A Scandal By Any Other Name-Chapter 111 - Hundred And Eleven

Rowan was standing in the center of the room. His back was turned to the door. He had already discarded his dark morning coat and his waistcoat. He removed the white linen shirt that was ruined by the dark red stain of spilled wine and was laid in a crumpled, discarded heap on the thick carpet.

He was entirely bare from the waist up.

Delaney stopped walking. She forgot how to breathe. She just stood there, her feet rooted to the ground.

Rowan, with his back to the door, looked exactly like a Greek God carved from warm, living marble. His hands were now resting firmly on his hip. His shoulders were impossibly broad, tapering down into a strong, narrow waist. Every movement he made caused the muscles in his back to shift and ripple with hidden strength. His arms, thick and heavily corded with muscle, looked like they could easily lift her right off the floor and put her straight onto the massive, four-poster bed that dominated the center of the room.

He was a magnificent sight. Delaney stood completely frozen, her eyes tracking the smooth fair skin of his shoulders. She was utterly mesmerized.

Rowan did not hear the soft click of the door closing. He heard only the faint rustle of clothing. Oblivious to the stare burning a hole into his back, he naturally thought it was his valet returning to assist him.

Rowan let out a long, heavy sigh of pure frustration.

"Henderson," Rowan said. His voice was deep, rough, and dripping with agitation. "I will be going to the gentleman’s club later on this afternoon. I need to clear my head. The atmosphere in this house is becoming entirely suffocating."

Delaney did not move. She gripped the silver edges of the tray so tightly that her knuckles turned stark white. She could not find her voice to correct him.

"I cannot sit through another hour of that money hungry man playing the doting husband," Rowan continued, talking to the empty air, his hands tightening on his hip.

"Dress me appropriately, Henderson. Something dark. And bring me a glass of brandy before I lose my temper completely."

When there was no answer, no familiar and prompt "Yes, Your Grace" from his loyal valet, Rowan frowned.

He dropped his hands from his hips. He turned around slowly, a sharp reprimand ready on his tongue for the servant’s delay.

Rowan turned to see Delaney.

She was standing just a few feet inside his room, holding a tray of cold roast beef, her hazel eyes wide and fixed firmly on his bare chest. She was not merely looking; she was ogling his body with absolute, undisguised appreciation. Her lips were slightly parted, and her cheeks were already flushing a delicate shade of pink. If she could see herself in the mirror, she would be mortified.

The dark storm of anger and jealousy that had consumed Rowan all morning vanished in the blink of an eye. The tension bled out of his broad shoulders.

A slow, highly amused, and remarkably wicked smile spread across Rowan’s handsome face.

"Do you like what you see, Miss Kingsley?"

Rowan teased. His voice dropped an octave, transforming into a rich, velvety purr that sent a shiver straight down Delaney’s spine.

Delaney blinked. Her brain completely failed her. The logic and quick wit that usually saved her in awkward situations simply evaporated under the heat of his intense brown gaze and his naked chest.

She nodded her head without thinking.

"Yes..." Delaney breathed out.

The word came out in a highly inappropriate, incredibly breathy manner. It sounded exactly like a woman deeply overcome by desire.

As soon as the sound reached her own ears, reality crashed down upon her. She violently shook her head, her face turning the color of a ripe strawberry. She looked away from his chest, frantically staring at a painting of a horse on the far wall.

"I mean," Delaney stammered rapidly. She rushed forward, practically dropping the heavy silver tray onto the nearest polished side table. The teacup rattled loudly against the saucer.

She turned back to him, lifting her chin, desperately trying to regain her composure. She decided that offense was the best defense.

"What are you doing shirtless?" Delaney demanded, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "It is entirely inappropriate for a gentleman to be standing about like this." She tried her absolute best at scolding him, sounding very much like a strict governess dealing with a disobedient child.

Rowan chuckled. It was a warm, arrogant, and incredibly satisfied sound. He did not attempt to find a shirt. He did not attempt to cover himself in the slightest. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step toward her.

"I am in my room, Miss Kingsley," Rowan replied smoothly, a triumphant glint in his eye. "I can be naked if I want to."

Delaney blinked. She swallowed the sudden lump of panic in her throat. She realized she was fighting a losing battle.

"Of course," Delaney replied quickly, her voice trembling just a fraction. She gestured wildly toward the table. "It is your room. I simply... I brought something for you to eat. You left the breakfast table before eating anything. I figured you might be hungry."

She did not wait for him to thank her. The air in the room was too hot, too thick, and entirely too dangerous.

She turned on her heel and walked quickly towards the heavy wooden door. She reached out, her hand grasping the cool brass handle. She pushed the handle down and pulled the door open, eager to escape back into the safety of the hallway.

Rowan was much faster than her.

He moved across the thick carpet with the silent, deadly grace of a hunting cat. Just as she pulled the door open to step out, a large, warm hand slammed flat against the dark wood right above her head.

With a smooth, powerful push, Rowan closed the door she had already opened. The latch clicked shut, sealing them inside.