Page 19 of The Duke With the Dragon Tattoo
It was the sort of jaw that, when painted, rendered the subject a villain rather than a hero. A cleft split the middle of his chin. Dimpled and webbed by pink, healing burns scarred his jaw from his left ear, and down his neck to the deep lines created by his collarbone before disappearing into his sleeve.
His jaw, she realized, strong as it was, had required very little shaving in the weeks he’d been at Southbourne Grove. And, as she’d previously tested with her own fingertips… with her lips… his chest remained smooth. Hairless.
Menhad hair, didn’t they?
So he was maybe not yet a man… but most certainly not a boy.
His head had been all but shorn a month past. Now, thick layers of ebony tousled every which way, untamed by a comb or pomade.
It suited him, though.
Everythingsuited him.
Blushing, she remembered that he had a bit of dark hair protecting his… his… Well, never mind what it was called. But Mortimer had intimated that he was of the opinion there wasn’t enough of it for a man grown.
Her gaze wandered lower.Shecertainly wouldn’t know about such things, and it wasn’t as though she could justask—
“Lorelai?” Her name was more a plea than a question.
Golly, had she said anything aloud?
He’d stopped eating. Frozen in a thin-eyed calculation of his own.
She cleared her throat with a distinctly unladylike sound. “I—I know you must be older than me, as you have the voice of aman, and most of theboysmy age have similar voices to mine.”
“What is your age?” he asked alertly.
“Fourteen.”
He made a sound in his throat, though whether affirmative or negative, she could hardly tell.
“Let us say that you are seventeen today. Younger than twenty, but still almost grown.” He’d a very young—very vigorous—body, but the soul who peered out of those eyes had seen everything one would wish to in a lifetime.
And then perhaps a little more.
“That would put three years between us.” He said this as if it were significant.
“Is that a good number of years? Or bad?” she couldn’t help but ask.
“I couldn’t say.” He took a distracted bite, then asked, “What is the date? I’d like to know, should I live to see my next birthday.”
She grinned. “It’s August second, for future reference.”
That noise again. Like the disinterested groan of a wolfhound. A thinking sound, perhaps?
“Do you… like your birthday?” she fretted. “We could always change it.”
His eyes melted from hard sable to soft pitch. “It’s my favorite day so far.”
Pleased and discomfited by the gravity in his words, she groped for something to occupy her racing thoughts.
“I brought presents. Well,sort ofpresents. You won’tbe able tokeepthem, but since you haven’t been able to meet my friends…” Reaching for the covers to the pens she’d had conducted to his bedside, she pulled them away, like a magician unveiling his grand reveal. “I thought I’d bring them to you.”
He surveyed her “friends” with the appropriate expression of curiosity and enjoyment. Enough to delight her into congratulating herself on such a capital idea.
From their respective pens peered three sleepy foxes, two turtles, a bunny, a ferret, and a snake.
“You… saved them all?” he murmured.
