Page 7 of A Shore Thing

“A good rake defies social mores.” He spoke softly. “He defies them not only to free himself but to free others. He’s not debauched so much as divergent. If he falls below the prevailing moral standard, it’s because he’s a fugitive from morals, searching for other fugitives, with whom he can forge a new kind of ethic, based on a love that knows no shame.” His lips curved. “A good rake loves love, shamelessly.”

She’d stopped breathing. The sun blazed overhead, and it didn’t seem impossible, in her parched, dazzled state, that she’d suddenly combust.

“Well,” she managed, a rasp in her voice. “You do seem…shameless.”

“Thank you,” he said.

She looked away. The grass was flattened where he’d sprawled. He’d barely missed the nettles. She could feel him watching her, and her throat constricted.

An image rose in her mind, the green bottle in that disapproving gentleman’s picnic basket, the beads of condensation on the glass.

Her chin snapped up.

“Margaret,” she said. The rake was watching her. She met his eyes.

“Muriel,” he corrected. “You’re Muriel. I’m not delirious any longer. I know your name, and that you don’t live in Chelsea, or own a pug. As for your knees…”

“They’re not ticklish,” she responded automatically.

He tipped his head. “For some reason, I don’t believe you.”

“Fine. They’re moderately ticklish. There is a more ticklish region of my person, but I won’t reveal its location on pain of death.”

His gaze traveled over her, palpable as touch. It didn’t tickle. It set her nerve endings on fire.

Clearly, something had walloped the mental equivalent of her funny bone.

She shouldn’t loll in a field with a rakehell, however perversely interesting the experience. She should fetch James, as she’d intended. She would fetch James.

But not quite yet.

“You mentioned Margaret,” she returned to the previous topic, “and a Margaret walked by, not twenty minutes ago, with a George.”

“Her husband?”

“Presumably.”

“You’re wondering if she’s the Margaret I mentioned? And perhaps—wondering more generally if I conduct adulterous affairs?”

He didn’t mind inappropriate questions. No, he encouraged them. His eyes were gleaming.

She nodded, disquieted by her nosiness but unable to curtail it. “Does a good rake respect the sanctity of marriage?”

“It depends,” he drawled. “Wrong Margaret, by the way.” For a moment, he ran his knuckles lightly over the clover, back and forth. His eyes grew brighter. “Are you married?”

“I was.” Her inexplicable elation faded. This conversation had gotten entirely out of hand.

The rake seemed about to speak.

“My husband died,” she said abruptly. “A long time ago now.”

She stood, to avoid the awkwardness of condolences—too rapidly. Sparkles danced in the air around her, and she swayed.

“There you are. Muriel!” James came striding up to the stone wall and set down the basket. “Are you scouting for land plants? I call foul play. You gave me your…hullo.” His voice dropped an octave. “And who is this?”

The rake was standing now, at her elbow, holding her elbow, to keep her steady.

Muriel inhaled and stepped away.