one”—she lifted a single digit—“you’re not a man who’ll put his hands upon a woman.”
His stomach muscles twisted in a pained vise. Nay, he wouldn’t. But there’d been others who had . . . He gave his head a slight, clearing shake. “And two”—she stuck up two fingers—“many of your responses have been mere bluster.”
Mere bluster. And yet, another first had been dealt him this day. He rubbed distractedly at his chest. “My God, that’s a brave bet you’ve taken.”
Lila nodded jerkily. “Yes. Yes, it is. But the benefits of my braving your displeasure far outweigh those of my running off in fear.” She motioned to his tattoos. “And it is going to take a good deal more than you rubbing at your well-sculpted chest to scare me, Mr. Savage.”
He managed his first smile that morning. “‘Well sculpted,’ am I?”
A pretty blush climbed her cheeks. “You don’t strike me as one who searches for compliments or doesn’t know precisely who you are or what you look like. Therefore, yes, you are very well sculpted. Like a statue.” She tacked on that elucidation like an afterthought that required being spoken.
Hugh ceased rubbing at the dagger pointed to the place his heart should be, and for the third wonder since their first exchange, he discovered another unexpected fact about himself: he was capable of going hot in the face. How very confident she was that she stood in the presence of an honorable man. It was a mark of both her naivete and her stupidity.
But then, what did it say to him that he was even now considering the request she’d put to him? “Very well,” he said curtly. Stalking over to the hooks along the back wall, Hugh grabbed his white lawn shirt hanging there and waved it toward the bar where drinks were served to patrons at night. “Have a seat and say your piece, Flittermouse.”
Chapter 7
THE LONDONER
The nobility has pretended too long that they are immune from the world’s evil. It is time for a reckoning, one where Polite Society acknowledges the danger that exists. And this story of the latest Lost Lord merely serves to illustrate that the ton is as guilty of sin and darkness as those born outside its illustrious ranks . . .
V. Lovelace
Given everything Lila needed to learn and the fact that she still had to convince Hugh Savage to help her, her attention really should be on the arena she’d managed to gain entry to.
Alas, as she approached the row of stools at the bar, her eyes were riveted by just one thing in Savage’s . . . or rather, one person—Mr. Hugh Savage.
Nor were her thoughts fixed on his earlier display of violence, as they should have been, but rather on him as a man. Hugh Savage was nothing short of a breathtaking display of manhood.
Where mortals were made of mere flesh, this specimen of the gods dripped muscles. From biceps that bulged to the corded sinew over his flat belly, there wasn’t an ounce of spare flesh upon him. Jagged scars covered him like a canvas, and that flesh not marked by old wounds and injuries bore renderings in black and red ink.
And she expected she should be horrified. That would be the proper ladylike response. Only, he wore imperfections like a Michelangelo masterpiece.
With her gaze she traced those renderings on his flesh, and desire stirred low in her belly, fanning like a warm flame.
He again smirked, and for one horrifying moment, she believed that he knew the wicked wandering of her thoughts. That he’d caught how very mesmerized she was by his physique. “Do I have to throw you into your seat, Flittermouse?” he asked as he pulled his shirt on over his head. “Or do you think you can manage it?”
“I can . . .” not manage anything in this moment.
Hugh stuffed the tails of the lawn article into the waistband of his trousers. Her mouth went dry . . . not with fear, but with raw and very real desire. And it was so foreign, so new, feeling anything where any person was concerned. But this? This burning heat low in her belly proved the first reminder in nine long years—she was alive. Gloriously and joyously alive.
She’d believed herself altered in every way after Peterloo, only to find she was as capable of desire as any woman. And that proved a heady discovery.
He gave her an odd look, effectively quashing that all-too-brief joy.
Embarrassment painted her cheeks red. “I