Tessa Dare

“Right. Helen of Troy.” A small furrow formed between his dark eyebrows. “How would that be ironic?”

She laughed. “Isn’t it obvious? Just look at me.”

“I am looking at you.”

They were on the same side.

The two of them, against the melons of the world.

“I do enjoy gazing upon a well-carved man.”

“He’s called ‘the Long Man of Wilmington,’ Aunt Marmoset.” Lark scribbled in her journal.

“How odd. I’d been under the impression his name was Corporal Thorne.” Aunt Marmoset came and put her hand in Kate’s pocket. “My dear, hold onto that one. Tightly, and with all four limbs.”

Kate blushed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. We have similar tastes.”

Someone notify Lady Harriet. There was a monumental erection to be found in Wilmington, after all.

For a moment, I worried you were having some sort of tryst. I should hate for anything to tempt Evan to a sixth duel.” The young woman laughed. “Five is impressive, but six . . . ? Six would just look predictable.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You’re undressing me,” he said thickly.

“It can’t be helped.”

“Wasn’t complaining.”

If you ever—ever—try to shame her for what she could not help, with the aim of keeping your own life gilded and comfortable . . . ?

He had a road cleared of sheep, a functioning leg, and a fetching young miss stroking his brow. Why the devil should he complain?

Granted, the fetching young miss thought he was a blithering idiot.

“He’s completely addled, the poor soul.” The girl patted his cheek. “Was it the war? How long has he been like this?”

“Like this?” Colin smirked down at him. “Oh, all his life.”