He nodded.
She crossed her arms. “Well, you mayn’t have them.”
“But this was your idea, Eliza. You said I could touch you any way I wished, so long as your frock remained intact and unrumpled. I don’t recall anything being said about hair.”
With his free hand, he reached just behind her earlobe—like a cheap conjurer who meant to pull a sixpence from her ear. But he came away with nothing more magical than a hairpin.
“There’s one.”
He circled her, pulling them free one at a time. Eliza stood still, feeling her neat coiffure—the work of an hour that morning—disintegrate into a confusion of haphazard locks and curls.
At last, he had them all freed.
“I don’t know how I’ll fix it again,” she said.
“That’s easy. You won’t.” He tossed her hairpins into the bushes. Then he combed through her hair with this fingers, separating and arranging the heavy locks. “Do you plait it at night?”
She didn’t know how to react to his question—whether to receive it as innocuous or lascivious. So she simply answered it honestly.
“No.”
“But you should. All proper ladies plait their hair at night.”
“I know, but I…”
“But you don’t. Because you like it down, and why wouldn’t you?” His voice grew low, thoughtful. Entrancing. “To think, all this glorious, golden hair, confined in pins or plaits every hour of the day? Unconscionable. It’s beautiful down. You haven’t a lover to tell you so, but you know it just the same. It’s the color of raw honey, the texture of silk. You like to brush it and twist it in the mirror, even after your maid has left you for the night. You like the feel of it gliding across the cool pillow.”
His words—so near, so intimate—tormented her. Did he mean to touch her or not? Eliza thought she’d go mad, wondering. Waiting. Fearing. Thrilling.
“You asked what I want of you, Miss Eliza. It’s just this.” He came to stand before her. “I want you to know that there’s someone who sees you. The real you. The girl who can’t bring herself to plait her hair at night, because it pains her vanity. The girl who’d marry her sisters to tinkers and tailors, if it meant she could finally have a chance. The girl who longs to drive fast and free—to feel the sun on her face and the wind in her hair. The girl who’s clever enough to recognize a dangerous man when she sees one—but desperately wants him to kiss her anyway.”
She closed her eyes tight.
No, she wanted to protest. You have it all wrong. I’m not that girl at all.
But she was that girl. At least part of the time. She wasn’t as selfish and vain as he made her out to be, but she wasn’t exactly good, either.
“You’re interesting. I want you to know that there’s someone who sees all this, Eliza. And likes you for it.”
She opened her eyes.
His words…they were presumptive. Infuriating. And also the very thing she’d been yearning to hear for years. Her impetuous, yearning nature was the cause of all the unhappiness in her life. She’d spent years trying to deny or overcome that part of herself—all in vain. This man saw it anyway.
And devil take him, he liked her for it.
Perhaps her father was right about her. Perhaps men like this were her destiny. Wicked, dissolute scoundrels.
He held out the nectarine, turning the uneaten half to her lips. His smile was subtle, but teasing. “Go on. I know you want it.”
She did want it.
She opened her mouth for a hesitant bite. He pushed the fruit forward, forcing her to take more. As her teeth sank through the ripe flesh, the tart-sweet flavor and heady fragrance of nectarine flooded her senses. The experience was succulent, sensual. And the way he watched her intently as she licked the sticky juice from her lips…it made her feel wanton.
“Delicious,” he whispered.
She nodded, dabbing her mouth with the heel of her hand.
They stared at one another. The buzzing of a nearby bumblebee droned in her ear.
He had her alone. Alone, with her hair unbound and her inhibitions destroyed. She’d given him leave to touch her however he wished.
He could do with her whatever he pleased. They both knew it.
“Now,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’m going to catch up to Brentley and your sister and have a look at the ruins. Is your ankle healed enough? Will you join me?”
She nodded, twisting her hair into a loose knot before accepting his arm.
Once again, he’d refused to ruin her. But she sensed from the tense energy in his arm and the unevenness of his breath…walking away hadn’t been so easy for him this time.
Interesting.
If she were wise, Eliza told herself—if she had one shred of sense in her entire being—she would make certain of one thing, from this day forward.
She would never again be alone with Mr. Wright.