lips to her hair. But he couldn’t. She was no fae creature. She was a woman, one who thought him a horrible scoundrel and feared him.
It was a sobering thought. Whether his anger was justified or not, he’d still let his temper get the better of him. Brock often feared becoming like their father, but Brodie knew better of his older brother. Brock had mastered self-control and was too compassionate to hurt anyone undeserving.
But not me, he thought. I am more like our father than either of my brothers.
Brodie was quick to judge, quick to throw a punch. He would never hurt a woman, not with his body, but with his words? He might. He had seen what harsh words could do. His father had never once laid a hand on their mother, but he had said unforgivable things to her. It had broken her heart, and she died so early in her young life, leaving four children to face their father’s wrath.
“Oh!” Lydia finally caught sight of Brodie in the doorway. She gasped and stumbled over a footrest she’d moved to one side. He moved fast, catching her in his arms and steadying her.
“Easy. I wouldna like it if you were to sprain a pretty ankle.”
She tried to pull free, and he let her so he could close the door. When he turned back to her, she was reaching for the shawl she had draped across the bed, red-faced.
“I didna mean to startle you, lass. You looked quite fetching, dancing as you were.”
Lydia’s blush deepened. “I did not know anyone would be watching or I wouldn’t have.”
He stepped closer, but carefully, so as not to spook her. “Why not?” He moved like he was stalking a deer.
“I . . . well, it’s rather silly to dance alone in one’s sleeping clothes, isn’t it?”
“There’s nothing silly about doing something that one loves. Name any activity you like, and someone somewhere will consider it a silly pursuit, even reading in one’s own library. So I pay no mind to what others consider silly, nor should you. Do you dance often?”
“Oh . . . some. I don’t get asked to dance much at balls. There are far prettier women, like Portia, and” She stopped short and recovered. “I prefer to dance alone in my chambers. It’s freeing.”
He hadn’t missed her comment about her sister. It had been delivered so easily, without thought. Was she truly that good a liar? He supposed she might have been dancing for the exact purpose of dropping such a casual remark, but such a level of deception seemed unbelievable. Still, he would have to find a way to draw more details from her, either to learn the truth or to catch her in a lie. But that could wait. Right now he wanted answers about her love of dancing.
“Why don’t men ask you to dance?”
“Why?” She stared at him. “I . . . I already said. I’m not in my first season, nor am I that beautiful.”
Brodie drifted another step closer. “Not beautiful?”
She rolled her eyes, as if it was obvious. “My chin is too pert, my nose too buttonlike, my mouth too thin, my hair without luster . . .”
Brodie chuckled and gently caught her chin, turning her face this way and that, pretending to examine her.
“Oh, aye. I see the flaws now. Flaws everywhere.”
Her soft blue eyes filled and began to glisten with tears.
“Your mouth is far too kissable. Men detest that. And your hair . . . it looks too silky. A wretched thing to have. And your throat, far too elegant and swanlike. I canna abide looking at it. Nor can I stand the soft flush of color on your cheeks or the way your eyes make a man think of warm spring days by a cool loch. Aye, you’re too bloody attractive for my tastes, lass. I like my women to be pinch-faced with a meanness in their eyes and a sourness to their rosebud mouths.”
Lydia started to laugh. “You really don’t want all those things, do you?”
He rolled his eyes. “No, lass. I certainly do not. Do you not ken sarcasm when you hear it? I canna speak for those bloody English fools, but you are beautiful. Why you should think otherwise is beyond me.”
He could see the disbelief still in her eyes. “I think I understand sarcasm better than you realize,” she said defiantly.
“I mean it, lass. Call yourself unattractive again and I will put you over my knee. A