Page 11 of The Scandal You Started
He hadn’t realised the person who’d called out to him was a woman when he’d lunged for them. He’d barely even registered her voice truthfully. He’d just acted on the fear and angerstampeding through his veins, calling on every natural instinct to fight and defend himself against the kidnappers who’d brought him to this odd place.
But when the dizzying spell of blind rage blurring his vision settled, the face that stared back at him—the gasping one of a woman—shocked him into letting her go.
With her expression now hidden behind a curtain of rosewood-coloured hair as she coughed and gulped for air, his attention went to the rest of her.
Crystals of shock and confusion crackled through his muscles, freezing him in place.
What the bloody woods is she wearing?
Sprawled on the floor with her hands barely holding her body up, her tangled legs were wrapped in pale grey…trousers? At least, that was the only item of clothing he knew of that the wide-legged fabric resembled. They were newly in fashion, and he’d only really seen the dandies of thetonwearing them.
But why on Neves was a woman wearing trousers in the first place, let alone such awful, ill-fitting ones that looked like one leg could fit two of hers?
What she wore on her torso was far worse, though.
Dominic had no means to describe the fitted fabric. Dark forest green in colour, it had the shortest damned sleeves, displaying her smooth, warm golden arms and delicate wrists, one of which was wrapped in a thin gold chain. The fabric was also tucked into her trousers. But it wasn’t a corset or stay—he knew that because her ample breasts and the softness of her belly sat comfortably rather than being bound in a cage of stiff cloth or bone.
Even more confusing were the slippers she wore on her feet. White and flat, they had strings zigzagging through several holes before being tied in a bow. The same way the neckline of hislinen shirt might have been had he bothered to present himself properly.
Nothing about her way of dressing made any sense, nor resembled what was typical for a woman. And he was by no means an uptight prig, but even he was finding her clothing insanely improper and scandalous.
Dominic shuffled awkwardly on his feet, raising his eyes away from her because, as much as he loved a woman’s body, he felt rather coarse staring at her.
Well…coarse for only a second apparently, because intrigue and confusion had him shamelessly eyeing her again.
He swallowed as his brows settled low over his eyes. “What the deuces are you wearing?” he scolded.
She didn’t answer or move from her sprawled position. Understandably, considering he’d nearly drained the life from her. So he put his hands on his hips, allowing her a while longer to gather herself before he demanded an answer again.
When she slowly raised her head, Dominic swayed the slightest bit forward, ready for her explanation. Instead, he received silence from her…
And a solid blow to the chest as her hair slipped away to reveal her face.
A single breath passed between his lips as his lungs locked up and shut down shop, leaving his heart to pound against the closed doors like an entitled customer.
His hands slipped off his hips, losing all their strength.
Oh, she's...beautiful.
Not fashionably so—blonde, small-faced, blue-eyed with delicate features and milky skin—but still, she was a beauty in her own right. Even with the redness painted over her warm golden cheeks and nose, and the bloodshot look in her catlike brown eyes.
If they could be called brown, that is, because they seemed almost charcoal. Like the colour of bark in a crowded forest on a misty morning. The fog distorted the individual wisps of brown, turning them dark and indistinguishable, only definable when one stood close enough.
And Dominic wasn’t close enough, but gosh, did he suddenly find himself compelled to be.
If not to count the number of shades that formed her irises, then to feel the long, painted lashes that fanned her eyes, now wet from unshed tears. Or to trace the confidently arched brows that weren’t quite as dark as her eyes or lashes.
She had a stronger nose than what might have been deemed feminine, but it paired well with her gorgeously proportioned mouth, her upper lip peaked so prettily, and the bottom supple. All set on a full face with high cheekbones, framed by long, wavy, rosewood-coloured hair, a few shorter locks kissing her cheeks.
He was struck breathless—speechless—by her exquisiteness. But that only confused him further.
What was this lovely creature, so scantily dressed, doing in his holding cell?
“Who…who are you?” he said, his voice far softer than before.
For several quiet beats, she stared at him before finally pushing herself further upright. Her throat, marred with pink, shifted, then she opened her mouth, presumably to speak. But besides a hoarse little exhale, no other sound came out.
Her glassy eyes stilled, and she clapped her lips together again. A million thoughts seemed to rush through her stare like a speeding phaeton, but he couldn’t pinpoint any of them.
