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become distinctively visible. She could make out the small dotted white scars that originally had threaded the wound together. Her chest tightened. “Did it hurt?”
    “What?”
    “The scar on your face.”
    He shrugged. “I don’t remember. I was a babe when it happened. The forceps sliced it open.”
    She swallowed. His mother must have cried. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry.”
    His hand trailed up higher on the banister, his muscled arm edging closer. “And yet you did pry.” His gaze never left hers. “Why is that, Miss Webster? Are you curious about me?”
    He had to be flirting. And yet that aloof expression said otherwise. She honestly couldn’t tap a finger on the sort of man he was. “Don’t mind me. I’m curious about everyone. And it always gets me into trouble. Which I don’t need. Shall we go up?”
    He stared. “Why? Am I boring you?”
    His level of seriousness was a touch rattling. Men usually conveyed some sort of emotion during a conversation. But this one— It was a wall. “No, of course not. I was merely…”
    He leaned in close, blocking all view of the stairwell. He sniffed.
    Her heart skipped. She leaned back. He’d sniffed her. Much like a dog would sniff another dog’s rear. “What are you doing?”
    “I was noting your perfume.”
    She paused. “I’m not wearing any.”
    “You naturally smell like that?”
    “Like what?” she echoed, trying not to be offended.
    “Like sex and cookies.”
    Not expecting that answer at all, she almost fell against him.
    He steadied her, his large hands gripping her hard.
    She froze, noting both her hands were set on each substantial pectoral buried beneath his waistcoat. By gad, the man was a solid brick wall. Her fingers instinctively curled against the rough fabric of his tweed waistcoat.
    His jaw tensed. “I would rather you not grope me.”
    She snapped her hands back toward herself. “I’m sorry. I…I didn’t mean to—” Her heart raced. If she had known men could produce muscles like his, she would have never bothered with Ryder.
    Lord Brayton edged down several steps back, putting more distance between them. He swiped his face and paused, his gloved fingers grazing the scar on his face. He dropped his hand, dug into his pocket and pulled out a watch. Glancing at it, he tucked it away again. “I actually have fifteen minutes to spare. Not ten.”
    She paused. What was that supposed to mean? Was she imaging it or was this getting serious?
    “I could make it twenty,” he rumbled out. “It depends on you.”
    She swallowed. Something told her he had just announced his interest. After he had just chastised her about groping him. “Twenty would be lovely.”
    “Good.” He stared. “Did you know chess originated out of India?”
    Where did that come from? And why was he staring? “No. I did not know that.”
    “Do you play?”
    She shook her head. “No. I never learned.”
    He searched her face. “I’ll teach you. I have a chess set I travel with. We can play at night after you tend to the house. I don’t usually get much sleep. I’m incredibly restless whenever I’m not at sea. Are you interested in…oh, I don’t know…playing?” A raw huskiness lingered in his tone.
    He wasn’t talking about chess anymore. He was advancing.
    Her skin prickled at the thought of having so much muscle wrapped around her. And while, yes, she was genuinely intrigued by the thought of having sex with a man who physically filled up an entire stairwell, she wasn’t that intrigued. She needed a father for her son first. A bed mate for herself second. Not last, mind you, but second.
    She moved up a stair. Then two. “Whilst flattered, Lord Brayton, I ask that you keep all of your chess pieces to yourself. You and I both know your level of standing would never find its way down to mine. You’re an earl, and I’m nothing more than the daughter of a deceased plantation owner whose finances went bankrupt. I also have a six-year-old.