She shook her head, stepping toward him. “I don’t think so. I know you didn’t expect to take up residence here, but people always come to Spindle Cove to get well. If I may say it, Lord Rycliff, I think you’re hurting. You’re like a great shaggy lion with a nettle in its paw. Once it’s plucked, your good humor will be restored.”
A prolonged pause ensued.
One dark brow quirked. “You mean to pluck my nettle?”
Flushing with heat, she bit her lip. “Not in so many words.”
With a hollow chuckle, he stepped back, pushing a hand through his hair. “You need to leave. We can’t have this discussion.”
“Is it so very painful?” she asked, in a quiet voice. “Are you haunted by some tragedy? Did the ravages of war embitter you toward your fellow man?”
“No.” He wiped the powder measure clean and banged it on a shelf. “And no, and no. The only thing paining me right now”—he turned—“is you.”
“Me?” Her breath caught. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not a nettle.”
“Oh no. You’re something far, far worse.”
“A burr?” she said helpfully. “A thistle perhaps? Roses have thorns, but I don’t possess the right sort of beauty for that comparison.” When he didn’t laugh, she said, “Lord Rycliff, I fail to see how I’m causing you any problems.”
“Let me explain for you, then.” He spoke low and even. “I ought to be headed for Spain right now, on the way to rejoin my regiment. Instead, I have an earldom I didn’t ask for, a castle I don’t want, and a cousin determined to drive me mad, insolvent, or both. But your father’s given me a chance to move on, leave it all behind. The only thing I need do is gather two dozen local men—equip them, arm them, and drill them into a respectable militia. Easy enough task, in a month’s time. Almost insulting in its simplicity.” He raised a single finger. “But there’s a snag, isn’t there? There are no local men. No real men, at any rate. Just spinsters and teacakes and poetry.”
“There are men here. And if you need any help rounding them up, you only have to ask.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” He chuckled. “ ‘Ask Miss Finch.’ Do you know how many times I heard those words this morning?”
She shook her head.
“More than I care to count.” He began circling her with slow, heavy steps. “When I asked the Bright twins if there are seamstresses in the neighborhood, to sew uniforms . . . They said, ‘Ask Miss Finch.’ When I inquired with the smith where I might find stonemasons to do some work here at the castle . . . Well, Miss Finch would know that too. Ask her.” He walked on. “Where do I find the parish register, for a list of all the local families? Well, your dandified vicar tells me, Miss Finch has been doing a study of the local birth records, and I will have to inquire with her. Ask. Miss. Finch. There’s no escaping you. It’s like you have the whole village playing some ceaseless round of Mother, May I.”
Susanna squared her shoulders as he completed his circle and came to stand before her—a fraction too close. The intensity in his eyes told her he meant to draw closer still.
No, you may not, she silently willed. You may not take two steps forward.
He took them anyway.
“I try to be helpful,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with that. And it’s natural the villagers show me a certain deference, out of respect for my father. He is the local gentleman of rank.”
“Your father is the local gentleman of rank?” He stood tall. “Well, now. I happen to be the local lord.”
“Oh,” she said, smiling with relief. “Now I understand. Your pride is wounded. That’s your problem. Yes, I can see how that would be disappointing, to be given the title and feel so little influence with the local residents. But with time, I’m sure the villagers—”
He shook his head. “My pride’s not wounded, for God’s sake. And no, I’m not disappointed. Nor haunted, nor embittered, nor threatened. Stop trying to pin all these emotions on me like frilly pink ribbons. I’m not one of your delicate spinsters, Miss Finch. This isn’t about my tender feelings. I have things to accomplish, and you”—he poked a single finger into her shoulder—“are hindering me.”
“Lord Rycliff,” she said carefully, “you are touching me.”
“Yes, I am. And I didn’t even ask. You see, I’m not going to ask Miss Finch anything. I’m going to tell her to stay far clear.” The pressure of his fingertip bit into her shoulder. “You are my problem, Miss Finch. No, you’re not a nettle, or a burr, or a delicate blossom of any kind. You’re a goddamned powder keg, and every time I draw near you, we start throwing off sparks.”
“I . . . I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh yes, you do.” He fingered the lacy edge of her cap sleeve, then slid a caress down her arm.
She was helpless to suppress a little shiver of pleasure.
He groaned deep in his chest. “See? You’re full to bursting with passion. You may think you have it tightly capped and contained. Hidden from everyone, even yourself. Perhaps the pathetic souls who pass for men in that village are too cowed by your modern ideals to notice. But I only have to look at you, and I see it all. That core of dark, explosive potential, held together with just a bit of ribbon and lace.” His voice deepened as his gaze wandered down her body. “I’m a damned fool to even be touching you, but I can’t bring myself to stop.”
His touch traced the edge of her elbow-length glove, skimming along the delicate border where satin met skin. Sensation rushed through her entire body, lifting the hairs on the back of her neck. She thought of those creases in his palms, still limned with gunpowder. So perilous. His caresses made her feel shaken, rearranged.
Just a little dirty.
“Do you understand now?” he said, keeping up his bold caress. “This is dangerous. You’ll leave straightaway, if you know what’s best.”
Leave? She couldn’t move. Her body was so busy responding to his, it wouldn’t spare a moment to heed her own commands. Her breath quickened. A strange ache grew in her br**sts. Her heart thundered wildly, and a matching pulse beat at the juncture of her thighs.
“I know what you’re doing.” She lifted her chin. “You’re just trying to change an unpleasant conversation. I said you’re in pain, and I’ve piqued your pride. Why own up to possessing feelings, when it’s much more manly to be loutish and crude? If you’re hoping to push me away, it won’t work.”