My Fake Rake

“Keep your shoulders back,” Grace instructed as she circled him, an open book in her hands. “Chin high. Arms held slightly away from the body with a slight bend in each.”

In an attempt to replicate what she described, he stuck his chest out and lifted his chin as his arms stuck out in ungainly angles, but damn if his normally adaptable body felt as cumbersome and graceless as a musk ox.

“This doesn’t feel right,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Of course it doesn’t. Manners are supposed to run contrary to our natural impulses.” She tapped her fingers against the underside of his jaw. “Lift this higher.”

Little explosions of heat went off where she touched him. He shoved the unwanted reaction aside.

“If I lift my chin up any more,” he muttered, “I’m going to tip onto my back and flail around like an overturned turtle.”

“If you do, I’ll just flip you back onto your stomach.”

“Comforting to know.” He struggled to hold the posture, which became even more difficult as she stood close to him, emanating her subtly floral scent.

His awareness of her grew with each moment they spent alone together. When they had met over the years at the library, or on their occasional scientific forays around London, it had been much easier. They’d been two colleagues who shared an interest in observing the world around them. But with no one else around, and his attention fixed solely on her, he became more and more responsive to her. The set of her mouth as she worked through a problem. The way her smiles began in the corners of her eyes before her lips curved.

He didn’t welcome this new attunement to her. It made things sodding complicated.

“I’m supposed to just pose here like this? Rakes simply stand around social gatherings like absurd statues?”

“There’s walking, too.” She glanced down at her book.

He exhaled slightly as she backed up. Which was more difficult—attempting to emulate rakishness, or ignoring the way his body flared to life whenever she was near him? “God help me.”

“It says here that your pace must be elegant and measured. No, go slower,” she instructed as he took a step. “And your feet need to be pointed and slightly turned with each step. Draw attention to your calves and ankles.”

Seb did as she instructed, walking unsteadily as he attempted to force his body into yet more uncomfortable positions. His muscles silently protested the peculiar movement. Yet it was a relief to concentrate on an external task rather than observe the lines of her wrists.

“This can’t be right.”

“It isn’t.” She looked between him and the book, her expression intent. “Do you have a walking stick? It seems to be required.”

“Don’t have one.” A trickle of perspiration rolled down the back of his neck. He sweated less during the weekly football matches he played on Hampstead Heath.

“Just a moment.” She dashed from the room.

He scowled in mingled alarm and dismay. Had he frightened her off? Perhaps he was so ridiculous she had to run away to laugh in private. Ridicule wasn’t pleasant—God knew he’d experienced his share—but he’d learned how to ignore the derision of people he didn’t respect.

If she mocked him, however, the wounds would take forever to heal.

Soft, quick footfalls sounded in the hallway, and then she appeared in the ballroom doorway, holding a yard-long tree branch that was roughly two inches wide.

Relief shot through him, followed quickly by puzzlement.

“Found this.” She approached, holding the tree limb out to him.

“Did that come from the garden?” Gingerly, he took the branch from her.

“My bedroom.”

He frowned down at the thick piece of wood. “Why do you have a tree branch in your bedchamber?”

“What do you suggest I use for turning over logs and rocks when I’m looking for reptiles?” She looked at him as though he had sprouted antennae. “I can’t very well use my bare hands and risk injuring myself or the animal.”

A very good point.

“I’m to use this as my walking stick?” He swiped it through the air, careful not to hit her with it. The branch had the same heft and size as a fencing foil. Its familiarity helped anchor him a little, reminding him that he wasn’t entirely lost in this endeavor. Still, a bit of solid ground beneath his feet would be welcome.