Page 19 of The Trouble with Tigers
Problem was, she didn’t know exactly how to proceed. Then again, how hard could it be? She squatted before Zeke and tugged. Nothing happened.
“Try unfastening the buckles.”
She glanced up at him and her insides…melted. No other word described the sensation.
He gazed back at her with slumberous eyes. His disheveled hair screamed at her to smooth it. His lips were rose-colored, and swollen, as if he’d spent a good portion of last night kissing.
Someone else.
Her chin jutted downward, and she undid the first buckle with short, angry jerks. Then, using both hands, she heaved—and promptly found herself sprawled on her backside before him.
Zeke threw his head back and roared with laughter.
She wanted to maintain her anger, but his laughter proved contagious and her lips curved up instead of down.
“Why, Kit, is that a smile? I’d begun to think you had no sense of humor.”
When she would’ve resumed her crouch at his feet, he waved her off with an easy grin. “I’ll get this one. I’ll need your help with my garments and I don’t want you to hurt yourself before you hang my things. Speaking of which…” He held out his coat.
She took it without comment, her interest in entering his closet outweighing her ire at his high-handed manner. “This way?”
He grunted his assent.
Once hidden from his view, she held the black superfine to her nose and breathed in Zeke’s scent.
“What’re you doing in there?”
Ever suspicious. She glared through the walls but hung his jacket, shooting the fabric before exiting the closet.
“Kit, how did you come to be in my grandfather’s employ?”
He asked the question with practiced nonchalance, but Kitty noted the way the corners of his eyes tightened as if he prepared to catch her in a lie.
No matter. She and the earl had rehearsed the answer. “I met his Lordship at a house party in the country. Acted as his valet, m’lord.” The gravelly tone she only partially achieved succeeded in scraping her voice box raw. “He liked my services and asked the host if I could be hired away.”
“Evidently your impressive valet skills are rusty,” Zeke muttered. “Whose house party?” He set the second boot beside the first and began removing his socks.
She watched, unblinking, as one, hard-muscled calf appeared, followed by a large, but well-shaped foot.
He dropped the dark wool onto the floor beside his boots and frowned at her.
“B-beg pardon, my lord?”
“Whose house party?” he drew out, louder.
“Lord Hastings’s.” She dragged her gaze from his bare foot. “Baron of Maidstone.” Her grandfather. Kitty and the earl figured neither one of them would forget his name and later be fouled up. Plus, she could describe her ancestral home to a tee if pressed.
“Hastings.” He rolled the name over his tongue as if trying to place it. He stripped off his second sock, then stood, spreading his arms wide. “Help me with my waistcoat. I daresay you’ll be quicker at it than me what with your delicate hands.”
She hung back not at all sure she ought to comply.
“You must be the worst servant I’ve ever—”
“Oh, very well.” She darted forward, tackling his fabric-covered buttons as if the devil himself timed her. She bent over her work, and tried without much success to keep her fingers steady. If only he wouldn’t notice how her hands shook she could die a happy girl. She leaned closer to block his critic’s eye. Almost done now.
An odd scent invaded her nostrils. Her fingers stilled. She sniffed. It almost smelled like…a woman’s perfume.
“Ew-w.” She grimaced and scrubbed her hands on her trousers and glanced up at him.
