Sleepless at Midnight (11 page)

She was about to see the very naked, very perfect Lord Langston take a bath. Chapter 6

Heat sizzled through Sarah’s body, and if she’d been able to tear her gaze from Lord Langston’s naked form, she most likely would have looked down to ascertain that her skirt wasn’t ablaze. Like a centuries-old elm, she stood rooted to the spot, barely breathing so as not to refog her lenses, not so much as blinking, for the sight of a naked Lord Langston lifting one muscular leg to step over the edge of the tub was not a sight to be missed.

Unfortunately, her conscience chose that moment to cough to life and make itself known. Cease this reprehensible spying at once! Her haloenwreathed inner voice demanded. Avert your eyes this instant and give that poor man the privacy he deserves. What the poor man deserved, Sarah decided, was a standing ovation. He lifted his other leg and she tilted her head to maximize the stupefying view. Another wave of heat rolled through her. Heavens. Lord Langston was indeed blessed. Everywhere.

Her conscience once again attempted to speak, but she flicked it away as one would an annoying buzzing insect. Because really, she had to look. How else would she know when he finished his bath so she could determine when it was safe for her to escape? And besides, she was a scientist of sorts. Granted, her area of expertise was horticulture and not anatomy, but she certainly possessed a scientist’s love of learning. A scientist’s thirst for knowledge. Yes, and look how badly the quest for knowledge turned out for Dr. Frankenstein, her inner voice said slyly.

Stuff and nonsense. Things would have gone much better had Dr. Frankenstein’s creation in any way resembled Lord Langston. Her gaze wandered down his masculine form and she barely suppressed a gusty sigh.

Much better.

She was quickly developing an unexpected expertise and appreciation for the male anatomy. She watched him slowly lower himself into the steaming water, then lean his head back against the curved lip. After exhaling a long breath, he closed his eyes.

Sarah studied him, noting how, due to his height, his bent knees rose from the water. Although his features were more relaxed, she still detected signs of strain around his mouth and closed eyes. What troubled him so that even in repose peace seemed to escape him?

Her gaze rested on a lock of his dark hair that fell over his forehead, and her fingers suddenly itched with the desire to brush back the strands. Discover if they felt as silky as they looked. She allowed her imagination to wander, and in her mind’s eye she envisioned herself walking toward him. Kneeling beside the tub. Sifting her fingers through his hair, then tracing them over his features. Memorizing the texture of his skin. The shape of his lips…

As if beckoning her, his lips parted slightly, drawing her attention to his mouth. In spite of her best efforts to ignore such things for what was the good in admiring that which she could never have? she always seemed particularly attracted to men’s lips. And this man’s were truly lovely. Perfectly shaped and enticingly full. How did they manage to look so firm yet so soft at the same time?

Again she imagined herself kneeling next to the tub, this time slowly tracing the outline of his mouth with her fingertips, then leaning forward to touch her lips to his. Her eyes slid closed and her breath caught. What would his mouth feel like against hers? And his skin…how would it feel beneath her palms? Rough? Smooth?

Heat pulsed through her, settling low in her belly. It was a sensation she recognized, the one that often came upon her as she lay alone in her bed, in the dark, yearning for…something. The sensation that left her restless and overheated and made her feel as if her skin had somehow shrunk. She shifted slightly, pressing her thighs together, but the movement did nothing to relieve her discomfort; rather, it only served to further inflame nerve endings that already throbbed. She opened her eyes and her fingers tightened around the velvet curtain as he reached out and grabbed a thick bar of soap from a ceramic dish set on a small table next to the tub. Transfixed, she watched him drag the soap across his wet skin, washing his neck, arms, and chest. Then his hands disappeared, presumably to skim the soap over his lower body, and she cursed the copper tub that thwarted her view. Hoping to improve her line of vision, she rose up on her toes. Botheration, that didn’t help.

When Lord Langston finished with the soap, he set it back on the ceramic dish, then slid low in the water to rinse, disappearing from her view. Before she could pull a much needed breath into her lungs, he reappeared and ran his hands over his wet face. Then slowly stood. She hadn’t believed anything could look more perfect than a naked Lord Langston, but obviously something could.

A naked and wet Lord Langston.

Water sluiced down his body, tapering into silvery trails that glittered in the glow of the lowburning fire. God help her, she didn’t know where to look first. Didn’t know in what order to feast her eyes upon the delicious banquet stretched before her. He raised his arms, tilted back his head, and slowly pushed his wet hair away from his face.

Sarah felt as if she’d backed into the fireplace. The sight of him was so captivating, so stimulating, so…arousing, her knees actually felt weak. Indeed, she needed to lean against the wall before she slithered to the ground in a heated, steaming lump a most unexpected and vexing turn of events, as she did not in any way consider herself the sort of female prone to swooning. With her gaze locked upon him, she took a small step back.

And the floorboard beneath her foot squeaked.

Sarah froze as the sound seemed to echo through the room along with the frantic pounding of her heart. Her gaze flew to Lord Langston’s, but he clearly didn’t suspect anything amiss, as he didn’t lift his head nor hesitate in his ablutions.

Thank God. How humiliating would it be if he were to catch her in his bedchamber? Ogling his nakedness although really, who could blame her for ogling? The mere thought of him discovering her tied her stomach into knots. Scarcely daring to breathe, she carefully moved her foot from the offending spot, relief filling her when no further sounds arose. She watched him briskly rub a large white towel over his body then slip his arms into a dark blue robe. Part of her breathed a silent sigh of relief that he was now covered and would hopefully go to his dressing room so she could escape. But the other part of her, the bigger part, lamented the loss of the most perfect view she’d ever beheld. Indeed, she couldn’t wait to get to her sketch pad to commit the sight of him to paper although she knew that even if she survived into the next century, she would never forget what he’d looked like. She supposed she should feel some sense of remorse over her zealous gawking, but instead her only regrets were that the show was over and that she hadn’t thought to bring a telescope.

Or a fan because by God, it was hot in here!

He secured the robe’s sash around his waist then moved toward the darkened corner of the bedchamber farthest from her. She held her breath, hoping he would exit the room through the door there, which she assumed led to a dressing chamber. What sounded like a drawer opening met her ears, and seconds later, instead of leaving the room as she’d hoped, Lord Langston once again emerged from the shadows then started across the room, his gaze fixed upon the desk. The desk that was situated no more than five feet away from her hiding place. Botheration, what was he doing? With the way her luck was going this evening, he’d probably taken it into his head to write a letter. Vexing man. Why couldn’t he simply go get dressed as any man wearing naught but a robe would do? Had she recently thought him perfect? Obviously she was daft. He was a nincompoop who’d ruined her perfect escape and distracted her with his nakedness. His eyeball-searing, knee-weakening, brain-numbing, breath-stealing, magnificent nakedness. Which he’d had the nerve, um, decency, to cover up.

He approached the desk and she held her breath, praying that he didn’t intend to sit down and compose a lengthy missive.

Her prayers were answered. Instead of sitting at the desk, he swiftly turned and yanked back the curtain.

Before she could so much as gasp, a muscular forearm rammed against her chest, pinning her to the wall. The air whooshed from her lungs and the impact knocked her spectacles askew. She caught a blurry glimpse of a silver blade an instant before cool metal pressed against her neck. Too shocked to move, she stared at him through eyes that felt as if they were going to pop from their sockets, whether from shock or from the pressure of his arm or the realization that he held a knife to her throat, she wasn’t certain. Unmistakable surprise flickered in his eyes, then his gaze narrowed.

“Miss Moorehouse,” he said in a chilly voice that was at complete odds with the heat emanating from his body. “May I inquire as to what you are doing skulking behind my curtain?”

A spurt of anger shot through Sarah, nudging aside some of her shock and fear, and she glared right back at him. “May I inquire as to why you have a knife pressed to my throat?”

“I fear it is the way intruders are dealt with. I suggest you familiarize yourself with the feeling if you plan to continue to break into other people’s rooms.”

“I didn’t break in. The door was unlocked. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like for you to both unhand me and remove that knife.”

Instead of freeing her, his gaze raked her face. “You’ve been spying on me.”

A guilty flush seared upward from her toes, and she knew that within seconds her skin would resemble a blotchy mess. “I wasn’t spying. I was…watching for my opportunity to leave your chamber.” Which was true. Still, she couldn’t deny his accusation wasn’t without a tiny sliver of merit. But really, if the man didn’t want women looking at him, he shouldn’t remove his clothes ever. Rather, he should take some pains to ugly himself up a bit. Perhaps allow himself to go to fat. Or wear a hideous mask.

“Are you armed?” he asked.

“Armed? Certainly not.”

He stepped closer, until mere inches separated them. She drew in a sharp breath as the warmth of his body surrounded her, inundating her senses with his clean scent. A drop of water dripped from his wet hair, landing on her collarbone, where it meandered downward, tickling her skin before being absorbed by her gown.

His gaze flicked down, then again met hers. “You’re holding something.”

She was? She flexed her fingers and realized they were still wrapped around the soft linen of his shirt. Ah, yes, his shirt or as she would refer to it from now on, Her Nemesis. “It’s merely a shirt.”

He cocked a single brow. “What sort of shirt?

Dear God, it was nearly impossible to breathe, to think, with him so close an affliction that somehow had little to do with his arm pressing against her and the cool blade touching her neck and everything to do with the fact that no more than a thin robe stood between his nakedness and her hands.

She swallowed, moistened her lips, then said in the strongest voice she could muster, “I’ll tell you what sort of shirt after you unhand me and put down the knife.”

He hesitated for several more seconds, and she forced herself to meet his penetrating gaze no easy feat with her spectacles hanging precariously from the end of her nose. Even with only a foot separating their faces, he was still a bit blurry around the edges. Yet even so, it was clear from his expression that he was highly suspicious of her appearance in his bedchamber. Without taking his gaze from her, he slowly lowered his arm, and she sucked in a quick breath. He then reached out to set the knife on the edge of his desk, within easy reach should he require it, she noticed. She raised her hand to her neck and pressed her fingers against the skin where the cool blade had rested. A shudder ran through her, followed by another shot of anger.

“You could have slit my throat.”

“Consider yourself fortunate that I did not.”

“What sort of man threatens his guests in such a manner?”

“What sort of woman hides behind curtains and spies on men while they bathe?”

Damnation, he had a point. Not that she had any intention of admitting that to him. Especially since her need to hide behind the curtain was entirely his fault. Lifting her chin, she said in her haughtiest tone, “Surely you don’t believe I pose any sort of physical threat to you, my lord.”

“I’m not certain what to believe, Miss Moorehouse. Nor does it escape my notice that you’ve avoided my question as to what sort of woman hides behind curtains and spies on men while they bathe.”

“As you avoided mine as to what sort of man threatens his guests with a knife.”

Satisfaction edged through her at his displeased expression. Well, fine. She was far from pleased herself. He took one step back, crossed his arms over his chest and fixed an icy glare upon her. “I await your explanation.”

She pushed up her spectacles and drew a bracing breath, but his clean scent filled her head, evoking an image of him, naked and wet and pushing back his hair, and her powers of speech escaped her.

When she remained silent, he prompted, “Your explanation regarding the shirt…? Did you wish to give me the garment? Or…” He moved so quickly, so unexpectedly, she found herself frozen in place and planted his hands on the wall on either side of her head, caging her in. “Or did you sneak into my room to watch me bathe?”

Annoyance shook her from her stupor. “That is a most improper suggestion, my lord. And the shirt is not a gift.” She lifted the garment and waggled it beneath his nose. “It is, in fact, your shirt.”