stifled. Even Mr. Brodie's.
There was an edge of tension between them despite the success of the lessons, an aggravated double awareness that she found unnerving. She was scrupulously careful never to be alone with him, and yet she never felt truly safe in his presence. And that was strange, considering that a week ago he'd saved her from disaster at the hands of outlaw ruffians. Afterward he'd held her, comforted her, and she'd imagined he had a kind and compassionate heart. But if he did, she'd seen no evidence of it since then. On the contrary, sometimes she thought he was furious with her. But why? She sat down on the bed to draw on her stockings, remembering with reluctant accuracy the dangerous game they'd played
, he'd
played, in the cottage afterward, after he'd almost backed her into the fireplace. Was he angry now because she hadn't thrown herself at him out of gratitude for saving her, or... or because she found him irresistible? If so, he was even more arrogant than she'd thought. She sniffed, and pulled her petticoat over her head with a jerk.
Since that day, she'd treated him with cold, flawless propriety. She had an idea that her attitude irked him, which wouldn't have bothered her, would have pleased her, in fact, if his irritation had manifested itself in some other, some normal way. But his method of countering her frigid civility was to make fun of it. Subtly, without words, in ways she could hardly put her finger on. He accomplished it primarily by staring at her, bemused, amused as though she were a fascinating example of some anomolous subspecies of female he'd only read about in books. And then as often as not his regard would change, and he would stare at her with frank, exaggeratedly sexual interest. That too was intended to disconcert, not flatter her, she knew, and it was intensely annoying to have to admit that it did. A great deal. She told herself she felt nothing but contempt for his games, which were childish in the extreme, craven ploys Nicholas would never have sunk to because he was a gentleman. But it was also true that as the drowsy, sun-drenched days dragged past, her unruly thoughts had begun to focus less on the sterling qualities of the honorable, upright husband she'd lost, and more and more on the devilish antics of his twin.
It shamed her. Confused her. Her reflection in the dressing table mirror was grim as she brushed out her hair and contemplated with deep chagrin the fact that already Mr. Brodie had taken more liberties with her than dear Nicholas had in all the years she'd known him, even during the six months of their engagement. And she'd
let
him. That was the worst, that was what galled! Mentally she groped for an excuse, something, anything that would mitigate the shame she felt because she'd not only allowed the man's advances, she'd responded to them.
In triumph, she located it. It exculpated her completely. The fact was, she hadn't been in her right mind. On both occasions when he'd touched her, she'd been in an extremely vulnerable state. Why, the first time she'd been asleep! Or nearly so. The second, she'd still been reeling from a brutal encounter with three would-be rapists. She hadn't known what she was doing. That was it.
She hadn't been herself
.
Satisfied, she stood up, buttoning her sleeves. She would lose no more sleep, waste no more time thinking about Mr. Brodie. She'd wasted enough time already worrying that she wasn't the decent, principled woman she'd always known herself to be. It was
he
who was entirely to blame. Any man who would try to exploit his brother's widow in a weak moment was a conscienceless, black-hearted villain. She despised him.
She smoothed her skirts, slipped into her shoes. Rearranged a hairpin and pinched her cheeks for color. Today she would tell him all about stanchions and deck girders. And nothing he could do, no mocking, exaggerated politeness, no thinly veiled double entendre, no hot, surreptitious glances at her bosom
There was an edge of tension between them despite the success of the lessons, an aggravated double awareness that she found unnerving. She was scrupulously careful never to be alone with him, and yet she never felt truly safe in his presence. And that was strange, considering that a week ago he'd saved her from disaster at the hands of outlaw ruffians. Afterward he'd held her, comforted her, and she'd imagined he had a kind and compassionate heart. But if he did, she'd seen no evidence of it since then. On the contrary, sometimes she thought he was furious with her. But why? She sat down on the bed to draw on her stockings, remembering with reluctant accuracy the dangerous game they'd played
, he'd
played, in the cottage afterward, after he'd almost backed her into the fireplace. Was he angry now because she hadn't thrown herself at him out of gratitude for saving her, or... or because she found him irresistible? If so, he was even more arrogant than she'd thought. She sniffed, and pulled her petticoat over her head with a jerk.
Since that day, she'd treated him with cold, flawless propriety. She had an idea that her attitude irked him, which wouldn't have bothered her, would have pleased her, in fact, if his irritation had manifested itself in some other, some normal way. But his method of countering her frigid civility was to make fun of it. Subtly, without words, in ways she could hardly put her finger on. He accomplished it primarily by staring at her, bemused, amused as though she were a fascinating example of some anomolous subspecies of female he'd only read about in books. And then as often as not his regard would change, and he would stare at her with frank, exaggeratedly sexual interest. That too was intended to disconcert, not flatter her, she knew, and it was intensely annoying to have to admit that it did. A great deal. She told herself she felt nothing but contempt for his games, which were childish in the extreme, craven ploys Nicholas would never have sunk to because he was a gentleman. But it was also true that as the drowsy, sun-drenched days dragged past, her unruly thoughts had begun to focus less on the sterling qualities of the honorable, upright husband she'd lost, and more and more on the devilish antics of his twin.
It shamed her. Confused her. Her reflection in the dressing table mirror was grim as she brushed out her hair and contemplated with deep chagrin the fact that already Mr. Brodie had taken more liberties with her than dear Nicholas had in all the years she'd known him, even during the six months of their engagement. And she'd
let
him. That was the worst, that was what galled! Mentally she groped for an excuse, something, anything that would mitigate the shame she felt because she'd not only allowed the man's advances, she'd responded to them.
In triumph, she located it. It exculpated her completely. The fact was, she hadn't been in her right mind. On both occasions when he'd touched her, she'd been in an extremely vulnerable state. Why, the first time she'd been asleep! Or nearly so. The second, she'd still been reeling from a brutal encounter with three would-be rapists. She hadn't known what she was doing. That was it.
She hadn't been herself
.
Satisfied, she stood up, buttoning her sleeves. She would lose no more sleep, waste no more time thinking about Mr. Brodie. She'd wasted enough time already worrying that she wasn't the decent, principled woman she'd always known herself to be. It was
he
who was entirely to blame. Any man who would try to exploit his brother's widow in a weak moment was a conscienceless, black-hearted villain. She despised him.
She smoothed her skirts, slipped into her shoes. Rearranged a hairpin and pinched her cheeks for color. Today she would tell him all about stanchions and deck girders. And nothing he could do, no mocking, exaggerated politeness, no thinly veiled double entendre, no hot, surreptitious glances at her bosom
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