“Lady Beatrice. A pleasure to see you at the theater.”
Her breath paused in her throat, and a positive thrill raced through her. It was highly irritating, but she couldn’t deny it. There was no one else quite like him, and she found herself now looking forward to their verbal exchanges.
She turned in her seat, glancing back.
He stood in the curtained arch of the box, shadows playing over his strong face.
“I had no idea that my presence caused you pleasure,” she replied, looking up at him. “I rather thought it was pain; after all, I did nearly cause your drowning last time.”
He took a step closer, lingering beside her chair.
In the golden candle glow of the theater, he was as beautiful as ever.
“A man cannot drown in but a few feet of water,” he assured.
“Too true,” she agreed, snapping her fan shut, “but it was a very near thing, and I still have yet to forgive myself for the ruin of your shirt.”
He laughed.
The inescapable and terrible truth was that the image of his shirt plastered to his immaculately sculpted chest had yet to leave her mind.
As a matter of fact, it had given her many sleepless nights. She’d never lost sleep over a gentleman before.
But to be fair, there were no other men like Blackheath.
Even so, she attempted to give her brain a good talking-to about behaving itself when the candles had all been snuffed out.
But the duke had indeed invaded her dreams.
Night after night this past week, she had lain awake in her bed, her light chemise skimming her body. She’d attempted to convince herself that the heat she’d felt as she’d wondered what his muscles felt like beneath that shirt was due to the hot summer weather.
Alas, she had not been able to fool herself. For no summer air had made her body feel so alive before. So wild. So hungry for something it did not know and had never had.
Even now, gazing at him clothed from the top of his cravat-adorned neck to the tips of his polished boots, she struggled to banish the memory of how his wet linen had clung to him and become nearly translucent so that she could see almost every angle and nook of him.
She swallowed and forced herself to give him an enigmatic smile. She did not wish him to know she was considering what his lips might feel like upon hers.
Her imagination had become absolutely scandalous!
She could not stand him. Truly. Even if he was a witty sparring partner.
Why would she wish to kiss him?
It was absurd.
No doubt it was merely the frustration and hot temper that he induced in her. For such passions were often known to cause the blood to boil. Whole books had been written upon the subject.
Everyone said hot blood caused amorous thoughts to rise. She would have to go for several weeks eating no meat whatsoever and eschewing red wine to help cool her temperament, and then she would be back to rights. Not a single thought of his lips on hers or his hands upon—
“Have your wits gone wandering, Lady Beatrice?” He took another step into the box so he was but a few feet away from her. “That is not at all like you.” He cocked his head to the side. “Whatever are you thinking on? Your cheeks have gone bright red.”
“They have not,” she countered firmly. But they were burning. Oh dear. Denial would seem most foolish. She cleared her throat and rushed, “Or if they have, it is merely because of the heat of the evening.” She waved at the audience with her closed fan. “It is a terrible crush here tonight.”
“Yes,” he agreed, seeming rather pleased. “Every seat is filled. It’s a good thing to see. I do dearly enjoy that everyone loves Shakespeare.”
“And as I understand, you love it quite well, too?” she replied. “Yet I have never seen you at a play before this night.”
He folded his hands behind his back, and his gaze lowered to her lips for a brief moment before he snapped it back up to her eyes. He cleared his throat. “In general, I do not have time to go to the theater. You see, I am usually otherwise engaged.”