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diminished to a narrow line, like an arrow disappearing beneath the sash. As he rounded the bend, she glimpsed a well-turned thigh, and very nearly something more. He was naked underneath. Her breath caught in a strangled gasp, and her hand flew to her lips—but not in time to keep the sound from escaping.
    He stopped three steps above her, and cinched his dressing gown in ruthlessly. His hair was tousled and wet, tumbled over his brow, and his eyes were hooded dark things that drove hers away. He didn’t speak directly, and when she braved another look, she saw that he was taking her measure. She was standing beneath one of the sconces. Glancing down, she realized that her gown was transparent in the candlelight. He could see
everything
, and she tugged her wrapper closed in front with both hands.
    “May I be of assistance to you, Sara?” he said, stepping down to the landing.
    “N-no, thank you,” she replied. “I was just going up.” Did that sound as ridiculous to him as it did to her, considering her attire? He was so close. How he towered over her. His scent overwhelmed her, his own unique essence, freshened with the tang of sea salt, of the wind, and the rain. She was right; he
had
been outside, and he’d probably come down to collect the clothes he’d left behind earlier, not wanting to muddy the house.
    “You oughtn’t be down here unsupervised until you’re familiar with the house,” he said, stopping her in her tracks. “These corridors aren’t used after the dining hall is cleared, and they’re sparsely lit at this hour.”
    “ ‘
Unsupervised
’
?
” she said.
    “Yes. I can’t have you blundering into danger in the dark.”
    “I don’t ‘blunder,’ my lord,” she snapped. First
behave
, and now
unsupervised?
The man was certainly no study in diplomacy. “Your choice of words can sometimes be unfortunate, I’m finding out.”
    “ ‘Nicholas,’ ” he corrected her. “I’m sorry if my vocabulary offends you, but I’ve never been the sort to mince words. There are dangers in this old house. Loose boards, rusty nails”—he pointed at her bare feet—“heavy old furniture to stub those pretty toes on. Browse all you want in daylight, when you can see the pitfalls, but please, do not go knocking about after dark . . .
unescorted
, if the word better suits your sensibilities. We don’t have a surgeon in residence, and the nearest one is on Bodmin Moor. Why are you down here?”
    She’d been hoping he wouldn’t ask that question. She would not betray Nero—never that, though it was all she could do to keep from calling her husband to account over the condition of the animal. Only wolves had such a spare look about them, not dogs. She’d seen pictures of such creatures in books in her father’s library. Nero could have walked right off the pages.
    “I . . . I couldn’t sleep, and I came down to . . . to fetch a book from the library,” she said, her reverie having prompted the excuse.
    “Didn’t Mrs. Bromley take you on a tour of the house? The library is in the south wing, next to the salon.”
    “Y-yes, she did. I must have lost my way, and I’d just given up. We toured so many rooms, and it all looks so different at night.”
    “Exactly my point,” he said. “Can you find your way back to your rooms?”
    “Of course,” she snapped, beginning to climb, but his deep voice spun her around again.
    “Sara, we need to talk,” he said.
    “
Now?
” she breathed, raking him from head to toe in wide-eyed astonishment.
    “No, not now,” he responded, his lips curled in the closest thing to a smile she’d seen yet, albeit an exasperated one. “It’s clear to me that we need to expand our dialogue of last evening. We touched on the house rules, but what we need to establish . . . are the
ground rules
. I shan’t be taking breakfastin the morning, but if you will join me after nuncheon in the study we can talk privately. I’d rather not have the servants privy to our