He chuckled, low and amused. “Aesthetics, is it? That what we’re callin’ bare bosoms and blazin’ thighs these days? I must’ve missed the lecture.” He tipped his head toward one particularly indecent canvas. “Looks more like a masterclass in wantin’ what ye shouldnae touch.”
Elizabeth’s heart pounded. She knew exactly what she was in now. Her presence here—alone with a strange man in a hidden gallery filled with indecent paintings—was more scandalous than the artwork itself.
Lady Grisham would die of mortification, but not before killing Elizabeth first. And if not death, then disgrace. Her reputation would be ruined beyond repair.
Common sense urged her to leave. Flee, before anyone noticed. But something about the Scotsman made her hesitate. Perhaps it was pride. Perhaps it was defiance.
Or perhaps she simply didn’t want to be the girl who always retreated.
The Elizabeth everyone thought they knew would have already fled, red-faced and apologetic. But this Elizabeth stood her ground, and she didn’t flee.
“Since you disapprove so much, you may leave,” she said, with surprising steadiness.
“Me, disapprove?” He laughed softly at that, shaking his head in disbelief. “I’ve shocked more than half the ton merely by drawin’ breath. A painted bosom doesnae rattle me.”
She squinted at him, trying to tell if he was joking. But he wasn’t. His eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was no hint of apology in his expression. He meant every word.
Was she truly alone in a hidden gallery with a dangerous man?
Not the sort of danger that came with knives or threats—but the kind that made her heart race and her thoughts fray.
And that, in its own way, felt worse.
When he took a slow step closer, she instinctively took one back.
“I-I thought I might stay here longer,” she stammered, forcing a prim smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes.
“Aye?” he said, voice low. “Pity. I was just beginnin’ to enjoy the company.”
He took another step, closing the distance between them. Not too near, but near enough that she could catch the scent ofhim: clean linen, something earthy like cedar or leather, and the faintest trace of smoke.
He tilted his head, studying her with infuriating calm.
“Would be a shame to lose such a bold conversationalist,” he added, his brogue thickening, “when most lasses can barely string three thoughts together without glancin’ at the door for their mamas.”
Strangely, she agreed. This conversation was beyond the stilted pleasantries of the ton. He was different. Untamed. Unfiltered. Terribly inconvenient.
“You’re a brute,” she declared, lifting her chin with defiance.
The word surprised even her.
His eyes locked with hers. Deep green. Startling.Alive. For a moment, she could hear water rushing over rocks, birds calling from distant trees.
Ridiculous. The gallery was playing tricks on her.
“Is it a habit of yours,” she snapped, “to lurk in dim corridors in search of unchaperoned ladies?”
He looked at her thoughtfully, tapping a finger against his jaw. “Ye had the nerve to slip into a forbidden gallery filled with sin and scandal, but I’m the rogue for standin’ in it?”
“You truly think I came to this gallery on purpose?” she asked, though even as the words left her lips, she knew they were untrue.
She had followed curiosity, followed whispers of scandal, and found exactly what she was looking for.
And far more than she’d bargained for.
“Ah, did ye not, lass?” he asked, his smirk widening with quiet triumph.
Elizabeth felt a flicker of heat beneath her skin. Unexpected, unwelcome.