21. A Seasonal Surprise

21

A Seasonal Surprise

Late December 1813

Marigold Cottage, Bath

Wearied by travel, energized by anticipation, Aphrodite scolded not for the unlocked door that greeted her fingertips, recalling at once it was left thus whenever the healer who resided within awaited a patient, but locked after. Which meant she need not subdue her excitement.

“Uncle Silas!” she called out, eagerly stepping beyond the threshold of the home she’d gratefully called her own after her uncle took in a scared and otherwise abandoned eleven-year-old. Though she might have spent a number of years attending the Young Ladies Improving Academy, this old cottage, on the outskirts of Bath, would forever exude the warmest of welcomes. “Whoop, holiday! I made it for Christmas after all!”

Muffled thumps sounded beyond her sight. Then a growl. And a snarl, which prompted a smile. Appeared as though her favorite relative and his elderly dog still liked to wrestle.

“Mercury! Uncle!” Dragging her heavy valise behind her, she looked around in surprise beneath the pushed-back brim of her travel bonnet. “Where is all the greenery? Not a ribbon nor wreath one.”

When she’d written that she couldn’t make it this year, had he decided not to go to the trouble of bringing the holiday inside? Something he’d always made such a point of—decorating their home—ever since their first holiday season together.

Attired for travel, she nevertheless shuddered. “My, ’tis chilly in here.”

More noise filtered through the house; this time growling and a muted crash. “Uncle?”

After a moment’s thought, she released her hold on her bag and bolted the door behind her. She’d hear if anyone knocked and Uncle must be away, having left in a hurry, else he would have heard her by now and responded.

What was Mercury into?

She hadn’t seen the dog in close to a year, and though Uncle’s letters hadn’t alluded to anything dire, she sped through the sterile front rooms where he tended patients, toward the more relaxed ones in the back only stopping when Mercury raced past her just as she reached the informal family room, a wad of fabric gripped tight in his mouth, pale folds billowing out from either side.

Before exiting out toward the kitchen, the dog paused, sniffed the air and wiggled his hind end as he turned about until he brushed against her legs and gave a tiny yip around his mouthful.

Tugging off one glove, she knelt to pet the wavy, uneven fur, enjoying the snuffled canine sniffs over her hand and forearm as she swiftly glanced from wall to wall, soft satisfaction brimming at the sight of the grey-blue paint she and Uncle had applied together, not to mention a trio of framed watercolors she had brought home from school one year, still hanging above a chaise. The flower-bedecked pond in the middle surrounded by more detailed vegetation on each side certainly not the quality one would usually find displayed quite so prominently. Nostalgia for the childhood he’d repaired brought an unexpected wealth of emotion and surprisingly watery eyes.

The dog’s coat chilled her fingers. What manner of emergency had stolen Uncle from home for the house to grow this cold?

She reached around and hugged Mercury. “Oh my.” Her nose wrinkled and any watering now only had to do with his pungent scent. “You, sir, need a washing posthaste.”

Below the opaque black of unseeing eyes, his long snout angled up and down, as though agreeing. Carefree laughter met the dog’s antics, the joyful spread of her cheeks so very welcome.

For here , was home. No young charge to constantly tend. No manner to mind, thoughts to subdue. Appearance to temper. Stress of mind and tension of body all fell away at the comfort of familiar surroundings and Merc’s instant, enthused welcome.

But then a growl ruffled his upper lip and the dog lifted his nose in a quick jerk as though to say hail and farewell before he raced on, the tips of his claws clattering around the edges of a rug as he disappeared.

“You mangy mongrel!” The deeply jagged voice, raised in anger, wiped the smile free and brought Aphrodite to her feet. “You get your arse back in here, you thieving cur, or so help me?—”

Another two thuds and a towering, disreputable man lurched in.

Messy long black hair in disarray, a week’s growth of bristle upon his cheeks, the masculine body exposed before her was long and lean. Wholly shocking (and shockingly attired—or not). For most of all?

’Twas decidedly naked.

“L-lord War rick? ”

Richard Andrew Martinson, who hinted at being Ares to her Aphrodite?

It couldn’t be. Here? In her uncle’s home? In her home!

He staggered. Braced bare, muscled arms against the doorway. “Prim?” Sinews flexed in legs and arms as he braced anew. “God-a-mercy. What in blazes are you doing here?”

He’d recognized her? After all this time?

“You—you’re—you’re…” Her hand flailed, indicating the center of the nude expanse.

You ought not be looking!

But look she did, fighting dual urges to stare even more intently, to apply her gaze— everywhere —and look till sundown (and even after), versus squeezing her eyelids tightly shut and retreating. With speed and distance. Retreating until her stunned and stumbling feet found themselves once again at the Ballenger estate.

Where all was safe.

Where nights were lonely.

He gave another heaved grunt that lifted his torso, midnight eyes upon her. Narrowed gaze unreadable. “I am… what? ”

She looked again . As close as she dared from her (suitably) safe stance of ten feet distant. Circled the miles of skin and muscle, the scars and broad chest dusted with dark hairs with her flailing fingers. “You’re here! And—and unclothed! ”

The last barely squeaked from her tight throat.

“Astute of you.” He grimaced. And it seemed that with every second that passed, that shredded her composure…that he regained his own. Her garret swam with dismay, mouth watered with want and heart threatened to pound out of her chest and into the next room as her serenity of moments before fled and his control seemed to strengthen.

He stood tall, even with both arms gripping the frame, one upraised to the timber lintel overhead, the other stretched to the side, firm upon the jamb. Not a shred of embarrassment or shame filled his posture—or gaze. The heat of it once again doing decidedly peculiar things to her insides.

“You are not going to run screaming from my vile, manly presence?”

“Vile? Whatever would make you say such a thing?” Especially after their exchange of letters not quite six months ago?

He was standing!

He was naked!

He was standing naked!

Oh my stars and stockings. She wanted to fan herself.

Nay, you want to climb up that brawny body and see if those broad shoulders are every bit as strong and firm as they appear. You want to sniff, lick along ? —

“Your l-legs,” she babbled, wrenching her attention from the startling brawn in his thighs. Significantly more enhanced than what she recalled feeling beneath her during that wretchedly wonderful all-too-brief mistletoe kiss. “They are working.”

“Working?” He gave a gruff laugh, no humor evident. “That is a matter of differing definitions. I am not walking, not without significant aid, if that is what you assume. Certainly not beyond a handful or less of hard-earned steps each day. But at least my legs manage to hold my weight now.”

“Which is wonderful ,” she said, warmth brimming in her chest on his behalf.

“Again, differing definitions.” He gave a rough shake of his head, dislodging overlong hair from his brow. “Though I do consider it an achievement.”

“A superior achievement, make no doubt. One worthy of celebration. I am so happy for you.”

“Happy?” He gave another light grunt, frown still in place. “What? That I can stand? But only with the help of my arms? When my doctor abandons me not to the care of that hairy hound, but tasks me with caring for it?”

His…doctor.

Everything became clear in an instant: why he was here; even why he now stood.

This was the indulged, spoiled “London lordling” her uncle had complained of? The “lazy arse” (Uncle Silas had attempted to blot out that last word and had replaced it with rumple , but it had made her chuckle nevertheless) who Uncle despaired of, given the peer’s grudging reluctance to “comply with my directions” and “see his muscles exerted whether with help or on his own”?

And what might your uncle think when he comes home to find you thus? Agawp over his most “crabbedly difficult” of patients? Fair salivating over ? —

“You really ought not continue to stand there. Nude!”

He grinned at that. Taking pleasure in her exaggerated affront? “Can I not? What would you have me do, given how my unmentionables are in the filthy mouth of that misbegotten cur? Would you have me indulge in the ‘healing waters of Bath’?” His tone mocked the very notion.

Though an air of fatigue clung to him and strain was evident in his tightly held, quivering muscles, his amusement was palpable. His firm, bristle-covered jaw gestured toward the corridor where Mercury had disappeared.

“Were I to sit here instead—still bare-arsed, mind—I can confidently assure you I would not be able to gain my feet again. Not today. So do not think to cast blame my direction for any missish airs I might have unintentionally offended.” His mirthful expression turned to an all-out glower. “If that fiendish hellhound of Arbuckle’s hadn’t made off with my drawers after?—”

His cheeks turned ruddy. His confident gaze faltered for the first time, as he glanced up to the ceiling and then down to the floor before meeting hers for but a blink only to scuttle away again.

“What embarrasses you now ?” Now that she could not stop devouring the splendid sight of his body.

For shame! Look away, you hussy .

But she could not. For any number of reasons:

1. She was not an immature schoolgirl, without knowledge or awareness of the human form.

Injuries and scars might mar this particular specimen, yet she knew—her eyes confirmed it—she now beheld a beautiful sight indeed.

And no other simple viewing had ever affected her body in such a pleasurable, disconcerting way, had prompted it to?—

This is no simple viewing, you brazen gawper!

Hush now.

2. Seeing the occasional bare limb of one of Uncle’s patients, when she assisted by either comforting them or helping him, had never affected any part of her. Not her breathing. Not her belly, nor hollow places lower. Hollow places that now heated, filling with the heavy, almost palatable liquid of desire. No other glimpse had ever engendered a want—or a need—to see more. To touch.

3. She had certainly never reacted thus, not to anyone; even the few early heart flutters with Mr. Phillips had never managed to make her feel so very aware—of not only who she observed, but of herself. How her body responded .

4. Curiosity held her in thrall. For a shifting, breathing naked human was so very different than a picture of a statue in a text or an illicit drawing shared amongst academy students.

5. When might she ever be granted such a chance again? To stare, at will, upon?—

Him. Lord Warrick.

The man who haunted her nighttime hours.

You have gone beyond three.

So, so many reasons to stare. To commend this sight to memory.

Though the outside light had waned in the last minutes, rendering the inside rooms dimmer, she saw him so clearly. Every bit. So blazingly clear.

6. Their single kiss had commanded her daytime thoughts without permission for months. What might this boon do?

But the real reason she could not force her gaze elsewhere? He was standing! And… And…

7. The masculine contours of his body were undeniably beautiful. Not only the forbidden portions, but the more ordinary ones as well. The flexing, vertical tendons in the wrist of his upheld arm. The angled ones cording his neck, moving with each sway or tilt of his chin. The shoulders, broad and wide that her fingers tingled to trace. Her lips to kiss. Not everything was smooth and pristine, nor anywhere close. This was a body that had known war. And it showed.

Despite the scarring edging around from the back of one hip and onto his abdomen and upper thigh… Despite the imbalance of the lesser-used muscles in his legs, even with the increase since she had seen him last, not in proportion to those bulging his chest and arms… Despite everything “wrong” with the picture, mayhap because of it, the sight of Richard A. Martinson, Lord Warrick, dried the moisture from her mouth, stole the breath from her lungs and infused her entire being with more longing than ever.

Longing to cross the dozen or so feet that separated them so she could touch, explore… Every fiber of her being strained to be close enough to caress. To heal.

“Had a mishap,” he stated flatly when she remained silent and time stretched. “With the bedeviled chamber pot.” His scurrying gaze met hers once again. Met and held. The look in his flame-blue eyes turning both irritated and intense.

He bit his lips, as though to prevent further profanities from blustering forth. Then, with a gusty sigh, he released them and continued. “With emptying it. Thanks to yon distraction”—he indicated the missing dog once more—“and my own weakness. Surprised you have not smelled the stench yet. Wrinkled up your nose and made haste away.”

This last was accompanied by a shift of one foot and a hard glout toward his legs.

His legs. At the apex of which his penis, hanging loose against his scrotum, jostled. Swung from its resting position and then back. He looked up in time to find her attention fixed there before she jerked her gaze back to his.

“At least it tells me when I need to piss now,” he said, sapphire eyes glittering with a touch of defiance. “Every damn time. That’s an improvement. Another superior achievement to celebrate.”

His tone was sardonic. As though celebrating the ability to know when one needed to pass water was the most ludicrous thought ever.

“So it is working.” The words left her lips even as her heart pounded so intently she grew lightheaded. “Your…twanger? Shall I send for the parson?”

He blinked. Gave his head a light shake.

She’d startled him. Startled herself, more.

Why have you not retreated?

Because not once, not for a moment during this most peculiar of interactions had she felt any modicum of threat or danger. He meant her no harm. Not like the others.

And mayhap time had given her the confidence to believe in herself even more. That and her brief dalliance with Mr. Phillips.

Odd, how she’d not thought of him for months, yet twice in the last few minutes, he crosses her mind?

Only because you are relieved you did not pursue a life with him. Else you would not be here now.

Lord Warrick gave a loud bark of laughter and shifted again, bringing his overhead arm down as he leaned against one side of the doorway, still standing, still locked in place, gripping on with his other arm out to the side.

“I did say something of the sort.”

“You remember?” Heavens knew she did. Every second of every encounter… Every word, spoken or written.

“But that was assuming you would remain on my lap while we waited for his arrival. Alas, you did not.”

“Alas, indeed.” She refused to lower her gaze. Refused to fan her flaming cheeks or perspiring forehead. Refused to apologize or be anything other than what she was: fascinated by him. Fascinated by her own responses.

He made a pffft sound. “Is it not the manifest duty of every… Good virgin when faced with a virile— Damn me. That jest failed. Turned upon myself, it did.” He glowered toward his groin before looking back up to give her a forced half grin. His countenance grew harder. “Is it not the duty of every good virgin, when faced with a non -virile male to run fleeing and screaming?”

She couldn’t fathom leaving. ’Twould be a travesty. But before she could answer him, his expression darkened to thunder clouds. “Or are you going to remove your bonnet and remain? Dispatch your other glove as well? Choose to court danger and scandal by associating with my wicked presence, virile or not?”

“Should not virility be in the eye of the beholder?”

Too bold by half!