“Killing that disgusting insect before it jumped on you.”
“Killing a . . . ?” Maddie wheeled around. “Oh, no.”
There it was, on the carpet. A stag beetle. It must have fallen out of Lord Varleigh’s specimen case.
“Oh, what have you done?” She fell on her knees to the carpet.
“What have I done? Most lasses like it when a man kills the bugs. Along with reaching high places and giving sexual pleasure, it’s one of the few universally popular qualities we have on offer.”
She scooped up the remnants of the beetle into her hand. “This particular bug was already dead.”
And now it was flattened.
She needed to take it back to her studio and put it under glass at once, lest any further harm befall it.
He followed her down the corridor. “Don’t walk away from me. I’d like some answers here. Whose invitation did I just accept, and what does that slimy prig want of you? And why do I come third in your affections behind the slimy prig and a squashed beetle?”
“Lord Varleigh owns an estate in Perthshire. We are professional acquaintances. He’s a naturalist.”
“A naturalist? You mean one of those -people who scorns clothing and runs about the countryside bare--arsed?”
“No,” Maddie said calmly. She slowed and turned to face him. “No, those would be naturists. A naturalist studies the natural world.”
“Well, that one seemed to be mostly interested in studying your breasts.”
“What?”
He closed the distance between them and lowered his voice to a growl. “He had his hand on you.”
A frisson skipped down her vertebrae, practically unlacing her corset as it went. Just those few words, and she was unraveled. Everything about the night before returned to her. She recalled his breath on her neck. His mouth on her skin.
His hands everywhere.
The wanting hit her with such force, so hot and overwhelming, that it threatened to push her brain out through her ears.
This was terrible.
At last Maddie was on the cusp of a career, amassing accomplishments of her own. Imagine, the chance to illustrate a book.
Not just a book but an entire encyclopedia.
Four whole volumes.
Bliss.
And now this could ruin everything. Couldn’t he have waited one more week to come back from the not--truly--dead?
“I can explain it better, but I’ll need to show you.” She put her hand on the door latch behind her. “Come this way.”
Her heartbeat quickened as she opened the door.
She never allowed -people in her studio. Especially not male -people. It was her sanctuary of curiosities—-odd and secret and entirely her. Vulnerable.
Opening this door for Logan felt like throwing her heart on the floor and inviting him to tread on it. But she needed to explain Lord Varleigh somehow, and perhaps this time the sheer strangeness would work in her favor.
It just might cure him of the desire to be married to her at all.
Chapter Seven
Holy God.
Logan found himself in a veritable chamber of horrors. The rumors about these old castles were true.
He followed her up a narrow flight of stone stairs. Candles in sconces lit the passageway, but they weren’t bright enough to shed light into the corners. It was the corners he worried about. Probably crawling with bats or rats or . . . newts. Maybe dragons.
They emerged into a square room that must have been meant as a cell of some sort. It featured only a single narrow window.
He turned to have a look around, then started in alarm. A stuffed owl sat perched on a shelf, not a foot from his face.
The rest of the chamber wasn’t much better. The room was lined with shelves and tables displaying all manner of seashells, coral, bird nests, shed snakeskins, insects and butterflies pinned to boards, and—-worst of all—-strange mysteries sealed up in murky jars.
“It’s ice--cold up here,” he said.
“Yes. It needs to be for Rex and Fluffy.”
“Rex? And Fluffy?”
“The lobsters. I thought I mentioned them last night.”
“You have lobsters named Rex and Fluffy.”
“Just because I lack any normal pets like cats or dogs doesn’t mean the pets I have can’t have proper names.” She smiled. “I do enjoy the way you say ‘Fluffy.’ It sounds like ‘Floofy.’ They’re in here.”
She waved him toward a tank in one corner of the room. The water within it smelled of the sea.
“Are they for dinner?”
“No! They’re for observation. I’ve been commissioned to illustrate the full life cycle. The only problem is, I keep waiting on them to mate. According to the naturalist who hired me, the female—-that’s Fluffy—-first needs to molt. And then the male will impregnate her with his seed. The only question remaining is what, exactly, that will look like. I’ve drawn up several possibilities.”