The Taming of the Rake

“I liked you better young and nervous,” Chelsea told him, crossing her arms over her breasts beneath the water, too fearful to actually look and see what he might be seeing.

“Young and nervous and stupid, you mean. You also probably liked me better half drunk and dull with the headache. For myself, I liked you better when—no, I can’t say I remember liking you in the least. However, since there is no going back, not for either of us, we’ll simply have to make the best of things, won’t we?”

“I do not consider having you accost me in the tub as making the best of things.”

He raised that same maddening eyebrow once more. “Ah, I thought that bubble would never pop. A suitable reward for a patient man. Very pretty, Chelsea. Very pretty, indeed. Why, that might even make it possible for me to overlook a veritable multitude of your failings.”

Chelsea gasped and quickly submerged. When she surfaced once more, pushing her long hair out of her eyes, he was gone.

She wasn’t quite sure exactly what had just happened. Fatigue had probably dulled her wits. But one thing was certain. If they had been challenging each other to see which was the stronger, she knew that the first round of the battle had gone to him.

“But one battle is not a war,” she reminded herself, picking up the sponge and continuing with her bath.

“AH, THERE YOU ARE,” Puck said, taking up his seat on the facing chair in front of the fire, across from where his brother sat sprawled, resting most of his weight on the base of his spine as he held a snifter of brandy in his fist. “I would have thought you’d be swearing off strong spirits for a space.”

“If I’m to be married to that piece of work, I may have to purchase my own vineyard,” Beau grumbled into the silken collar of his banyan. “But this is all my fault, I suppose. Whatever in hell’s name was I thinking, playing with Brean like a cat toys with a mouse? And, worse, how did she find me out? It’s as if I personally handed her the ammunition she would use to shoot me.”

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