Page 6 of Desert Island Duke

“Exactly. This little blade might be the difference between life and death out here.”

He placed it on a piece of driftwood, then stripped off his jacket and spread it on the bush next to his cravat. His still-damp shirt clung to him like a spurned lover, and when he tugged the bottom of it from the waistband of his breeches, Caro let out a strangled gasp.

“Wait! What are you doing?” Her voice had risen an octave in shock.

He paused with the hem of his shirt halfway up his torso.

“Taking my shirt off, of course. We need to dry out.” He gestured at her own wet clothing. “Come on. Off with ‘em. This is no time to be missish.”

Before Caro could argue, he’d whipped the shirt over his head to reveal a muscular chest that made her catch her breath.

Dear God, the man was indecently well-built. She’d always suspected it, thanks to the cut of his jackets and the snugness of his breeches, but having it confirmed so emphatically made her a little lightheaded.

He turned, completely at ease with being half-naked in front of her, and began draping the shirt over the bushes. Caro couldn’t help staring at the incredible play of muscles rippling beneath his lightly tanned skin. He’d clearly spent time without his shirt in India. He was golden all over. Far more like a groomsman than a duke, in fact.

When his fingers dropped to the buttons of his falls, however, she put her hands on her hips in outrage. “You absolutely cannot remove your breeches!”

Chapter 4

Hayworth sent her an amused glance, and Caro had the distinct impression that he’d had no intention of removing his breeches at all—that he’d only done it to get a rise out of her.

“Oh, very well. I suppose we should try to preserve your modesty. Although considering where we are, it’s rather pointless. The rules of polite society can’t possibly be upheld in a place like this.”

Caro frowned. He had a good point. And she was definitely still damp.

Her dress—a sheer, sprigged muslin that was the perfect weight to counter the oppressive heat of the tropics—was practically transparent when wet, as it was now. Mercifully, she was also wearing her favorite long cotton petticoat, a set of short stays, and a knee-length cotton chemise as the final layer against her skin.

When the order to abandon ship had come last night, she’d tugged her leather ankle boots over her stockings and thrown a thin woolen shawl around her shoulders before her father had bustled her out into the passageway and up onto the heaving deck.

Her shawl had been lost to the churning waves, and in hindsight it was lucky her skirts hadn’t prevented her from swimming. The weightless fabric had billowed up in the water, like a jellyfish, allowing her to kick her legs. If she’d been wearing a thick woolen skirt, and multiple petticoats, she would probably have been dragged down to a watery grave.

Still, perhaps learning the contents of Davy Jones’s locker would have been preferable to disrobing in front of Maximillian Cavendish right now.

“I’m not taking anything off,” Caro said stubbornly. “Except for my boots.” She bent to undo the laces.

Hayworth merely shrugged and, after kicking a driftwood log over and checking it for insects, sat down to remove his own boots. He gripped the heel of one and tugged, and when it slid free, a stream of water and sand poured out onto the ground.

He sighed, as if pained. “They’ll never be the same now, you know.”

Caro was about to retort with a sarcastic comment about how he could afford ten more pairs, then remembered he was supposed to be a penniless groomsman and closed her mouth.

Since her stockings were wet, she took them off too, and wriggled her toes in the pleasantly warm sand.

Hayworth did the same, and she shot a sneaky glance over at his bare feet, hoping they’d prove to be one part of his body that was ugly, but they were long and elegant, just like the rest of him.

“You really should take more off,” he said.

His tone made it sound like a perfectly reasonable suggestion, instead of perfectly indecent.

“You can’t be comfortable, and there’s no point in suffering just for the sake of propriety. I hate to break it to you, Miss Montgomery, but whatever reputation you might have had before this disaster has long since evaporated.”

He sounded annoyingly pleased at the prospect that she might be ruined.

“My reputation, or lack of it, is the least of my problems right now, Mister Cavendish.”

Caro took a gleeful delight in omitting his honorific title. “I’m sure there are scores of young ladies back in London who’d choose death over dishonor, but I’m not one of them. I’m glad to be alive. If the ton considers me ruined because I’ve been marooned on an island with an unmarried gentleman—through absolutely no fault of my own—then there’s very little I can do about it. Fortunately, I care far less about finding a husband than I do about finding something to eat and drink.”

He grinned. “A woman of independence. I like that. But still, we can’t have you catching a fever from lounging about in damp clothing. If there was one thing the army taught me, it was to always stay warm and dry.”

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