“Do I look like I have?” Greystone bit back.
Dariell shook his head. “Ah, monseigneur, you do not know when to quit, no?”
“Just resume your position and allow me to ease my frustration on you.”
Lydia watched the men come together. They bowed to each other, stood with their hands by their sides rather than form fists. Rivulets of rain trickled down the glass pane, and she squinted to gain a better view.
Greystone attacked first. The swipe came so quick it made her gasp. Dariell didn’t even flinch. The Frenchman blocked the move with a counterattack that forced Greystone to duck. And so it went on. Punches thrown. The kicks to the chest were capable of knocking three men down. There was nothing clumsy or uncouth about their battle. It was elegant, masterful, beautiful yet deadly.
A faint sheen of sweat glistened on Greystone’s bronzed skin. While every inch of Lydia’s body shivered from the cold, heat swirled within. The muscles in her stomach squeezed tight with longing. This intense attraction was too much for her. Where would it lead? Where would it end? And yet she could not tear her gaze away from the window.
“Where are you, my friend?” Dariell said as he dodged another of Greystone’s punches. “For you are not in this room with me. You have lost your focus.”
Greystone massaged the muscle in his shoulder, and Lydia almost swooned. “I’m focused. I’ve hit you enough times to make it count.”
“Ah, but your anger makes you weak. You’ve fought better. Remember rage is the enemy, too.”
“I’m not angry,” Greystone snapped, although he did sound rather annoyed.
“You do protest too much, my friend. When a man is lost in his head, it is often because of a woman.” Dariell paused. “Am I right?” He waved his hand dismissively. “Do not tell me for I know the answer.”
“You’re right. But it’s disappointment that eats away at me, not anger.”
“Miss Lovell is what you would call an original, no?”
Lydia shrank back. Did she really want to listen to their opinion of her? She thought for a second, maybe two. The answer was yes.
The grumble of thunder came dangerously close now. Rain dripped from her straggly locks. Her feet were cut and bruised, and still, she turned back to the open door.
“You think her exceptional,” Dariell said. “That is the first time you have ever spoken so fondly of a woman.”
Damn, she’d missed what Greystone had said to prompt such a response.
Greystone pushed both hands through his hair and sighed. “In my eagerness, I pressed her too hard today.”
No, he didn’t … he hadn’t. She liked seeing a savage hunger flash in his eyes.
Greystone said something else, but the damn thunder made it impossible to hear. And now her ragged breathing misted the glass. Lydia wiped away the rain and the evidence of her excitement only to find both men staring at the door.
Lydia stood there in her nightdress, soaked and bedraggled. Greystone stepped forward. He looked so strong so powerful so utterly divine. Oh, how she longed to be crushed in his embrace.
Their eyes locked and she felt the same magnetic pull.
For some reason unbeknown she backed away, and then a sudden bout of nerves screamed for her to run.
Chapter Fourteen
Miles stared at the apparition standing on the terrace. What else could it be? He may have dreamt Miss Lovell would come to him in the night wearing nothing but a transparent gown, but he was a logical enough man to know that was merely a fantasy.
And yet here she was, water dripping from those rich brown locks, the white nightdress clinging to every soft curve, to every delicious inch of her body.
“Your lady, she is the reason you took your supper at the stones?” Dariell said.
“Indeed.”
“Then she is a little late, no?”
“Four hours to be precise.”