Anna glanced up at the old man in shock as the thought that Lady Worthall could be so close sunk into her brain. “Are you quite certain? Lady Worthall?”
“Aye, miss, I’ve naugh’ been more certain of anything in me life,” he said grumpily. “If ye will please follow me, his lordship awaits.”
His lordship, such that he was, was waiting, all right, standing at the windows, his hands at his back, his legs braced far apart. He turned sharply when she was shown in the door by the old man, a frown on his face. “Ye’re late.”
“I beg your pardon, but I was unavoidably detained by Lady Worthall.”
“Lady Worthall!” he exclaimed wildly. “Did she see ye enter here, then?”
“Of course not!” Anna shot back. “Do you take me for a fool?” Instantly, she held up a hand. “I will thank you not to answer that,” she added before he could speak, and angrily tossed aside her cloak, bonnet, and umbrella. “Honestly, Mr. Lockhart, I’m not any happier about this than you! I was forced to lie, and then it began to rain, and my slippers are near to ruined!”
“I donna give a damn about yer slippers,” he said. “But if that old battle-ax discovers ye are here, there’ll be hell to pay for it, mark me.”
“I am quite accustomed to there being talk of me, sir. I assure you that if she is to mention seeing me abroad, it will not come as a surprise to—”
“God blind me, then, I’m no’ speaking of ye, I am speaking of me!”
“You?” she said, pausing in her struggle to remove her gloves. “Why? I’m the only one who knows that you are not who you say!”
“Never ye mind why,” he said gruffly, and peered out the window before drawing the drapes shut. As that cut out what precious little light was left of this awful day, he went about lighting several candles.
Anna watched him as he moved about. He was dressed in a navy coat and gold embroidered waistcoat, his neckcloth expertly tied—a dashing figure of a man, the sort of figure that made her feel oddly light-headed.
When he had lit the last candle, he turned to face her again, put his hands on his trim waist, and studied her closely. “I told ye to dress in something less priggish, did I no’?”
Confused, Anna looked down at her gown. It was a pale blue silk, adorned with tiny pink rosebuds and gathered at her back into a long train; it had cost her father a small fortune to commission. “But I did dress less priggishly!”
With a shake of his head, Lockhart strode across to where she stood. “A man likes to see a wee hint of what is beneath.” He frowned at her bosom, then lifted his hand as if he meant to touch her bodice. Anna froze. He hesitated. She let out a quick sigh of relief.
And then he did it. Just put his hand on the bodice of her gown—dug into her bodice, actually, his fingers curling around the fabric and his knuckles sinking into the round flesh of her breasts. She gasped; he frowned and forced the bodice of her gown down, so that it just barely covered her breasts.
“There,” he said, more to himself, and pulled his fingers from her dress. “Aye, there ye are,” he said again. He had not, as yet, lifted his gaze from her bosom, and in between her shock and the shaking of her knees, she caught her breath and held it.
He stood there like a mute, staring at her breasts for what seemed an eternity, but then suddenly stepped back and away from her as he lifted his gaze to her eyes. “There, then, do ye see, lass? A woman’s bosom is to be politely admired…” His gaze flicked to her breasts again. “No’ hidden away,” he muttered, and abruptly turned away.
Anna released her breath.
“Perhaps ye should bring a slate and take notes of what I tell ye. When ye are in the presence of a man ye admire,” he said, his back to her, “ye’d do yerself well to use such a… bonny bosom to yer advantage.”
“Use it?”
“Aye. To catch his eye.”
“By exposing myself?” a perplexed Anna asked.
“No’ expose them—Diah! A man doesna want to see them until he has the lass in his bed. But he very much wants to imagine, and he needs a wee bit of help in that regard!” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Ye’ve no idea what I mean, aye?” he asked, frowning a little, and pivoted about, once again closing the distance between them.
And once again, before Anna could determine what he was about, he grabbed her hand in his, then snaked an arm around her back so that hand was on the small of her back, and pulled her into his chest as if they were dancing.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
He grinned, a boyish, devilish grin. “I’m pretending to stand up with ye, lass. And ye may pretend ye coerced me into doing so, if ye prefer—”
“I did not coerce you!”