Redeeming the Reclusive Earl - Virginia Heath Page 0,82
her beloved Sir Percival as well as making steady inroads into the snooty Lord Denby’s terminal scepticism. But it was the obvious rapport she had with blasted Percy which was gnawing away at him. The fellow was an outrageous flirt and needed to be closely watched. Something he had found impossible to do when the pair of them had slipped out of the room before they had finished their soup!
And Eleanor, who frankly should have chaperoned the pair of them as she was supposed to, had stayed and pandered to Lord Denby’s ego until the fish arrived, clearly oblivious of Max’s frequent and pointed looks reminding her that the pair of them were all on their own. In the end, rather than entrust a servant in case there had been some funny business which required avenging, he had gone to fetch them himself and found the pair huddled together in the library oohing and ahhing over the shield like a new-born child in its crib. Their child! Quite forgetting it was the same blasted shield Max had discovered!
There had been no further opportunities for Flirty Percy to waylay her after that. Max had made sure of it! For the next few days he intended to stick to him like glue whenever Effie was around because Eleanor was an abysmal chaperon.
The soft tap on the door was followed by her whisper. ‘Max... Are you still awake?’
‘Is everything all right?’ She had gone to bed hours ago. He knew because he had counted every minute since. Jabbing balls with his cue as if each was Sir Percival’s grinning round head.
‘Are you decent?’
For a moment he thought about hunting for his cravat to retie it around his neck to hide the scars and then decided there was no point. His sister was right. They weren’t ever going to get any better and Effie already knew all about them. If she hadn’t baulked at the feel of his cheek, which was the least damaged part, then what difference did it make? And if her taste ran to intelligent short and stout men anyway... He heard his own teeth grind and decided he wouldn’t care. He was what he was—and if that wasn’t good enough, then it would be a cold day in hell before she would ever know how much that hurt.
He answered by throwing open the door, daring her to be horrified. And then sincerely wished he hadn’t.
She was stood in a billowing nightgown. A nightgown made up of so much fabric it should have been perfectly decent. Except it was anything but. The scooped neckline framed the slender arch of her neck and showed much too much perfect skin. The long, floaty sleeves were finished in filmy lace which partially obscured her hands until one burrowed free to fiddle with the ends of her dark plait which hung to her waist.
The diaphanous, gauzy fabric, which might well seem sensible and sedate in daylight, was rendered partially translucent in the soft candlelight, forcing him to see the sultry curve of her hips and the legs which had tormented his dreams since the very first day he had encountered her dressed in those breeches. He wished for those muddy breeches now. Another layer to prevent his mind reeling at the thought of what was under that soft muslin. He watched her eyes wander to the covered mirror, saw her clever mind decipher why it was covered, saw the flash of pity and dreaded her next words.
‘There was no time earlier to talk about tomorrow...’ He almost sighed aloud at the unexpected reprieve from the conversation he never wanted to have. ‘What with the dinner and antiquarians and billiards. So I waited up.’ She edged in, chewing nervously on her bottom lip, oblivious of how beautiful she looked or how her innocent gesture made his blood heat. ‘I didn’t want you to be unprepared.’
Unprepared was the perfect word, because he had been totally unprepared for the sight of her like this. Supremely conscious of his big bed behind them, turned down and waiting, and the hideous scars on his face, which rendered all hope for the bed null and void, Max nodded tightly, hoping he didn’t look as overwhelmed as he felt. He could barely breathe, let alone speak.