That blasted lip curled even more into something that almost resembled a smirk. Good Lord, was that a dimple? The shallow never-used indent in his cheek vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared, making her question whether it had been the flickering flames and not her besotted mind trying to trick her into thinking that he might be, indeed, human. And besides, he did not need any more armor against failing female wits.

A dimple on such an undeserving man would be the last sodding straw!

“That tiny fire is not enough to get you dry whilst covered in layers of wet clothing. You’ll catch your death,” he explained as he kicked off his shoes and unrolled his stockings before shucking off his shirt.

Bronwyn’s breath snagged in her throat as a brain-melting expanse of firelit muscled skin was unveiled. She’d known he wasn’t a man of excess, apart from the occasional glass of whisky, and she’d seen that lithe, powerful body in action against those men in the square, but nothing…nothing had prepared her for the sight of him without a shirt.

He wasn’t perfect, that sinewy body marred by faded scars that traversed his skin like a pattern of ragged lace. Old wounds and newer ones, some deep, and some like the scratch on his neck that was now only a dark line of dried blood, painted his body. But scars were the marks of a warrior, and Thornbury wore his without shame. With pride.

Her eyes devoured the ridges upon ridges of lean muscle stacking from his wide shoulders to a corrugated abdomen and narrow hips. A spattering of bronze hair dusted those sculpted pectorals, a thicker line trailing from his navel to his waistband. Traitorously, her eyes dipped to the bulge at his crotch, widened, and darted away. Dear Lord, he wasn’t even erect and it was heart-palpitatingly prominent.

Of course, it’s big, you twit, he nearly split you in two.

Her thighs quivered at the memory, and she bit her lip as her core went molten. Thankfully, the duke hadn’t noticed her drooling over his person when he turned to drape the articles of clothing over the half-crumbled wall behind him. Her mouth practically fell open as he kicked off his trousers, leaving him standing in transparent knee-length linen smallclothes that left little to the imagination.

Of course his back had to be as powerfully built as the front, the flex of muscles bracketing the deep channel of his spine catching her attention anew. And those buttocks… She’d dug her fingers into those hard globes, but her hands hadn’t done the reality a lick of justice. Were all men hiding such lush posteriors beneath their tailcoats? She looked away as he turned, but now she couldn’t unsee the damn, entirely too luscious thing.