The Royal Conquest(6)
A smile curved his lips. “You are a beautiful woman.”
“It is rude,” she snapped, thoroughly rattled by his boldness and the unwilling interest stirring inside.
Provoking amusement lit his eyes. “Where I am from it is not rude to admire a ravishing jewel.” His gaze lingered on her lips, before moving lower to her breasts, then down to her bare toes. He lifted his eyes to her face again. “And you are exquisite,” he drawled.
Why had his words sounded so wicked? The silence seethed for endless seconds. To her utter mortification she felt her breasts getting heavy…achy; an unfamiliar but very pleasant sensation fluttered low in her abdomen. The air was thick with temptation, and disquiet simmered in Payton.
“Where are you from?” She pushed the words past her lips, desperately wanting to shatter the strange intimacy his words created.
Was it in her imagination that he stiffened?
He shifted in the chair, almost awkwardly. “Russia.”
She nodded, at a loss for what to say. Never had she imagined she would have been caught in such an appalling situation. The one-room cottage was small but tastefully furnished. There was no apparent screen she could duck behind to dress. She did not care if her clothes were not dried. She would not remain exposed another second in his presence. “I need to get dressed.”
“It is not wise. What you should be doing now is drying your tresses and keeping warm.”
She knew the truth of his words. It was only a few weeks ago that she had recovered from a fever after being caught in a light drizzle on one of her long walks. Yet it was unthinkable to remain before this man in such a manner. All he would need to do is tug the blanket from her in one move. Was he a man capable of ravishing her even if she screamed no? Would she protest? Bloody hell. It was not like her to possess such raging unladylike musings, and she was mortified at the directions of her thoughts. They were wanton and served to remind her she was not a gentle bred English rose, more of a prickly American cactus.
As if he could feel her churning confusion he spoke, “I will not harm you, Lady—”
She took several deep breaths before speaking. “I am Miss Payton Peppiwell, Mr. Konstantinovich.”
He inclined his head. “Thank you for the honor of your name. Despite the discomfort of this situation, I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Peppiwell. What may I do to make you more comfortable?”
Wipe the desire from your eyes.
She glanced once more to the rattling door. It would be unfair to demand he leave.
Icy tendrils of water ran down her forehead into her eyes and onto her cheeks. Her hair needed to be dried, and she needed privacy. What a quandary. An embarrassing sneeze escaped her. “I—”
“Let me attend you. You will become ill if you clothe yourself in those sodden garments. Your hair needs to be dried, and I believe I can be of assistance.”
She froze. Good God. He wanted to help her dry her hair? The impropriety of it was scandalous. Even without the decorum lessons she would have been appalled at his bald suggestion.
He stood, and she jumped to her feet. The air heated between them with a thrumming tension that had her throat tightening. The pounding rain was the only sound to pierce the disquieting silence. His eyes told Payton she was the most fascinating woman he’d ever beheld, and she was at a loss at how to respond to his unspoken seduction.
A shiver swept through her. His body appeared leanly muscled, hard, and graceful. She could also see the strength in his bearing. It took everything in her not to step back. Payton had never been more aware of the difference in strength and power between a man and a woman. For a few long seconds they glared at each other, and he tried a reassuring smile, but she narrowed her eyes in further warning.
“This situation is unexpected and obviously out of your realm of experience, but I swear on my honor the doubts in your eyes are unwarranted. You have no need to fear me, Miss Peppiwell.”
“I…I…” She hated being so flustered, and she really believed it was imperative to appear unflappable.
He arched a brow and cautiously reclaimed his seat where he studied her with calculating shrewdness. “Are you an intimate acquaintance of the duke and duchess?”
“Yes.”
“And would you agree only another trustworthy friend would hold certain knowledge?”
She frowned. The duke and duchess were both highly unconventional and only called a few people friends. “Yes,” she agreed.
His eyes bore into her for seconds, then he spoke, “The Duke of Calydon, Sebastian, and I have been friends for years. He met his duchess, Jocelyn, when she stormed his estate last year and held him at the point of a gun, a derringer to be precise.”