Mouth agape, Lydia Makepeace stared, for quite the first time in her life fully comprehending the meaning of the word “dumbstruck,” at the gentleman-gentleman rake, gamester, dissolute womanizer, and acknowledged libertine-displayed so delectably before her, all that damp skin just begging to be touched…and valiantly tried to harry her wits back into working order. The flickering firelight caressing his chest-that amazingly sculpted muscled expanse-lovingly outlining each ridge of his abdomen, each heavy curve of shoulder and arm in golden light, didn’t help.

Her mouth was dry; swallowing, she forced herself to focus on his eyes, on the irritation clear in the silvery gray.

Even as the most elementary ability to think re-formed in her mind, she saw her plans, her carefully calculated, absolutely vital plans, unraveling. “No.”

His eyes narrowed.

She narrowed hers back, tipped up her chin “What I do is no concern of yours, my lord.”

He growled, literally growled. “Ro-remember? And for your information-”

Breaking off, he looked past her. The door opened.

Glancing around, she saw the innkeeper. He stood as if poleaxed in the doorway, the smile on his face melting away-he plainly had no idea what expression to replace it with. As she had done, he was staring at Ro, at his naked chest; unlike her, the innkeeper’s expression was horrified.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Ro shook out the shirt he carried in one fist, but one glance was enough to confirm for them all that it was so wet, he’d never succeed in pulling it on again.

Looking up, he pinned her with a rapier-sharp gaze. “Wait here while I go up and change. Do not leave this room.”

If you do, I’ll come after you.

She heard the unvoiced warning clearly. She set her jaw; wild visions of having him taken up by a constable, or at least being thrown out into the night, drifted temptingly across her mind…but it was raining cats and dogs-and sheep and goats and horses-out there, and who would do the throwing? The innkeeper and what army?