by Kelly Bowen
So now Rose found herself starting down the steep trail of the cliffs toward the small, protected cove below, rehearsing exactly what she wanted to say as she descended. Someone, at some time, certainly not in this century or even the century before, had cut a series of crude steps down the side of the cliff. Smugglers, most likely, and it was just as likely that it was smugglers who still maintained them. The passage was a natural ravine, a crevice protected by tall, chalky walls on either side covered with tufts of vegetation.
The cove was almost circular, cut out from the white cliffs. It was small, the entrance to the sea too narrow for anything larger than a small fishing boat, but the beach sloped gently and the surf only swirled and didn’t pound with the same ferocity it did on the exposed shorelines. It was a place isolated from reality, protected from all eyes. Somewhere one could retreat. Somewhere Dawes could hide.
Rose continued down the narrow, twisting path. The sound of the surf and the screams of gulls became louder. The sun beat down on her head, the warmth from the sun trapped at the base of the cliff. The breeze, mostly blocked by the wall of the circular cove, did little to cool her. She reached the beach and shaded her eyes against the glare. Avondale’s grooms had told her they had seen the earl heading toward the cove, but Rose wondered now if she was too late. Or if Dawes had ever come down here.
The beach was empty, but just off to the right, in the shade cast by an overhanging cliff, she spotted what appeared to be a coat and a pair of breeches, left carelessly next to a pair of boots. Rose’s eyes snapped to the water. If he had thrown himself into the depths to drown himself, at least he hadn’t done it with rocks in his pockets.
There, about twenty yards out, she could just make out the figure of a man on the surface of the sea, moving with surprising speed. Rose ducked out of the sun into the shade of the overhang, watching as the earl swam for a few minutes more before stopping and floating on his back, only his head and toes visible, his face upturned to the sun. There was a grace to his movements, the unhurried effort of a person who has, for a moment, found peace in solitude.
She sat down beneath the ledge, content for a moment just to rest in the relative cool and watch the play of sunlight across the water. She knew she should probably retreat. This invasion of Dawes’s privacy was not something she had planned, but now that she was here, she feared that if she left, she might just lose her nerve to say what she had come all the way down here to say. At the very least, if he was only half-dressed and dripping wet, he would have to listen to what she said before he could escape anywhere.
A movement in the water caught her eye, and Rose realized that Dawes was heading toward the beach. He was still on his back, facing away from the shore, his strokes long and lazy, letting the gentle swells carry him closer and closer to shore.
She should stand up now and wave him down. Let him know that she was here. Except she didn’t move. For reasons that she didn’t understand, she remained perfectly still in the shade, her eyes skimming over the long lines of his arms as they flashed in and out of the water and the breadth of his shoulders as they crested each swell. He disappeared entirely under the water for a few seconds before he suddenly stood, his back to her, the surf frothing around his thighs. Rose felt her mouth go dry.
She tried desperately to view him through the eyes of Rose the artist and not Rose the woman. Water sluiced down his body, sparkling in the sunlight as it traveled over the defined muscles of his back. Over his left shoulder she could see the whitened skin of his healed injury where the burn had afflicted the top of his arm and neck. The curve of his spine created a faint valley of shadow as it traveled from beneath his dripping hair to the small of his back, stopping just above the curve of his buttocks. And he had a glorious ass. His waist and hips were trim, a faint hollow on each buttock delimiting the hard muscle. The tops of his legs were just visible above the surface, steady against the swirl of water. Rose had not painted many men with the sharp musculature that Eli Dawes possessed, and this man, from an artist’s perspective, was impressive. A model she would gladly pay for a few afternoons of his time so that she, or other artists, might practice their hand at replication and composition of truly remarkable male anatomy.
From a woman’s perspective…Rose tried not to consider what it would be like to run her fingers over his water-slicked body and failed. The skin of his upper body glowed with color earned only by exposure to the sun, suggesting that Dawes had spent a great deal of time outdoors without his shirt on. The color ended abruptly in a sharp line at his hips, indicating that he had, at least, been wearing trousers or breeches of some sort if nothing else.
She shivered, unwelcome arousal pooling low in her belly. This version of Eli Dawes was different from the polished perfection of the man she had known long ago. Not that she had ever had cause to see him like this, in all his magnificence, but the old Eli Dawes wouldn’t have looked this…real. Powerful. Imperfect.
And all the more desirable for it.
Her fingers curled into the stones beneath her, and a sharp edge pressed into her palm. She jerked and struggled to scramble to her feet, untangling her skirts from around her legs. What the hell did she think she was doing? Of all the men Rose could ogle, Eli Dawes should be the very last on her list.
She straightened hastily, yelping in pain as she hit her head on the overhanging rock above her. At the sound Eli’s head whipped around, his gaze finding hers in a comical mix of shock and bewilderment and then, finally, horror. He threw himself into the water like a felled oak, sending a spray of surf into the air. After a second his head popped up, and Rose suddenly found herself battling the ridiculous urge to laugh despite the ache at her temple.
“What the hell, Rose?” Dawes demanded. He looked as though he was trying to work himself into deeper water without exposing anything below his neck, while struggling against the rolling swells.
A snort of laughter did escape then. “You look like a drunken silkie,” she told him, stepping out onto the beach fully.
“Jesus, Rose, you can’t be here.”
“On the beach?”
“Yes, on the beach. I’m naked,” he bit out.
“Yes,” Rose said. “I’m aware.”
From the sea Dawes cursed roundly. “And is this you coming to exact your punishment on me?” he asked. “Trapping me in the water until I freeze to death or get sucked out by the tide? Because I’m not coming out while you’re standing there.”
Rose sobered, and the smile slid from her face. “No,” she said. With a sigh she turned and quickly retrieved his clothes and carried them across the beach. She dropped them near the water’s edge. “I promise I won’t look.” She deliberately turned her back and returned to the shade, keeping her eyes glued firmly on the tufts of vegetation clinging to the crevices in the chalky cliffs.
After a couple of long minutes, she heard the crunch of stone behind her. She risked a peek and found the earl standing on the beach, dressed in his breeches and shirt and nothing else. His hair had been shoved back from his forehead, and the ends dripped down the side of his face and over his shoulder, leaving semitransparent spots on the linen where hints of his darkened skin showed. It was all she could do not to reach out to touch him, her fingers itching to know how all that muscle would feel under the thin fabric. She longed to yank that shirt back over his head again. A shame, Rose thought, idly, to cover up all that magnificent male perfection.
Male perfection she had no business wondering about at all. She straightened her shoulders and raised her eyes.
He had his coat balled up in one hand and his boots dangling from the other. And he looked furious. “Why the hell were you spying on me?” he demanded.
“I wasn’t spying on you, Dawes,” Rose replied, aiming for a light, easy tone. “Spying implies subterfuge. If I truly wanted to spy on you, you would never have known I was doing it. I was waiting for you.”
“While I was naked?” he grit out through clenched teeth.
“I don’t understand the fuss. Half of London has seen you naked,” Rose snorted. “The female half, anyway.”
“You haven’t.”
“Until today.”
“Damn right. You’re a lady. And an unwed one at that.” He dropped his boots on the beach, sounding genuinely disturbed.
Rose swallowed another sound of amusement and studied him curiously. “A lady,” she repeated, beginning to understand. “And unwed.”
“Yes,” he said tightly.
She swallowed the very unladylike sound that threatened to escape. “Dammit. I missed my cue to swoon.”
“You shouldn’t curse.”
Rose snickered. “But swooning is acceptable?”
“Are you making fun of me?” A deep groove had formed between his eyebrows.
“Possibly. I’m also wondering if I was right earlier when I questioned if whatever had damaged your face had damaged your wits.”
“My wits? Jesus, Rose, we’re on a beach, alone. This is not a suitable convers—”
Rose laughed again, unable to stop herself. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”
The earl looked away. “No.”
“You have to appreciate the irony of this, Dawes.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The infamous, unequivocal Don Juan of London suddenly shy about a little nudity.”
“Because it’s not proper! For you to be here when I am less than…” He stalled.
“When have you ever cared about propriety? Jesus, Dawes, you sound like a ninety-year-old nun.”
Eli remained silent, his body rigid. “I care when it comes to you,” he finally growled.
Rose smothered a groan. Why was she pursuing this? This was not the conversation she had wanted to have. “I hate to disillusion you, Dawes, but you seem to have forgotten that I’m an artist,” she said, trying to inject a reasonable, matter-of-fact tone. “I see naked men on a regular basis. And naked women. Models, sculpture, portraiture.”
His head swiveled back. “I beg your pardon?”
“I spent seven years off and on in Italy,” she said. “Immersed in a culture that values artistry and its masters more than almost anything else. Venice. Florence. Rome.”
“What? When?”
“Before I ever met you. Did you think I was guessing when I told you your triptych of the Madonna and child was a Van Eyck? Or that your Portrait of Isabella d’Este in Red is, in fact, not a copy by Rubens but the original by Titian?”
“You never told me that you studied in Italy.”
“You never asked. But let me assure you that there is nothing you own on that body of yours that I haven’t already seen a hundred times. Nothing I haven’t already painted a hundred times.” She managed to suppress the current of electricity that suddenly hummed through her body at the memory of what he had looked like in that surf. Not one of her models, no matter how beautiful, had ever elicited such a visceral response. Clearly she’d been out in the sun too long.
He simply stared, and for the life of her, Rose couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
She shook her head again. “I didn’t come down here to talk about me. Or my art,” she said, unwilling to continue a conversation about his nudity any longer. Or her interest in it, academic or otherwise.
His one eye narrowed. “Then what?”
Rose took a deep breath. “I came to apologize.”
* * *
Eli started. Of all the things that Rose Hayward could have said to him, that was the last thing he’d expected. But then, since its inception, this entire conversation had been utterly outlandish and unexpected. Her utter disregard for propriety and her casual references to his body had been nothing short of shocking.
I see naked men on a regular basis.
How the hell was he supposed to respond to that? He had made an effort to be a gentleman—to be what a lady like Rose deserved—and she had…laughed at him. Even more disturbing was the revelation that it was possible he had never truly known this woman at all.
“For what?” he managed to ask. “What do you have to be sorry for?”
“For believing the worst of you.” She looked away from him, shadows of what looked like sadness and regret flitting across her face. “Because I once considered you a friend. I’d still like to.” She repeated his own words with a wistful twist.
He tightened his grip on his coat so he wouldn’t be tempted to reach out and touch her. He couldn’t stand to see her unhappy, though it made her no less exquisite. Her cheeks were flushed, whether from the heat or their conversation he wasn’t sure. Her hair had come loose, strawberry-blond curls cascading like fire over her shoulders and down her back, brilliant against the pale blue of her dress. She was real and honest and perfect, and he wished he could go back in time to do everything all over again.
How Anthony had never valued this woman was hard to comprehend. But then Anthony had only ever valued Anthony. Including Eli. How Eli had not recognized that sooner was even harder to comprehend.
“Don’t be sorry. After how I failed you, I would have believed it too,” he said finally, meaning every word.
“No, you wouldn’t,” she said, looking down at her hands.
Eli shook his head.
“When I told you about that book, you wanted to believe the best about Anthony, if only for a second. If that doesn’t make you an optimist, I don’t know what does.” She said it wryly, and he knew she meant it to make him feel better, but it only made him feel worse.
“I wasn’t an optimist; I was an idiot.” He heard anger and guilt echo in his words. “I only saw a few of those drawings and then never thought of them again. I was oblivious to the consequences of my actions, or in this case my lack thereof. Which makes me the same.”
Rose glanced up at him, her dark eyes unreadable. “You are not the same. You never lied to me. You never were deliberately cruel.”
“I chose to believe what was easy, not what was right, and ignore things that were difficult or hard. That might be worse.” The truth was ugly. “At least I got what I deserved.”
“What?” It was barely audible, spoken on a sharp inhalation.
He had no idea why he had said that. It was something that had lurked, dark and sinister, in the very blackest corners of his mind, loosed like a poisoned arrow at unpredictable moments. Like this one. Eli stepped closer to her, his guilt burning like salt rubbed into an open wound. He knew very well he should withdraw and wrestle his shame back to the darkness from which it had emerged, but somehow he was unable to. “You heard me. Pride goeth before destruction and all that.”
Rose didn’t move. “You think your injury was some sort of divine punishment?” she asked with a small frown.
“I thought you’d be more pleased.”
She jerked as if he’d struck her. “You believe what happened to you makes me happy?”
Eli cursed and turned away from her, stumbling a few steps toward the water. The stones were sharp beneath his bare feet, but he ignored the discomfort. He should have retreated while he had the chance, before he managed to make it all worse. The emptiness that sat dark and hollow deep within him seemed to spread, its black edges creeping ever further, threatening to consume him entirely.
“Is that what you truly believe of me? That whatever you’ve suffered would make me feel…What? Vindicated?”
“No.” Perhaps he should have swum for the mouth of the cove and then kept going out into the blue abyss. Perhaps he still could. He was fighting a rising tide of self-pity and self-loathing and had somehow taken it out on the only person he had managed to have a real conversation with in years. He wouldn’t blame Rose if she left now and never spoke to him again.
“Why did you come back?” Her question startled him. He hadn’t heard her come up beside him.
He shook his head.
She stepped in front of him then, her hands on her slim hips. “Fine. Don’t answer that. Tell me why you stayed away
as long as you did instead.”
He shifted his weight.
“Don’t do that,” she said quietly.
“Do what?” He dragged his gaze from where it had been, over her shoulder, to her face.
“Turn away from me. Hide your left side.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were. You do it all the time. It’s annoying.”
“It’s repulsive. Grotesque.”
“It’s why you didn’t come back.” She said it with the finality of someone who had known the answer to her question all along.
“That’s not true.” It came out in a defensive snarl.
“Liar.” She sounded disappointed.
“I’m not discussing this with you.” He brushed by her to retrieve his boots.
“It’s what friends do, Dawes. Discuss difficult things. It was you who first said you wished to call me a friend. Have you changed your mind?”
Eli could feel his teeth clench so hard he feared they might shatter. “I’m not a liar.”
“You’re not doing so well with the truth either.”
He bent to pick up his boots, only to have them snatched away. “Give me my boots.”
“No.” With shoes, Rose had the advantage on the stony beach, and she skittered away. “Not until you tell me something true.”
“Stop it. You’re acting like you’re ten.”
“If I were ten, I would have thrown your boots into the sea. I still might.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it.”
“That’s just it. I don’t want to explain it. I don’t want to have to explain how this happened.” He gestured to his ruined face. “Not to you, not to Miss Swift, not to your brother. I don’t want to explain every time someone looks at me with revulsion and pity. Every time a woman crosses the street to avoid me or a child ducks his head in terror.”
Rose was silent for a long minute, only the sound of the surf bubbling and hissing on the beach intruding. She took a step forward and shoved his boots at his chest, and he caught them awkwardly. “You need to have done with yourself, Dawes,” she said.
