A Rogue by Any Other Name
Page 20
He was built beautifully.
Like a glorious Roman statue, all strong, lean muscles outlined by the crisp linen of his shirtsleeves when he lifted the tool overhead, his hands sliding purposefully along the haft, fingers grasping tightly as he brought the steel blade down into the age-old oak with a mighty thwack, sending a splinter of oak flying across the kitchen, landing atop the long-unused stove.
He splayed one long-fingered hand flat on the table, gripping the axe once more to work the blade out of the wood. He turned his head as he stood back, making sure she was out of the way of any potential projectiles—a movement she could not help but find comforting—before confronting the furniture and taking his next swing with a mighty heave.
The blade sliced into the oak, but the table held.
He shook his head and yanked the axe out once more, this time aiming for one of the remaining table legs.
Thwack!
Penelope’s eyes went wide as the lanternlight caught the way his wool trousers wrapped tightly around his massive thighs. She should not notice . . . should not be paying attention to such obvious . . . maleness.
But she’d never seen legs like his.
Thwack!
Never imagined they could be so . . . compelling.
Thwack!
Could not help it.
Thwack!
The final blow ended with the splintering of wood, the leg twisting under the force as the massive tabletop tilted, one end dropping to the floor as Michael tossed the axe aside to grasp the leg with his bare hands and wrench it free from its seat.
He turned back to her, tapping one end of the leg against the empty palm of his left hand.
“Success,” he announced.
As if she had expected anything less.
As if he would have accepted anything less.
“Well-done,” she said, for lack of anything better.
He rested the wood on his wide shoulder. “You didn’t take the opportunity to escape.”
She froze. “No. I didn’t.” Though she couldn’t for the life of her say why.
He moved to set the table leg in the wide sink and carefully lifted his frock coat, shook out any possible wrinkles, and pulled it on.
She watched as he rolled his shoulders into the exceptionally well made clothing, underscoring the perfect fit—a fit she no longer took for granted now that she had seen hints of the Vitruvian Man beneath.
No.
She shook her head. She would not think of him as a Leonardo. He was already far too intimidating a character.
She shook her head. “I’m not marrying you.”
He straightened his cuffs, buttoned his coat carefully, and brushed a dusting of moisture from the sleeves of the coat. “It is not up for discussion.”
She tried for reason. “You would make a terrible husband.”
“I never said I would make a good one.”
“So you would condemn me to a life of unhappy marriage?”
“If needs be. Though your unhappiness is not a direct goal, if that’s any consolation.”
She blinked. He was serious. This conversation was honestly occurring. “And this is supposed to endear me to your suit?”
He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “I do not fool myself into thinking that the goal of marriage is happiness for one or both of the parties involved. My plan is to restore Falconwell’s lands to its manor and, unfortunately for you, it requires our marriage. I shan’t be a good husband, but I also haven’t the slightest interest in keeping you under my thumb.”
Her jaw dropped at his honesty. He did not even feign kindness. Interest. Concern. She closed her mouth. “I see.”
He went on. “You can do or have whatever you wish, whenever you wish it. I’ve enough money for you to fritter it away doing whatever it is women of your ilk like to do.”
“Women of my ilk?”
“Spinsters with dreams of more.”
The air left the room on a whoosh. What a horrible, unpleasant, entirely apt description. A spinster with dreams of more. It was as though he had stood in her receiving room earlier that evening and watched as Tommy’s proposal had filled her with disappointment. With hopes of something more.
Something different.
Well, this certainly was different.
He reached for her, stroking one finger down her cheek, and she flinched from the touch. “Don’t.”
“You’re going to marry me, Penelope.”
She snapped her head back, out of his reach, not wanting him to touch her. “Why should I?”
“Because, darling,” he leaned in, his voice a dark promise as he trailed that strong, warm finger down her neck and across the skin above her dress, setting her heart racing and turning her breath shallow, “no one will ever believe that I didn’t utterly compromise you.”
He grasped the edge of her gown and with a mighty tug, rent her gown and chemise in two, baring her to the waist.
She gasped, dropping the bottle to clutch her gown to her chest, whiskey sloshing down the front of her as it fell. “You . . . you . . .”
“Take your time, darling,” he drawled, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “I shall wait for you to find the word.”
Her gaze narrowed. She didn’t need a word. She needed a horsewhip.
She did the only thing she could think to do. Her hand flew of its own volition, connecting with a mighty crack!—a sound that would have been immensely satisfying if she hadn’t been so utterly mortified.
His head snapped around at the blow, his hand coming instantly to his cheek, where a red splotch was already beginning to show. Penelope stepped backward again, toward the door, her voice shaking. “I will never . . . never . . . marry someone like you. Have you forgotten everything you were? Everything you could have been? One would think you had been raised by wolves.”
Like a glorious Roman statue, all strong, lean muscles outlined by the crisp linen of his shirtsleeves when he lifted the tool overhead, his hands sliding purposefully along the haft, fingers grasping tightly as he brought the steel blade down into the age-old oak with a mighty thwack, sending a splinter of oak flying across the kitchen, landing atop the long-unused stove.
He splayed one long-fingered hand flat on the table, gripping the axe once more to work the blade out of the wood. He turned his head as he stood back, making sure she was out of the way of any potential projectiles—a movement she could not help but find comforting—before confronting the furniture and taking his next swing with a mighty heave.
The blade sliced into the oak, but the table held.
He shook his head and yanked the axe out once more, this time aiming for one of the remaining table legs.
Thwack!
Penelope’s eyes went wide as the lanternlight caught the way his wool trousers wrapped tightly around his massive thighs. She should not notice . . . should not be paying attention to such obvious . . . maleness.
But she’d never seen legs like his.
Thwack!
Never imagined they could be so . . . compelling.
Thwack!
Could not help it.
Thwack!
The final blow ended with the splintering of wood, the leg twisting under the force as the massive tabletop tilted, one end dropping to the floor as Michael tossed the axe aside to grasp the leg with his bare hands and wrench it free from its seat.
He turned back to her, tapping one end of the leg against the empty palm of his left hand.
“Success,” he announced.
As if she had expected anything less.
As if he would have accepted anything less.
“Well-done,” she said, for lack of anything better.
He rested the wood on his wide shoulder. “You didn’t take the opportunity to escape.”
She froze. “No. I didn’t.” Though she couldn’t for the life of her say why.
He moved to set the table leg in the wide sink and carefully lifted his frock coat, shook out any possible wrinkles, and pulled it on.
She watched as he rolled his shoulders into the exceptionally well made clothing, underscoring the perfect fit—a fit she no longer took for granted now that she had seen hints of the Vitruvian Man beneath.
No.
She shook her head. She would not think of him as a Leonardo. He was already far too intimidating a character.
She shook her head. “I’m not marrying you.”
He straightened his cuffs, buttoned his coat carefully, and brushed a dusting of moisture from the sleeves of the coat. “It is not up for discussion.”
She tried for reason. “You would make a terrible husband.”
“I never said I would make a good one.”
“So you would condemn me to a life of unhappy marriage?”
“If needs be. Though your unhappiness is not a direct goal, if that’s any consolation.”
She blinked. He was serious. This conversation was honestly occurring. “And this is supposed to endear me to your suit?”
He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “I do not fool myself into thinking that the goal of marriage is happiness for one or both of the parties involved. My plan is to restore Falconwell’s lands to its manor and, unfortunately for you, it requires our marriage. I shan’t be a good husband, but I also haven’t the slightest interest in keeping you under my thumb.”
Her jaw dropped at his honesty. He did not even feign kindness. Interest. Concern. She closed her mouth. “I see.”
He went on. “You can do or have whatever you wish, whenever you wish it. I’ve enough money for you to fritter it away doing whatever it is women of your ilk like to do.”
“Women of my ilk?”
“Spinsters with dreams of more.”
The air left the room on a whoosh. What a horrible, unpleasant, entirely apt description. A spinster with dreams of more. It was as though he had stood in her receiving room earlier that evening and watched as Tommy’s proposal had filled her with disappointment. With hopes of something more.
Something different.
Well, this certainly was different.
He reached for her, stroking one finger down her cheek, and she flinched from the touch. “Don’t.”
“You’re going to marry me, Penelope.”
She snapped her head back, out of his reach, not wanting him to touch her. “Why should I?”
“Because, darling,” he leaned in, his voice a dark promise as he trailed that strong, warm finger down her neck and across the skin above her dress, setting her heart racing and turning her breath shallow, “no one will ever believe that I didn’t utterly compromise you.”
He grasped the edge of her gown and with a mighty tug, rent her gown and chemise in two, baring her to the waist.
She gasped, dropping the bottle to clutch her gown to her chest, whiskey sloshing down the front of her as it fell. “You . . . you . . .”
“Take your time, darling,” he drawled, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “I shall wait for you to find the word.”
Her gaze narrowed. She didn’t need a word. She needed a horsewhip.
She did the only thing she could think to do. Her hand flew of its own volition, connecting with a mighty crack!—a sound that would have been immensely satisfying if she hadn’t been so utterly mortified.
His head snapped around at the blow, his hand coming instantly to his cheek, where a red splotch was already beginning to show. Penelope stepped backward again, toward the door, her voice shaking. “I will never . . . never . . . marry someone like you. Have you forgotten everything you were? Everything you could have been? One would think you had been raised by wolves.”
