The movements did things to the muscles of his arms and chest, that transfixed her into a mute sort of appreciation that should have shamed them both. He was cold, she noted. His nipples pebbled and gooseflesh chased across his skin.
What a constitution one must have, to bathe with the irrigation hose, the water pumped from frigid wells and aquifers.
“Honoria.” Her name manifested in a throaty whisper, then he winced. “That is, Miss Goode.” Instead of stepping closer, he bent at the waist and snatched the shirt hanging from her lax fingers.
She’d almost dropped it whilst gawking.
“My friends call me Nora,” she said inanely before cursing herself for a ninny. He’d not be allowed to address her thusly. They were not friends because they were not equals.
He threaded his arms into his shirt without even bothering to dry himself, heedless, it seemed, of the fact that his trousers were still filthy, thus rendering a clean shirt obsolete.
Propriety dictated, however, that he protect his modesty—and more importantly hers—before his own meager wardrobe.
He didn’t look at her as he fumbled with the buttons, his eyes cast down at the drain. “Is there something I can do for you?”
She shook her head, suddenly feeling silly and…oddly short. The last time she’d seen him, she’d looked down at him. Now, he could likely rest his chin on top of her head.
Nora did her best to stammer out what she had come to say. “Y-you are owed an apology. Amanda and Pru—well, I suppose we all were being disrespectful just now by staring and carrying on. I’m sorry if we embarrassed you. It’s only that, we’ve had an arduous journey back from a terrible few years at finishing school and we’re all feeling a bit spirited. I suppose, what with the ball upcoming and such…” She trailed away, knowing she was babbling, and realizing how weak and awful her excuses made her sound.
She could cheerfully murder Amanda right now.
And then, perhaps not, because she had a reason to be alone. With him. She had the image of his musculature etched into her memory to take out and appreciate at her own leisure.
Titus Conleith.
She didn’t used to think the grand name suited him when he was a small and skinny boy with huge, hungry golden eyes. His gaze had always reminded her of Ramses, their German shepherd puppy, when he begged at the kitchen door for scraps.
But, like Ramses, Titus was no pup now. Though his eyes were still hungry.
Piercing but evasive.
“Anyway,” she said, stroking at the leaf of a dangling ivy plant, if only to have something to fidget with. “I hope you’re not cross. Most young ladies are unused to the sight of… well…” She gestured in his general direction, lamenting the disappearance of his smooth chest as he buttoned toward his neck.
“I’m not cross, miss.”
She could feel her brow crimping with worry. It was impossible to tell from the tone of his voice if he was merely being polite. Perhaps he felt as though he could not convey his affrontedness because her father was his employer. She disliked that thought immensely.
“It wasn’t well done of us to stare, let alone for anyone to make a comment. It was uncouth and rude and—”
“You can stare.” His eyes met hers then, the golden gaze intense and inescapable, though his sober features never changed from intractable. “I wouldn’t stop you.”
The way he was looking at her now, made her very aware of the cinch of her corset and how little air she was allowing into her lungs.
She did stare, then, rather dumbly, trying to dissect the meaning beneath his words. He wouldn’t stop her because he could not? Because she was his superior? Or he would not stop her… because he desired her to look at him?
Because he wanted her to appreciate what she saw?
Because she had.
She did.
The air thickened between them, taking on the muffled, expectant quality of the atmosphere right before a thunderstorm. The hairs on her body lifted, shivered, as if anticipating a lightning strike.
“Nora!” Mercy’s screech broke the spell of the moment as her little sister exploded into the greenhouse. “Nora, you’re home!” The gangly, golden-haired girl barreled into her, cinching small, surprisingly strong arms about her waist in a breath-stealing hug.
Felicity, Mercy’s twin, wasn’t far behind, though she waited patiently for her turn. “Hullo, Titus,” she said, adjusting her spectacles as if looking at him blinded her a little.
Nora understood the feeling.
“Oi, Miss Felicity.” His voice softened when he spoke to her sister, and the effect was something like velvet rasping over silk.
“I’ve almost finished Chemistry, Meteorology, and the Production of Vapour,” Felicity announced. “If I return it this evening before you go, might you ask Doctor Alcott for another?”
Doctor Alcott? Nora wondered. Were they still in touch after—?
“Have you now, with those big words and everything?” Titus’s eyes crinkled at the edges in a most alluring way when he smiled. “Clever girl, you are. I think Alcott has one on alchemical preservation I could bring you. It is all about mummies.”
“I love mummies.” Felicity blushed to the roots of her blond hair, and Nora realized that whenever the word clever was used regarding Felicity in their household, it wasn’t complimentary. One would be pressed to find a volume that wasn’t religious or political in nature. The Goode girls were not allowed vulgar modern literature. In fact, she should hide her novel before she went inside.
At the thought of returning home, another long-held anxiety floated to the surface like a poorly weighted drowning victim. Per her father’s insistence, her ball gown wasn’t cut to style. High necks were for everyday gowns, and evening wear went so far as to slide below the shoulders.
And yet hers was buttoned to the chin.
Everyone was going to laugh.
Suddenly a memory blew across her mind like an autumnal gust.
Titus. His hands at her neck, doing or… undoing buttons. Her buttons… brushing soft, cool cloths over her neck and chest.
She swallowed, her fingers lifting to tug at her lace collar.
Mercy released her waist only to seize hold of her hand. “Papa sent us to fetch you, Nora. After you meet with him, you must come and have tea with us in the nursery. I’ve written a play and Pru said she’ll be the boy but only today as you’ll be too busy with your blasted ball after that.”
“Don’t let nanny hear you say blast,” Nora warned, too charmed to truly scold her beloved sister.
“There’s kissing in the play,” Felicity said with a scandalized look up at Titus. “But we put our hands over our mouths.”
“Come on.” Mercy tugged. “Do hurry!”
“Good afternoon, Titus,” Felicity said with a prim curtsy.
He nodded his head at them each in turn. “And a good afternoon to you, Miss Felicity, Miss Mercy.” He bowed to them both with all the starched sobriety of a general before turning to her and inclining his head. “Miss Goode.”
As Nora allowed herself to be towed to the house by two cherubic ten-year-old tugboats, she couldn’t help but notice he’d called her Miss Goode. As he should have…and yet…
He’d enjoyed a bit of familiarity with the girls. Why not her? Could she insist he call her Nora? What would the word sound like now that his voice had altered so profoundly?