Page 4

F inley grabbed the side of the boat sputtering, head aching, demanding to know why he was being hit with an oar, in his own lake, when a screech sounded. Pushing the hair out of his eyes, he caught sight of a boy, flying over him and into the water.

“Serves you right. Hitting me with an oar,” he choked, spitting out something green and slimy.

A head bobbed to the surface. Tiny, sharp features. Wild eyes, a startling green, which met Finley’s moment before sliding below the surface once more. A great deal of splashing about ensued.

Finley wasn’t feeling especially charitable. The bloody idiot had hit him with an oar, after all. A knot was already forming. Let him swim to shore.

The head popped up once more, mouth open in a cry for help— oddly lush red lips for a boy —before disappearing once more beneath the waves.

Little bugger can’t swim.

Rolling his eyes and cursing, Finley dove back under the water, never mind his head was aching from the oar, and caught sight of the small body thrashing about. Wrapping his arms around the lad, he paddled forward just slightly, feeling the brush of the lake’s bottom against his feet.

“Quit wiggling about. I’m trying to get you to land, you little nitwit.” He hauled the boy out of the water like a bag of soggy oats and placed him, none too gently, on the pebbles making up a beach at this edge of the lake. The folly stood a short distance away.

The lad coughed and rolled over, spitting out lake water and bits of pondweed. A small, booted foot kicked Finley in the hip. “Leave off. Get away from me. You—awful—” He wiped at a piece of pondweed caught on his plump bottom lip.

Finley stared as the worn clothing revealed far more of his oar-wielding attacker.

Huh. Not a boy. That explained the mouth.

She, and it was most definitely a young lady given the manner in which the wet fabric draped her breasts, jerked into a seated position, pushing aside the dripping remains of her hair, which was now tumbling over her shoulders.

Should have noticed that .

Her eyes were the color of spring grass. So green they appeared to glow.

“What is wrong with you?” she sputtered. “You tried to drown me.”

“I did not.” This was vastly more entertaining than dealing with Bates. Worth missing breakfast, at the very least. “You panicked and fell into the water, screeching like a fishwife.”

Her mouth popped open. “I do not shriek.”

“I said screech . And you did. Loudly. Like rusty nails across a rock.”

Her mouth popped open aghast as his description.

“Also,” he continued. “You assaulted me with an oar. Completely uncalled for.” He had to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from grinning. She resembled nothing so much as a drowned kitten, with her hair sticking out, hissing at him.

“It was not intentional.” She lifted her chin and gave him a disdainful look. “ You were lurking about my boat. Terrifying me.”

“I did no such thing,” he replied. “I was swimming.”

“I thought you were…a creature of unknown origin.”

“A creature of unknown origin? You mean a fish?” Finley snorted.

He was well above average height. Broad.

The last thing he would ever be confused with was one of the perch in the lake.

He ran a hand through his hair, shaking some of the water free.

“A monster, you mean?” Finley couldn’t help himself; he burst into laughter.

“Someone has been reading too many penny dreadfuls.”

Her cheeks pinked. “I am not familiar with this lake—I am an entomologist,” she stated in the lofty tone of an academic. “I am a scientist, though my area of study is not aquatic creatures. It is an easy mistake to make,” she said in a vaguely chastising tone. Reminiscent of a governess.

Sensation twisted along the lower half of his body at the sound of her.

He’d always had an affinity for governesses.

And it had been so long since he’d felt…

aroused by anything, Finley almost didn’t recognize the sensation.

Obviously, he glanced down at his wet trousers, the frigid water posed no deterrent.

“ You’re Ware’s bug collecting colleague?”

“I am,” she assured him in that same crisp tone, sending another delicious shiver over Finley’s skin. “Miss Analise Peregrine.” She struggled a bit, water sloshing out of her boots, but finally came to her feet. “My boots are ruined.”

“Probably.” Finley could make out the outline of her chemise beneath the shirt, not that it was much help given both were transparent after her fall in the lake. The tiny buds of her nipples poked impudently at him through the fabric. Impossible not to notice.

“I am a member of the Entomological Society of London,” she finished with a burst of superiority, quite proud to be part of what must be a bug-collecting club.

“Never heard of it.”

“Unsurprising.” Her eyes narrowed on him. “You don’t strike me as an academic.”

Finley had attended Eton. Granted, he hadn’t been especially academically inclined, but he wasn’t an idiot.

“I am…under the patronage of the Duke of Ware,” she stated, lifting her tiny, pointed chin. “His guest at Orchard Park.”

Miss Peregrine was slight of form, and possessed a manner about her that far exceeded her physical stature.

Much like one of his mother’s pet Pomeranians who imagined they were mastiffs.

Something brown, part of a cattail he thought, or a reed, had gotten tangled in her hair.

The ends of the reed stood up on either side of her head, bobbing when she moved her head.

No, not a Pomeranian . A bug of some sort. How fitting.

“I study insecta.” Her chin lifted another fraction of an inch, insisting he be impressed.

Good grief. She was going to toss Latin about. He hated Latin.

“And you say you’re a friend of the duke?

” Finley eyed her closely, dismissing immediately any suspicion that Ware might be involved with Miss Peregrine.

The duke was married to Tamsin Sinclair, who was not only stunning, but would probably relieve Ware of his ball sack if he looked at another woman.

Finley had made her acquaintance. The duchess was rather terrifying.

“We are colleagues ,” she stressed. “Fellow entomologists.” Her chin jerked up and the reeds shook atop her head. “I’m not sure why I am explaining myself to you.”

Very insect like. Especially with those large green eyes and sharp features. But the luscious mouth and perky nipples ruined the effect. Miss Peregrine, given she was a scientist, wasn’t especially observant, or she might have realized her wet shirt was see-through.

“I have the duke’s permission to be here,” she said. “And that of Lord Tentby’s.”

Goodness, but she was superior.

“Tenburgh,” Finley corrected, unable to take his eyes from the fascinating and self-important Miss Peregrine. Or her bosom. The fact that he’d never actually consented to her presence, merely didn’t care about it, wasn’t exactly permission.

“Are you in his employ? Lord Tenburgh, I mean.”

“You could say that.” He cocked his head. “I was just out for a swim.”

“So you’ve mentioned.” She stared at him, cheeks pinking. “And you are Mr.—

“Finley. Just Finley.”

“Well, now that we’ve introduced ourselves, you may go about your business, Finley.” Each word was punctuated by the bits of reed atop her head.

“How kind of you.”

Women didn’t generally dismiss Finley. Not only was he charming, but he was a marquess. Unfortunately. He decided not to inform Miss Peregrine of his identity; she’d be much more horrified when she realized later.

Her lush little mouth pursed into a rosette of annoyance at hearing his sarcasm. “Mr. Finley—”

“I’ve never seen an entomologist work,” he drawled.

Not entirely true. He’d seen Ware pluck bugs off the ground with his stupid little tweezers or chase a moth about with a tiny net any number of times.

“And you shall not today,” she snipped.

Miss Peregrine really needed to stop speaking to him in such an authoritative, arousing manner.

“Well, unless you can suddenly swim, Miss Peregrine,” Finley cocked his head to the rowboat still drifting offshore.

“You’ll need me to fetch your things.” Truthfully, she didn’t.

The boat had drifted into the shallower water surrounding the island.

Miss Peregrine could walk or paddle to the boat.

If he made mention that her tiny, booted feet would hit the lake’s bottom. Which he would not.

Her lips parted, gaze drifting to the boat floating in the water. “Damn.”

Miss Peregrine liked to curse. That soft hum along his thighs became stronger.

When was the last time he’d had such an instant attraction to a woman?

Snooty, bookish creatures like Miss Peregrine weren’t usually his type.

Part of that attraction, he assumed, was due to the fact that she hadn’t the least interest in Finley.

He wasn’t an insect.

Finley waited, somewhat impatiently, for her to request his assistance in retrieving her things from the boat. He certainly wasn’t going to offer it up.

Pursing that wonderous mouth she finally said, “I must ask, Mr. Finley—”

“Just Finley.”

“Finley. I—need my leather satchel, which contains my tools and notebook, so that I may conduct my research. It is my whole purpose for being here.” Her brow wrinkled.

“And…the rowboat my only way back to shore. I don’t mean to suggest that you row me back over,” she said quickly, “but I will need the boat.” Her gaze dipped over his shoulders, eyes growing wide.

She blinked several times in rapid succession before her left eye twitched.

Miss Peregrine might have a fit of apoplexy. She’d just realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt.

“I can…offer you a basket full of…well, I’m not entirely sure.” She was trying to not look at his chest. “But—”

“Why would I be interested in a basket,” he replied in a bland tone, wondering when she’d realize he could see the outline of her breasts. Finley could nearly make out the color of her nipples.

“The basket was packed for me by the duke’s cook. You seem hungry. I can hear your stomach grumble from over here,” she snapped, trying not to stare at his chest or his bare feet.

Oh, Miss Peregrine.

“I’m always hungry,” Finley agreed. “My enjoyment of breakfast was cut short.” Because Bates interrupted his meal. He was somewhat despondent over not being allowed to enjoy the ham. Finley liked ham.

“Is…that why you’re here, at the lake? To fish?”

She thought him a local from the nearby village. A poor one. A tenant of Ware’s perhaps. Or a groom. Definitely not Tenburgh.

Good. I don’t want to be Tenburgh either.

“I accept your bargain, Miss Peregrine. I’ve heard Orchard Park has an excellent kitchen. I’m bound to enjoy the contents of the basket.” Finley stepped back into the water and got to his knees, pretending to swim. Once he reached the boat, he turned and stood.

The water barely came to his chest.

“You”—she bit out—“tricked me. I could have fetched my things without your help. Why didn’t you tell me the water was shallow?” Her fists curled at her sides. Completely indignant at his treatment. Her annoyance at him difficult to miss.

Which did nothing to cool the way his cock stirred to life in his trousers, despite the chill of the water.

“You didn’t ask.” Finley slogged forward, dragging the rowboat up to the beach so it wouldn’t drift back into the lake. Reaching inside, he pulled out her leather satchel and a basket which likely weighed more than Miss Peregrine.

She tapped her tiny, booted foot. The reeds atop her head quivered. Entirely put out with him. “You should have offered up the information.”

“Alas, I did not.” When was the last time any young lady spoke to him in such a way? Finley was enjoying himself immensely. “I’ll share with you,” he offered, hefting the basket. “This is quite heavy. There’s bound to be enough for both of us. I’ll build a fire. You’re cold.”

The heat of the day had dissipated under the clouds gathering above them.

“I’m perfectly fine,” she insisted. “There is no need for a fire.” But she trembled in her wet clothes, goosebumps rising along her arms.

“You are chilled, Miss Peregrine.” Finley deliberately drew his gaze over her form, lingering over her breasts.

She let out a small gasp at seeing the way the wet fabric of her shirt clung to every curve. Crossing her arms, she pointedly looked away. “I’ll just collect my things and be on my way.”

“There’s flint inside the folly. I left it there on my last visit,” he said.

Years ago, inside a small tin, though there was no evidence of the fire he’d built that day.

“And your lips, Miss Peregrine, are turning blue. I’m sure your research can wait until you have warmed up. Or your clothes aren’t dripping wet.”

The last thing Finley needed was Ware stomping about demanding satisfaction because his colleague had fallen ill. “Once you are dry and have had something to eat, feel free to go about collecting ants.”

“I don’t require your permission. And I am not looking for ants. I am searching for psyllobora vigintiduopunctata ,” she whispered, teeth clacking. “They are coccinellidae. ”

“Of course they are,” Finley said, not caring what the bloody hell a coccinellidae happened to be. Sounded like a disease soldiers faced in war. Like dysentery. “But in any case, you can hunt them once you’re dry.”