Page 17 of The Duke's Auctioned Virgin
“Do what?”
“Light a lantern in a storm.”
“Trade secret.”
He hung it on the hook in the center beam with steady hands. Everything about him was steady.
In the warm light, she looked down at herself. Dress clinging to her body. Hair in wet ropes. She looked terrible. She looked like a woman who had been sitting in a hedge maze, feeling sorry for herself while the weather turned.
“You need to get out of those wet clothes,” he urged, practical and blunt. “Or ye will catch yer death before we are married.”
He turned his back before she could answer.
CHAPTER 6
The nerve of him! But he was right. The corset was digging into her ribs, and the wet muslin felt like ice against her skin.
She stared at his back. She had not asked him to turn around. He just did it.
She stared at his broad shoulders. His shirt was so soaked that she could see the lines and sinews across his back.
She looked away. Gordon would not have turned around. He would have watched.
Corset first.
She got to work on the laces, fingers stiff. She cursed and pulled at the wet laces until her corset came loose enough for her to breathe. She left it on, pulled the shawl around herself, and sat down.
In. Out. God, she had not breathed properly since the storm hit. Maybe longer than that. Maybe she had not breathed properly in three years.
“Are you decent?” he asked.
“Decent enough,” she said, pulling the shawl tighter.
“Meaning?” He was still facing the garden.
“Meaning my corset is loose, and my dress is ruined, and I look like I crawled out of a pond, but nothing is showing that shouldn’t be.”
“Good enough for me.” But he still did not turn. “Here.” He held out his coat behind him. “Take it.”
“I don’t need your coat,” she protested, teeth chattering.
“You’re shivering so hard I can hear yer teeth chattering from here. Take the coat, Duchess.”
She took it. It was enormous and warm. The sleeves slid past her fingers. She pressed her face into the collar before catching herself.
Woodsmoke.
He turned around and saw her in his coat.
“Not a word,” she warned, pointing at his face.
“Wasn’t going to say anything, Duchess.”
“Your mouth was doing something.”
“It does that. I’ve been told I have an expressive mouth.”
“By whom?”
