“Very well.” He set to work on the knot in his cravat. “You may feast upon my flesh if that is your wish.”
Damnation!
Thank the Lord, Wycliff and Cavanagh were not here to witness this madness. Indeed, when he regaled the tale to his friends, he would omit the most embarrassing part.
“Would you mind holding my clothes?” Lawrence handed her his hat and cravat. He shrugged out of his coat and gave her that, too.
The lady remained rooted to the spot, her posture rigid as she clutched his garments and watched him undress.
When he handed her his waistcoat, she scanned the width of his shoulders and said, “Wai
t. There is no need to remove your shirt. I simply need to see your upper chest. That’s where all the rogues wear their mark. Might you part the material?”
Like hell he would. “You’ll gaze upon my bare chest whether you want to or not.” Feeling as if he had gained the upper hand again, Lawrence relished the opportunity to rattle her composure. “Else you might accuse me of bearing the mark elsewhere.” He grabbed the hem and drew his shirt over his head.
The lady sucked in a sharp breath. Open-mouthed, she stared at every muscled contour, at his nipples erect from the cold. A faint blush stained her cheeks. She looked away numerous times, but it was as if a magnetic pull drew her back to gaze upon his nakedness.
“Satisfied?” Lawrence opened his arms wide, ignored the chill bringing goose bumps to his skin. This was certainly not how he envisaged his night in the graveyard would end. “Well, do you see Satan’s mark?”
With some hesitation, she stepped closer and focused on the pectoral muscle above his right nipple. Her sweet breath breezed across his skin. Lord have mercy! For a moment he thought she might touch him. But after some reflection, she straightened. “You may dress, Mr Trent.”
“What, so soon? I rather like having the icy wind whipping at my back.” It seemed the devil had appeared. The wicked imp on his shoulder begged him to tease her, demanded he rouse more than a blush. “Perhaps you should probe further. Stage actors use creams and ointments to hide their scars.”
Mistrust flashed in her eyes.
Good. The woman should reconsider her need to visit churchyards alone in the dead of night. They might be miles from London, but rogues lingered in the most unlikely places.
“Do you not wish to touch me, Miss—?” The thought of her fingers gliding over his chest proved somewhat thrilling. “Forgive me. I do not know your name.”
“Do you need to know my name, sir?”
“Having paid you the courtesy of stripping and standing half-naked in the cold, I think I have earned the right.”
She responded with a sigh, quickly followed by a curt nod. “My name is Miss Vale. Miss Verity Vale.”
Verity Vale?
The name meant nothing. Still, he repeated it silently, for he liked the way the sound echoed in his mind.
“Well, do you wish to touch me, Miss Vale?” Lawrence massaged the chest muscle that held her attention. He considered capturing her hand, letting her feel the heat of a man’s body penetrate her palm. “Do you not wish to rub the skin? To ensure I have not gone to great lengths to hide the mark?” Like a skilled courtesan, he drew his hand down his chest, trailed his fingers over the muscles in his abdomen.
The lady swallowed deeply but made a quick recovery from her bout of uneasiness. “You’re teasing me, Mr Trent.” Her bright blue gaze drifted to the deep cleft in his chin. “Had you been so devious, you would hardly confess to hiding the mark.”
“And had I an affinity with the devil, I would not be the only one naked to the waist.”
Her eyes sprang wide, and then she blinked rapidly. “So, we agree neither of us came here for nefarious reasons.”
Without bothering to ask if she had seen enough, Lawrence straightened his shirt and drew the fine lawn over his head. “I simply want to know why you’re placing flowers on my brother’s grave at midnight. Do your parents know you escape the house when they’re tucked in their beds?”
“My parents are dead, sir.” Miss Vale played valet and shook out his waistcoat before handing it to him. “And as to the matter of what I am doing here, I think you might curse upon hearing the answer.”
Good God! Had Charles done the unthinkable? Had he ravished a woman he’d spoken to once, lied and promised marriage?
Disappointment flared.
Lawrence snatched his coat from her grasp, shrugged into the garment and thrust his cravat into the inside pocket. “Charles Farrow died four months ago. Surely a woman of your beauty knows one should not dwell on what might have been. As his brother, I can tell you the gentleman was averse to marriage.”
The crystal blue gems she had for eyes sparkled with curious enquiry. “Sir, I do not know what story you have concocted in your head, but I am far from the innocent maiden looking for a match. I had no designs on marrying your brother. On the contrary, I tend Mr Farrow’s grave out of guilt. As a form of penance. And because of something my cousin wrote in a book just before his death five months ago.”