Page 75 of When He Was Wicked
The earl was naked!
Or partially naked. He was bared of shirt and jacket…and even boots! The man stood looking out into her small garden with his muscled back toward her. It was a moment before she could pull enough air into her lungs to exhale. “Lord Hardwick!”
His shoulders stiffened, and he made to face her.
“Please, my lord,” she gasped, holding out her hand as if he could see her. “Do not turn around!”
Despite her desperate plea, the wicked, wretched man still shifted and turned to her. She slapped a hand over her eyes, then peeked through her fingers. Henrietta felt as if her blush would burn her alive. His skin was wonderfully golden, a testimony that he had spent hours outdoors in this state.
How and why, she could not imagine. The earl’s skin tone was smooth and beautiful, muscles carved down to his stomach as if he had been sculpted by a sculptor of great genius.Henrietta’s fingers itched to touch him, to trace the contours of such perfection…to perhaps put this very image on a canvas.
“Lord Hardwick, you are half-naked!”
He looked down at her with no sign of concern for his state of undress. “Miss Sutton, I did not expect you.”
“My lord…I…I…”
Lord Hardwick made a sound between a word and a groan. Perhaps it was exasperation. He looked as if he would throttle her or perhaps the earl found her presence decidedly unpleasant.
His gaze narrowed on her. “Why are you here? I expected Mr. Atwood.”
“And you awaited him in this state of undress?” she demanded faintly, aware of the awful pounding of her heart, the strange weakness in her knees, and the hotness at the back of her neck. “What were you thinking?”
“I assure you, another gentleman would not look so faint at the sight of a mere chest,” he said drily. “I have no smelling salts with me, so please get ahold of your nerves.”
A mere chest?His mocking words pierced her, and Henrietta looked away, hating the heat rising in her cheeks. As if everyone could be worldly and experienced as a man of his deplorable reputation.
Rustling filled the air, and a quick peek revealed he shrugged on a white lawn shirt. The man appeared very disreputable with the hem of the shirt loose over his breeches and it not perfectly buttoned to his throat. Still, it was better than seeing the rippling muscles of his chest and arms.
“Now tell me, Miss Sutton, why are you here? Is Mr. Atwood not coming?”
She faced him and took a steady breath. The words hovered on her tongue but would not spill. Henrietta swallowed and squared her shoulders. “I am Henry Atwood.”
Drat, that was not what she’d meant to say at all.
A slow blink was his only reaction, before he said, “I beg your pardon?”
“It is short for my name, Henrietta. I am the painter you are seeking, my lord.”
Stunned,Simon stared at Miss Sutton, her words settling deep inside him. “Is that a joke? An elaborate ploy by your Henry to avoid meeting me?”
Her eyes flashed with fire. “My lord, I meant to start our conversation about the terms of our working relationship, which is of utmost secrecy, before I revealed I was Henry Atwood! I even meant to demand a contract of sorts. I suppose seeing your state of undress rattled my composure more than I allowed.”
He turned the words over, noting the way she braced for his reaction, and the defiant fire in her eyes. Slowly, Simon repeated, “Youare Henry Atwood.”
Her chin jutted forward. “Yes, I am, my lord.”
Yet it was not her adamant words but the flash of fear and uncertainty in her blue gaze that allowed Simon to accept her words as truth.Hell. Miss Henrietta Sutton was the incredibly talented painter Henry Atwood. Now he understood why no one had seen the man in society though his talent was so coveted. The man’s elusiveness had, of course, added to his reputation. Those in thetonhad a habit of wanting that which was not easily attainable.
If they knew Henry Atwood was a young lady with too much spunk for her own good, the allure would be lost, and suddenly she would face condemnation and possibly scandal. It was never more apparent to him how ridiculous his society could be.
Miss Sutton delicately cleared her throat. “This is where you say something, my lord.”
He took a few steps toward her, and she held her ground, jutting her chin out even further. She was a charming little thing, clearly a most unusual lady and very pretty. The lady owned some of the lushest curves he’d ever seen, and they were richly pronounced this afternoon by the dark green dress that hugged her body. Her auburn hair had been fashionably cut, and tendrils framed her face and caressed the pale slope of her neck. Right at that pretty throat, he saw that her pulse fluttered wildly.
It annoyed him that Miss Sutton did not stare at him with the usual adoration he was long accustomed to from ladies. A spurt of dark humor filled him at his own arrogance and vanity. Nay, the prettiest blue eyes he had ever beheld in his seven and twenty years on earth were watching him cautiously.
Simon gave her his most debonaire smile, which always elicited blushes from ladies. The damn woman scowled. She was decidedly uncharmed by him. Simon quickly recalculated how he would go forward—with none of his usual flirtations and charm, merely brisk honesty. He held out his hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Henry. I have long admired your work. You are an incredible painter.”
