What would his chest look like without the fabric?
Felton’s chest was nothing like Lord Rochdale’s either. She did not need to strip him of his clothing to know that. The breadth of his shoulders, the way he moved, the firmness she’d felt...it told her all she needed to know to conjure what she suspected was quite an accurate picture.
No.
She looked at the fabric clasped between her thumb and forefinger, ignoring the fuzzy outline of a man who hadn’t ceased staring at her as though she were some unknown creature from an undiscovered island. Plenty of men looked at her like that, mostly because she was a Musgrave. It didn’t mean anything.
Even if she wanted it to.
“It’s fabric.” Her voice wavered and she gave a delicate cough. “It’s fabric,” she repeated.
A dark brow lifted. “I can see that.”
“From the window.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that too.”
His dry tone made her skin heat. Forget strong arms and broad shoulders, the man was an ass, and it took more than some fine physical traits to distract her… did it not?
“It is from a shirt.” She rubbed it between her finger and thumb. “A coarse linen.”
“It’s a mere scrap. How can you tell?”
“I’ve worn a simple chemise a time or two in my life.” She was not going to explain the too many incidents of getting dirty as a child and being forced to wear whatever chemise was available, be it a servant’s or whatever could be bought or bartered from a nearby inn.
“You do not forget what it feels like when it brushes your skin,” she explained.
His gaze darted up and down her, then he straightened his shoulders and moved his hands behind his back. “It doesn’t...” He stopped and Clem saw his throat swallow. “It doesn’t mean anything. It’s a mere scrap of fabric.”
“It means someone climbed in through this window. Someone real.” She gestured to the window. “They must have pushed it open, climbed in and caught their shirt upon the frame there.” She motioned to the catch of the window.
“It could have got caught there at any time—when a servant opened the window perhaps?”
“Why would a servant be wearing only their shirt? Your aunt would not put them in such cheap linen either.”
A grumble of annoyance came from the marquis. She resisted a smug smile. Was he beginning to realize he wasn’t going to win?
“Also...” She twisted on a heel and crouched beside the drawer of the dressing table. “There are scratches.”
“Scratches?” he echoed.
“See?” She pointed to the tiny lines marring the mahogany.
He crouched down beside her to peer at the marks around the lock on the drawer. He shrugged. “Furniture gets scratched.”
“Not like this. Look closer.”
Lord Rochdale leaned in, and she found herself eyeing his profile. Was there a single part of him that was soft? Even the slight hint of stubble on his jaw looked coarse and, if it touched her, would make her skin feel like it had only moments ago, sparking to life.
Clem jerked her gaze away and prodded the lock. “There are scratches inside the lock. That could only be from a tension rod and pick.”
“Now how would you know that?”
She kept her gaze fixed upon the drawer, focusing on the intricate swirls inlaid in a lighter wood. Out of the periphery of her vision, she was aware of him staring at her. “I picked locks for a while.”
He made a sound between a cough and a laugh, and she furrowed her brow. It would not be the first time someone had laughed at her hobbies, nor would it be the last, but she did not see the harm in learning as many skills as one could.
“Why would you need to learn to pick locks?”