herself.
She wished wimples would come back into fashion.
She wondered what Rawnsley’s raven mane was like when it was clean and combed. She had not seen him since Bertie had taken charge of him.
She wondered why the earl kept his hair long, whether it was merely some odd masculine vanity or an act of defiance—against convention in general or, more likely, his straitlaced grandfather in particular. She could certainly understand that.
Rebellion did not explain, however, why the earl so little resembled his tiny portrait. The puffy face in the miniature had seemed to belong to a rather corpulent man. The one Gwendolyn had met hadn’t an ounce of excess flesh upon his six-foot frame. His drenched shirt and trousers had clung like a second skin, not to rippling rolls of fat, but to lean, taut muscle.
Whatever was wrong with him was obviously confined to the contents of his skull.
Gwendolyn watched the light of the lowering sun spread a red stain through the deepening shadows of the moors while she searched her mental index of brain diseases. She wondered what malady corresponded to the “crumbling” he’d mentioned.
She was considering aneurisms when she heard footsteps crunch upon the gravel path.
Turning toward the sound, she beheld her betrothed advancing toward her, his face set, his right hand clutching a piece of paper.
At that moment, medical hypotheses, along with all other intellectual matters, sank into the deepest recesses of Gwendolyn’s mind. When he paused before her, all she could do was stare while her heart beat an erratic rhythm that made the blood hum in her veins.
He wore a coat of fine black wool, whose snugly elegant cut hugged his powerful, athletic physique. Her glance skidded down over the equally snug trousers to the gleaming toes of his shoes, then darted up again to his face.
Cleaned of the mire’s vestiges, his countenance was pale, chiseled marble. The long black hair, gleaming like silk, rippled over his broad shoulders. A burning golden gaze trapped hers.
If she had been a normal female, she would have swooned. But she was not normal, never had been.
“Good grief, you are impossibly handsome,” she said breathlessly. “I vow, I have never experienced the like. For an instant, my brain stopped altogether. I must say, my lord, you do clean up well. But next time, I wish you would call out a warning before you come into view, and give me a chance to brace myself for the onslaught.”
Something dark flickered in his eyes. Then a corner of his hard mouth quirked up. “Miss Adams, you have an interesting—a unique—way with a compliment.”
The trace of a smile disoriented her further. “It is a unique experience,” she said. “I never knew my brain to shut off before, not while I was full awake. I wonder if the phenomenon has been scientifically documented and what physiological explanation has been proposed.”
Her eyes would not focus properly but wandered fuzzily downward again . . . and stopped at the piece of paper. The document snapped her back to reality. “That looks official,” she said. “Legal drivel, I collect. Is it something I must sign?”
He glanced back toward the house.
When his attention returned to her, the half-smile was gone, and his expression had hardened again. “Will you walk with me?” he asked.
The backward glance gave Gwendolyn a good idea of what the trouble was. She kept her thoughts to herself, though, and stood obediently and walked with him in silence down a path bordered by roses. When they reached a planting of shrubs that shielded them from view of the house, he spoke.
“I am told that, in view of my prognosis, a guardian ought to be appointed to oversee my affairs,” he said. His voice was not altogether steady. “Abonville proposes to act as guardian since he’s my nearest male kin. It is a reasonable proposal, my own solicitor agrees. I’ve inherited a good deal of property, which must be protected when I become
She wished wimples would come back into fashion.
She wondered what Rawnsley’s raven mane was like when it was clean and combed. She had not seen him since Bertie had taken charge of him.
She wondered why the earl kept his hair long, whether it was merely some odd masculine vanity or an act of defiance—against convention in general or, more likely, his straitlaced grandfather in particular. She could certainly understand that.
Rebellion did not explain, however, why the earl so little resembled his tiny portrait. The puffy face in the miniature had seemed to belong to a rather corpulent man. The one Gwendolyn had met hadn’t an ounce of excess flesh upon his six-foot frame. His drenched shirt and trousers had clung like a second skin, not to rippling rolls of fat, but to lean, taut muscle.
Whatever was wrong with him was obviously confined to the contents of his skull.
Gwendolyn watched the light of the lowering sun spread a red stain through the deepening shadows of the moors while she searched her mental index of brain diseases. She wondered what malady corresponded to the “crumbling” he’d mentioned.
She was considering aneurisms when she heard footsteps crunch upon the gravel path.
Turning toward the sound, she beheld her betrothed advancing toward her, his face set, his right hand clutching a piece of paper.
At that moment, medical hypotheses, along with all other intellectual matters, sank into the deepest recesses of Gwendolyn’s mind. When he paused before her, all she could do was stare while her heart beat an erratic rhythm that made the blood hum in her veins.
He wore a coat of fine black wool, whose snugly elegant cut hugged his powerful, athletic physique. Her glance skidded down over the equally snug trousers to the gleaming toes of his shoes, then darted up again to his face.
Cleaned of the mire’s vestiges, his countenance was pale, chiseled marble. The long black hair, gleaming like silk, rippled over his broad shoulders. A burning golden gaze trapped hers.
If she had been a normal female, she would have swooned. But she was not normal, never had been.
“Good grief, you are impossibly handsome,” she said breathlessly. “I vow, I have never experienced the like. For an instant, my brain stopped altogether. I must say, my lord, you do clean up well. But next time, I wish you would call out a warning before you come into view, and give me a chance to brace myself for the onslaught.”
Something dark flickered in his eyes. Then a corner of his hard mouth quirked up. “Miss Adams, you have an interesting—a unique—way with a compliment.”
The trace of a smile disoriented her further. “It is a unique experience,” she said. “I never knew my brain to shut off before, not while I was full awake. I wonder if the phenomenon has been scientifically documented and what physiological explanation has been proposed.”
Her eyes would not focus properly but wandered fuzzily downward again . . . and stopped at the piece of paper. The document snapped her back to reality. “That looks official,” she said. “Legal drivel, I collect. Is it something I must sign?”
He glanced back toward the house.
When his attention returned to her, the half-smile was gone, and his expression had hardened again. “Will you walk with me?” he asked.
The backward glance gave Gwendolyn a good idea of what the trouble was. She kept her thoughts to herself, though, and stood obediently and walked with him in silence down a path bordered by roses. When they reached a planting of shrubs that shielded them from view of the house, he spoke.
“I am told that, in view of my prognosis, a guardian ought to be appointed to oversee my affairs,” he said. His voice was not altogether steady. “Abonville proposes to act as guardian since he’s my nearest male kin. It is a reasonable proposal, my own solicitor agrees. I’ve inherited a good deal of property, which must be protected when I become
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