how his gaze flicked to her mouth. Heat snaked through her and she had to swallow to find her voice. “Caught,” she agreed, thankful her voice was steady. “But not captured.”
“Indeed? That almost sounds like a challenge.”
Triumph rippled through her.
Lifting her chin a notch, she said, “You may take it however you wish, Dr. Oliver.”
Whatever he might have replied was silenced by Aunt Delia’s arrival. “This way, ladies,” he murmured, leading them to the door.
Four
by Charles Brightmore
Nathan sat at the mahogany dining room table feeling very much like the prodigal son. Actually, the prodigal son science experiment who dwelled beneath a microscope with five pairs of eyeballs trained upon him. Every time he looked at anyone, he discovered their gaze already upon him. And all that while trussed up like a fatted goose in the damned formal clothes dinner in the dining room demanded. The instant this meal ended he was going to rip the confining cravat from his throat and toss the damn neck cloth into the fireplace. But of course, he first had to get through this interminable, awkward meal.
A footman topped off his wineglass and he took a grateful sip, barely squelching the urge to toss back the entire glass in a series of long gulps. He chanced to glance around the table and was relieved to note that for the first time since he’d sat down he wasn’t the cynosure of all eyes. Lady Delia, who sat on his right, was engaged in a lively discussion with his father, who was seated on her right at the head of the table.
His gaze then flicked to the trio who sat across from him-Colin, Lady Victoria, and Gordon Remming, who’d come into his title since Nathan had seen him last on that fateful night three years ago and was now the Earl of Alwyck. Gordon’s shining golden blond head was bent close to Lady Victoria, as if she imparted some diamond of
