Page 22 of A Shore Thing

A few families had begun the walk back to St. Ives, or rather the mothers and fathers walked while the children skipped or gave each other chase. Others—members of the artistic-looking set—were striking out in twos and threes, following narrow paths through the fields. A tartan tam-o’-shanter bobbed along between deerstalkers.

“Doesn’t anyone care to see the Giant’s Rock?” pleaded the girl.

Muriel crossed the road, starting up a grassy slope. From the hillside, she’d be able to survey the scene, pick out James, and…She turned.

Griffith.

A gasp exploded in her throat. He stood just below her, head tipped back, sun gilding his hair and the tips of his long lashes.

“Mr. Griffith.” She recovered her breath, but her heart kept racing. Thank God, James wasn’t here to study her pulse. She felt like a hummingbird in the presence of a buddleia flower, not only because Griffith seemed to favor fabrics in shades of pale purple.

At least her common sense prevented her from sipping at his skin, although it looked petal soft where it stretched across his cheekbones, gleaming with a light sheen of sweat, making her wonder if he tasted like honey or salt…

“Mrs. Pendrake,” he said, and she blinked. Had she been listing toward him? Dratted gravity. It was never wise to converse on an incline.

He shook his head, a glint in his eye. “How formal we are, considering.”

Considering. Considering their kiss.

The sun seemed to shine brighter.

“I’d rather call you Muriel,” he continued, his silky voice conveying immense satisfaction. He was dazzling, and he knew it.

She frowned.

“I’m sure you would,” she said tartly. “Women’s Christian names conjure such happy memories.”

An infuriating grin spread across his face, and she bit the inside of her cheek. Blast. She’d remembered his attractiveness but not his powers of annoyance. Already she’d let him ruffle her feathers.

She put her hands on her hips. “I don’t want you saying Muriel while picturing a legion of ticklish knees.”

“All right.” He angled a look at her from beneath those absurdly long lashes. “Show me where you are ticklish, and I’ll picture that.”

She let her arms drop and laughed, another of those unguarded, booming laughs that emerged from the depths of her diaphragm. He was too ridiculous.

“The soles of your feet?” he guessed, peering down at her shoes with interest.

“I’m not telling.” She curled her toes. “You can call me Mrs. Pendrake.”

“Penny,” he countered. “It suits you. Your hair is the color of new pennies. And I’ve never known a Penny. I’m a blank slate, no memories. Yet.”

She ignored this last, and the way his lips quirked. God, he was smug. She ignored, too, the odd little flutter in her belly. No one had ever given her a nickname.

“Penny.” She repeated it disapprovingly. “I believe it’s a diminutive of Penelope, not Pendrake.”

“Is it?” he asked wryly. “Too bad. I have known a Penelope.”

“Spare me the details of her garret.”

“No garret. Her father’s a banker. She lets a rather large apartment by King’s College and takes courses in the Ladies’ Department. Terrific bluestocking.”

Bluestocking.

Muriel’s brows pulled together. “Is her pug named Pugnacious?”

He gave her an appreciative glance. “No pug either. She has a cat, a fluffy gray puff of a thing named Athena. And among friends she goes by Poppy.”

She spoke without thinking. “I shouldn’t like to be called Poppy.”