“I’m very sure you don’t,” he murmured dryly, reaching her side. He lifted her arm and draped it over his shoulders. His arm stole around her waist, cinching tight. “There now. Take it slowly, on account of your ‘injury.’”
Eliza had no choice but to hobble forward in his embrace.
“This would go much easier if you’d trust me,” he whispered.
“Trust you?”
As Mr. Wright seated her on the boulder, a roguish spark lit his eyes. He knelt before her and grasped the hem of her frock. “Now, then. Let’s have a look.”
Eliza jerked the muslin from his grasp. “Absolutely not.”
“But you’re injured.”
“I’m not dead,” she whispered. “Which is what I’d have to be, to permit you to lift my skirts.”
“Then I can assess with touch instead.”
His hand slid beneath the frail fabric, grazing her stockinged ankle. A caress as shocking in its familiarity as in its boldness. He touched her so easily, without excuse or apology. As though she were his for the touching.
Shameless.
An unwelcome thrill chased up her calf and curled in the hollow of her knee. Impertinent sensation, making itself right at home.
She jerked away from his touch, turning away. “I only need a few minutes’ rest, I’m sure. Lord Brentley, why don’t you show my sister the ruins while I catch my breath? She might not have another chance to see them.”
“I confess, I would be desolated to miss the sight,” Philippa said.
“Then it’s a plan.” Brentley gave her a warm smile. “That is, if Harry doesn’t mind staying behind to look after you, Miss Eliza.”
Mr. Wright took another bite of his nectarine. “Oh, I don’t mind at all.”
Eliza tried not to roll her eyes. She knew full well the unpleasantness she was in for. But enduring twenty minutes of Mr. Wright’s company would be well worth the sacrifice, if Philippa returned from those ruins engaged.
Once the two had disappeared around a bend in the path, a thick silence swelled and pulsed. Eliza dabbed a sheen of perspiration from her brow.
“Is it terribly painful?” he asked, all solicitousness. “Your ankle.”
“No. Not terribly.”
“Is there anything I can do to increase your comfort?”
“No, thank you. I’m feeling improved already.”
His mouth pulled to the side. He stood and brushed the dust from his thighs. “Well, in that case, perhaps I’ll catch up to Brentley and your sister.”
Eliza startled. “No! You can’t leave me here alone.”
“Why not?” His head cocked to the side. “You said you walk alone all the time.”
“Well, yes. But—”
“And your injury, such as it was, is already improved. If you have no need of me, I’ve an interest in seeing the ruins. I won’t be long.”
He turned and began to walk away. Impossible man! Could he not allow his friend a moment’s peace?
“Wait.” She jumped to her feet. “Mr. Wright. Please wait.”
He stopped, but did not turn. He merely stood there, waiting, his broad-shouldered back to her.
“You may…” She knotted her hands together and breathed deeply. “You may touch me.”
Now he turned.
“What was that you said?” He cleared his throat. “I mean, I recall the last word being ‘me,’ but I think I heard the one before it as…”
“Touch.” She slanted her gaze to a crooked branch in a nearby tree. “Stay here, and give my sister and Lord Brentley their privacy. And I’ll allow you to touch me. Any way you like, so long as my frock remains unsoiled and intact.” She forced herself to brave his gaze. “I know it’s what you want.”
“To protect your frock?”
“To put your hands on me.”
He inhaled slowly. Then he exhaled, even more slowly. He made no attempt at denial.
“All week long, it’s been this way. You can’t stop inventing excuses to touch me.” Eliza bit her lip. “Well, now you have an invitation.”
“An invitation to touch you.”
“Through my clothing. Yes.”
He removed his hat and hung it on a nearby branch. “How very sacrificial. What a martyr you must think yourself, offering your virgin flesh to distract the wicked rake.” He tsked. “You cunning, selfish thing.”
Cunning? Selfish? Eliza fumed. How dare he.
“This way, you can tell yourself you don’t really want it. That you’re not being naughty at all. You can pretend an altruistic motive—concern for your sister. But I know the truth.” He came to a halt, just a pace away. “Perhaps I’ve been wanting to touch you all week, but you’ve been waiting on my kiss for over a year.”
Her heart beat faster.
“Did you dream of it?” His eyes teased with their merciless green. “Did you go up to your room that very night and kiss your pillow, imagining it was me? Perhaps not even just that night, but every night since?”
He raised that nectarine to his mouth and took a prolonged, juicy, sucking bite.
She balled her hands into fists. “Have you been practicing ways to torment me every drunken, debauched evening? What is it you want from me, Mr. Wright?”
As he chewed, he looked her over, everywhere. Eventually, his gaze settled on her simple coiffure.
“I want your hairpins,” he said, swallowing.
“My hairpins?”