Page 2 of Her Beautiful Bastard
Though, it would seem she’d had no need to warn him. He moved up the wall faster than she had, and with far more grace. One would think he did this sort of thing often.
In what seemed like no time at all, he was standing atop the wall, his height bringing his head nearly level with hers. Her mouth went dry when their gazes met, unprepared for the impact of his presence up close. His hair, as it turned out, was sable, not black. The moonlight made it gleam like polished wood, the strands now revealing themselves to be more artful in their disarray than careless, one perfect strand falling over his high forehead.
Her eyes widened as she studied him, her gaze tracing the arches of his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, and lower, lower, to an arresting mouth. It was full and pouting, combining with his dark hair and eyebrows to make him appear like the hero of a romantic novel.
She had never seen a more perfect specimen of manhood in her entire life.
He was watching her back just as closely, those dark eyes of his traveling over her face, and then lower, over the slope of her neck and swell of her bosom displayed by the neckline of her ballgown.
“Just as I suspected,” he murmured.
Even at a near whisper, the depth and resonance of his voice seemed to ripple through her, its vibrations shaking her to the core. Her skin broke out in gooseflesh, and she shivered, despite the warmth of the evening.
“What is as you suspected?” she asked, suddenly breathless.
He grinned, and those perfect, white teeth seemed to light up the night, proving even more beautiful up close.
“You,” he replied. “I told myself before climbing this wall that you were just as lovely up close as you appeared to be from the ground. As I suspected, I was right.”
She laughed, the sound too high, too shrill. It covered her anxiety over having a man who looked like this one scaling walls and spouting such nonsense at her.
That only made his smile widen as he braced his arms on the tree limb she straddled.
“Now that I’ve risked my neck to return this to you, I must know why you are sitting in a tree, instead of being partnered on the dance floor inside,” he said while reaching into his coat.
He came out with her slipper, and for a long moment, she could not form words. Her stare was focused on his large hands, one of them cradling her shoe, the other reaching out for her foot. He wore no gloves. She stiffened when he touched her, his naked fingers making contact with her stockinged ankle. He had long, graceful fingers with thick veins running along the backs and disappearing into his shirt cuffs.
He took his time replacing her shoe, easing the slipper over her toes, his fingers squeezing her ankle and skimming upward an inch by the time the back had come over her heel. A shudder rocked her at even so slight a touch, and she mourned it when he’d dropped his hands, going back to lean against the tree limb.
Remembering that he’d asked her a question, she cleared her throat. “I wished for a bit of fresh air.”
He inclined his head at her, his probing stare far too astute. “When one wishes to take air, one simply steps out onto the terrace. Climbing a tree in a darkened corner of the garden indicates a desire to escape.”
This man was impertinent. More than that, he was too familiar. He had no business saying such things to her and probing into her reasons for being out here. However, she remained well aware of how she appeared—skirts raised, sitting in a tree like some ill-bred strumpet. What he must think of her.
Yet, as she met his gaze once more, she saw nothing more than genuine curiosity in the depths. She’d met so many disingenuous people since coming to London that she hardly knew what to do when confronted with someone who presented themselves without pretense.
However, instead of answering him, she became seized with the desire to ask a question of her own. “Would you happen to be escaping also?”
Raising one eyebrow at her, he pursed those perfect lips. She’d always envied people who could do that—lift only one of their eyebrows. And, of course, he looked downright gorgeous with such an expression on his face.
“The lady evades my question,” he teased.
Folding her arms over her chest, she shrugged. “It is only that you are also quite far from the terrace, where it would have been perfectly acceptable for you to indulge in your cheroot. Or, you might have enjoyed it in the company of the other men in the card room. Yet, you are here, far removed just like me.”
His expression became neutral once more as he tipped his head up, studying the moonlit sky. “You’ve found me out, angel. I am, in fact, escaping. Or rather, hiding. Would you like to know why?”
She nodded quickly, leaning forward a bit in anticipation of his answer. Why she should care was beyond her. She only knew that she wanted him to say that he was like her—that he was out here for the same reasons she’d left the ballroom and climbed this tree.
“It is simple, really,” he said, his gaze still turned upward. “I do not belong in there, with those people.”
Since he wasn’t looking at her, she allowed herself to study him more thoroughly. He fit his evening clothes quite well, his broad shoulders and chest tapering into a narrow waist and slim hips, his legs comprised of long, lean cords of muscle. Well-formed, and she’d be willing to bet he wasn’t wearing an ounce of padding or shaping underneath to achieve the effect. He was handsome, seemed charming and witty, and looked like any other young bachelor of theton.
“You certainly appear to fit in,” she managed, hoping it would coax him to reveal more.
He chuckled, the short little sound rough with sarcasm. “I am not certain whether to take that as a compliment or an insult. Yes, angel … I look like the well-bred, blue-blooded men in there, but there is one essential difference.”
She leaned even closer, so close now that she could smell his shaving soap and whatever balm had been applied to his hair. Her eyelids drooped, and the urge to bury her face in his neck and take a deep inhale overwhelmed her.
