throat tightened as she edged back. Who was in there with him? And what was going on? She swiped away the beading rain from her face in an effort to try to see.
A well-framed man with shoulder-length silvering black hair that fell around a chiseled face in wet waves loomed in the carriage doorway. Those broad shoulders barely fit against the opening as he hovered above her, setting one edge-whitened leather boot on the first stair, whilst keeping the other on the main landing of the carriage.
Her eyes widened, noting his frayed coat had been torn at the curve of that muscled shoulder. Dearest God. What sort of company was her brother keeping these days? A yellowing linen shirt, open indecently at his masculine throat without a cravat or a waistcoat, had been sloppily tucked into a pair of wool trousers.
Astoundingly pale eyes that reminded her of the clearest skies of a winter morning held her gaze from above for a thundering moment. The wavering light from the lanterns flickered shadows across his rugged face, accentuating high cheekbones and a fine nose that was a touch crooked. He lingered in the opening of that carriage as if to ensure she was aware of him.
Which she most certainly was.
Those dominating ice-blue eyes momentarily erased everything, including every last drop of cold rain. She blinked, realizing that the rain had, in fact, stopped. It was as if the heavens had cleared in the name of this man.
He leaned down toward her, holding on to the side of the open door with a large, scarred hand. “Weston had his first go at real boxing earlier tonight and lost. Miserably. You don’t want to see how miserably. Just know he and I are now good friends because of it. We actually spent most of the night talking and cleaning him up. Or at least trying to.” His voice was smooth, deep, and bore a surprisingly sophisticated accent given his rough appearance. “You really don’t want to see him in his current state. I suggest you retire, tea cake.”
Tea cake? Her lips parted and she honestly couldn’t decide what horrified her more. Knowing her brother had allowed himself to be pummeled due to his own stupidity or knowing that she’d been called a tea cake by some vagrant whilst standing in a rain-drenched robe and nightdress.
“Can you step back?” he asked. “I’d like to get down. I’m not overly fond of carriages.”
She stepped away from the carriage entrance, trying not to stumble on the wet gravel. That was why he’d lingered. Not because of her, but because she’d been blocking his ability to move.
She really was a tea cake.
The man jumped down with a thud onto the gravel, his great coat billowing around his large, muscled body as his riding boots splashed into the puddle. “Are you going in? Or do I have to carry you in?”
Her heart skittered. Something about this man made her world pulse. And she couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or a bad thing.
He paused. “You’re putting on quite the show.” Raking his gaze over her breasts, he swiped the corners of his mouth with the tips of his fingers. “Not that I mind—they’re incredibly lovely, but you may want to go inside.”
Her eyes widened as she slapped her hands over the front of her robe. She wasn’t wearing a corset. Cupping her hands harder against her breasts, she felt her puckered nipples well-outlined against the wet material sticking to her palms. Her heated face pricked against the cold wind.
He lowered his stubbled chin as if to get a better look at her face and extended a bare, scarred hand toward the entrance. “Are you going in or not?” He spaced out his words as if she were mentally incapable of understanding. “Because I can still see everything. Even with your hands in place.”
She gasped, completely mortified, turned and dashed past the portico and back in through the open door of the house, her slippers clicking and sliding across the marble. Skidding out of sight, she scrambled into the darkest corner of the foyer, setting herself against the farthest wall where no one could see her.
In a daze, she flopped against the wall, breathing hard. He’d seen everything.
She stared up at the mahogany stairwell that led up to an open landing above. After a blurring week of every aristocratic socialite fawning over the way she walked and danced and breathed, this was simply too much.
Male voices and heavy steps drifted into the foyer.
She froze, holding her breath.
“Remind me to never bring you home with me again,” Henry said in a riled tone, hidden just beyond sight. “Did you really have to comment on her breasts? In my circle, we don’t talk to women that way.”
“I got her inside for you, didn’t I?” that baritone casually provided. “Consider it a compliment I thought your wife’s breasts attractive enough to even comment on.”
She almost choked.
“That wasn’t my wife!” Henry staggered toward the stairwell, the coat still pulled over his head. “That was my sister, Coleman. My goddamn sister!”
“Consider it an even bigger compliment.”
“Weston?” A female voice bloomed throughout the foyer like a horn. “Who is…whatever are you— Why are you hiding under a coat?”
About time you noticed something amiss, Imogene thought. Her gaze jumped up to her sister-in-law standing at the top of the staircase, which was barely in view from the dark corner Imogene was tucked in.
Wrapped from shoulder to toe in a clinging, gold silk robe whose train splayed down part of the stair, Lady Mary Elizabeth Weston reminded Imogene of a Roman princess lounging about a palace. All the woman needed were the grapes. Sour grapes.
“That is my wife,” Henry grumbled almost inaudibly from within the coat. “And though she and I aren’t on the best of terms, I will mind you not to comment on her breasts, either.”
“No worry in that,” came the stage-whispered response. “They’re not as impressive.”
Imogene stifled a disbelieving laugh against her pressed hand. Now that was funny.
The tall, broad back belonging to this “Coleman” appeared in view at the bottom of the staircase. “Let me help you up.” Taking Henry’s arm and draping it over his midsection, he guided him up the stairs. “Go slow.”
Imogene could practically hear her brother wincing as he staggered up each step.
Mary bustled down the stairs, trying to grab Henry’s other arm. “I am never letting you go to another boxing exhibition again. ’Tis a waste of whatever is left of your face. A true gentleman would never watch such filth, let alone participate in it.”
Henry yanked his arm away from hers. “Yes, you know all about real gentlemen, don’t you, Mary?”
She sputtered, following Henry up the remaining stairs. “How can you treat me like this?” She waved toward Coleman. “Bringing in some vagrant from off the street to see me in my robe!”
“He isn’t a vagrant. And unlike Banbury, he isn’t here to see you,” Henry coolly obliged. “He was assisting me home, given my condition.”
When they had reached the landing,
