In the Dark with the Duke by Christi Caldwell Page 0,40

trembled so badly the velvet string slipped from her fingers. She struggled several times, and then with a silent curse, she gave up.

Laying her head against the wall, Lila concentrated on the slight cracks where the screen folded. On the other side, Hugh unbuttoned his silk black waistcoat. Her mouth went dry, and this time it wasn’t fear’s response that took over. Knowing that same lure as those poor moths to the flame, Lila crept over and pressed her eye against one of the folds in the panel, squinting in a bid to bring Hugh Savage into greater focus. She gasped softly.

In the short time in which she’d known him, Lila had seen the proprietor in various states of dishabille. Why, she’d even come upon him when he’d been bare-chested. But this instance? Unobserved as she was, there was something so very wicked in watching an unsuspecting Hugh Savage in his state of undress. Unapologetically, she gawked at the ripple of his muscles as he moved. He reached for the waistband of his trousers, and she leaned forward, on the tips of her toes . . .

Hugh’s gaze collided with hers through the screen.

Gasping, she jumped back.

“Having doubts, Flittermouse?”

Yes, but not for the reasons he expected.

“Have you finally realized you’ve been reckless in coming here?”

That word echoed, Hugh’s deep baritone morphing into another person’s softer, delicate tones.

“It’s reckless for us to go, Lila . . .”

“Lila?” Hugh called from the other side, and there wasn’t the usual mockery or disdain, and just then, she found herself wishing for those safer sentiments than his concern.

The present cut through the memories of her and Annalee that August day . . .

“J-just one more moment,” she returned, proud of that nearly steady deliverance.

This time, Lila managed to catch the strings of her day dress and give them a tug. The muslin garment slipped down her frame, falling in a flutter about her ankles. Stepping over it, she then tugged off her chemise.

“Does it always take you this long to undress?”

And oddly, the return of his annoyance proved steadying, and she found herself smiling. An honest and real smile. “This is actually quick,” she said as she carefully laid her dress and chemise over the top of the screen. “It generally takes a lady much longer to see to her attire.”

He snorted.

Lila hurriedly drew on the breeches, tying them at the waist. Belonging to a man near in height to her own, they hung a bit long at her ankles, and yet . . . she turned left and right. There was a glorious freedom in the unencumbered articles.

And saints of wonder, if Hugh Savage hadn’t been correct, after all.

Grabbing the lawn shirt, she pulled the stained garment overhead and stuffed the long tails inside the waistband of her trousers.

They were freeing. Mayhap that was why men wished to keep a lady trapped in her skirts.

With her hands on her hips, Lila looked down at herself—

Gasping, she crossed her arms at her chest.

“What is it now?” he asked, with his usual impatience.

“I’m . . . not at all certain if . . .”

“If?” he snapped when she didn’t finish her thought.

If it was appropriate. Only, she couldn’t very well say as much. After all, there was nothing appropriate—in her attire, in her being here, in her discussions with Hugh Savage.

“You are certain this is the only way?” she tried once more. “That you cannot teach me in skirts?”

“I’m not going to be able to teach you anything soon, Lila. If today is any indication, your lessons are going to consist of your coming here, debating me on some damned point or another, then changing into your fighting garments, and then immediately having to change out because you wasted every bloody minute.”

She wrinkled her nose. Yes, well, she supposed when he put it that way . . .

Furthermore, aside from one heated glance that may or may not have been part of her imagining, he’d not behaved in any way untowardly. Why, more often than not, he didn’t even seem to like her.

“Have no worries, Flittermouse,” he added. Lila stepped out from behind the screen. “You have my assurance, the last thing you have to worry about is me desiring y . . .” As he faced her, his words trailed off.

With Lila March hovering at the edge of that screen, there came but one coherent thought: breeches had been a bloody rotten idea. Nay, not just the breeches. The whole damned ensemble. From the