Read Online Moonlight on My Mind by Jennifer McQuiston - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer McQuiston
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lantern. “And I’ll not put him down after I went to the trouble of saving him. Besides, you haven’t confirmed he’s yours yet. Plenty of black and white dogs running loose in Moraig. Come on to the kitchen and take a look.”
He strode down the hallway with Ramsey lumbering along behind him. He had no doubt the dog belonged to the vicar, but it would be interesting to see if the man tried to claim it was a stray. If he searched his memory, he could even remember seeing the animal now, lurking about the churchyard the few times he’d taken himself to Sunday service. The dog had been a bone-thin, furtive thing the last time he saw him, scarcely more than a puppy, but the confluence of spots around the dog’s muzzle matched the ones in his memory.
He opened the kitchen door, girding himself for the difficult business of discharging the dog to a recalcitrant owner, but froze as a far different dilemma inserted itself front and center. Miss Baxter stood with her back to the door, leaning over the cookstove in a state that went somewhat beyond simple dishabille. She was still missing her shoes.
But now she was also missing her bodice.
No, not missing it, exactly. She was holding it. In her hands .
No matter the room’s meager light, the sight of her blinding white chemise and beribboned corset felt like a stick in his eye. Even as he watched, she poured hot water from the kettle onto the bunched fabric and began to rub the two sides together. He was struck by the absurdity of her efforts. Any usual variety of fool knew pouring hot water on a bloodstain only made it set up faster.
Not that Miss Baxter appeared a usual variety of anything, standing in his kitchen in only her skirts and unutterables.
Too late, Patrick thought to warn her. “Julianne,” he said curtly, only to wince as he realized her given name had escaped his lips instead of the far more appropriate formal address.
She whirled around, giving them a firsthand view of what under other circumstances could objectively be called a delightful, cotton-clad bosom. He risked a glance down at Ramsey’s balding pate. The florid color staining the man’s scalp told Patrick that no matter his own sparse attendance at church, the not-quite-naked Miss Baxter was the one now being judged here.
And despite the certain danger to her reputation, despite the fact he had cautioned her of just such a possibility, Patrick found himself enjoying the turnabout.
J ulianne’s heart flung itself against the confines of her chest.
The same chest she was all but displaying like an exotic curiosity to the new Earl of Haversham and . . . merciful heavens . . .
Was that a vicar?
Her eyesight wasn’t the best—not that she would admit that to a single, solitary soul—but she could still make out the dark coat and white collar that marked the new arrival as a man who relied on his Maker to decide his wardrobe instead of a valet. She had been very foolish to think she could quickly deal with the stain and be properly clothed again before anyone was the wiser. She had thought . . . well, she had thought a lamb might take a bit of time to go through a bottle. An hour at least. Apparently she didn’t know the first thing about farm animals.
Or vicars, for that matter.
She had thought them kindly gentlemen, more interested in the state of one’s soul than the size of one’s breasts. Clearly she had been wrong, given the man’s unswerving focus in that very area.
“We’ve a visitor.” Patrick stepped closer, bringing his too-thin face into focus. He motioned about his chest in a parody of what she needed to do. “You might want to . . . er . . . cover yourself.”
“I . . .” She stumbled over what to say. She had never stood in this state of undress in such close proximity to a man in her life. For her first experience to be undressed in the vicinity of two men took the scenario from damning to hysterical. “My dress is . . . that is, my bodice
He strode down the hallway with Ramsey lumbering along behind him. He had no doubt the dog belonged to the vicar, but it would be interesting to see if the man tried to claim it was a stray. If he searched his memory, he could even remember seeing the animal now, lurking about the churchyard the few times he’d taken himself to Sunday service. The dog had been a bone-thin, furtive thing the last time he saw him, scarcely more than a puppy, but the confluence of spots around the dog’s muzzle matched the ones in his memory.
He opened the kitchen door, girding himself for the difficult business of discharging the dog to a recalcitrant owner, but froze as a far different dilemma inserted itself front and center. Miss Baxter stood with her back to the door, leaning over the cookstove in a state that went somewhat beyond simple dishabille. She was still missing her shoes.
But now she was also missing her bodice.
No, not missing it, exactly. She was holding it. In her hands .
No matter the room’s meager light, the sight of her blinding white chemise and beribboned corset felt like a stick in his eye. Even as he watched, she poured hot water from the kettle onto the bunched fabric and began to rub the two sides together. He was struck by the absurdity of her efforts. Any usual variety of fool knew pouring hot water on a bloodstain only made it set up faster.
Not that Miss Baxter appeared a usual variety of anything, standing in his kitchen in only her skirts and unutterables.
Too late, Patrick thought to warn her. “Julianne,” he said curtly, only to wince as he realized her given name had escaped his lips instead of the far more appropriate formal address.
She whirled around, giving them a firsthand view of what under other circumstances could objectively be called a delightful, cotton-clad bosom. He risked a glance down at Ramsey’s balding pate. The florid color staining the man’s scalp told Patrick that no matter his own sparse attendance at church, the not-quite-naked Miss Baxter was the one now being judged here.
And despite the certain danger to her reputation, despite the fact he had cautioned her of just such a possibility, Patrick found himself enjoying the turnabout.
J ulianne’s heart flung itself against the confines of her chest.
The same chest she was all but displaying like an exotic curiosity to the new Earl of Haversham and . . . merciful heavens . . .
Was that a vicar?
Her eyesight wasn’t the best—not that she would admit that to a single, solitary soul—but she could still make out the dark coat and white collar that marked the new arrival as a man who relied on his Maker to decide his wardrobe instead of a valet. She had been very foolish to think she could quickly deal with the stain and be properly clothed again before anyone was the wiser. She had thought . . . well, she had thought a lamb might take a bit of time to go through a bottle. An hour at least. Apparently she didn’t know the first thing about farm animals.
Or vicars, for that matter.
She had thought them kindly gentlemen, more interested in the state of one’s soul than the size of one’s breasts. Clearly she had been wrong, given the man’s unswerving focus in that very area.
“We’ve a visitor.” Patrick stepped closer, bringing his too-thin face into focus. He motioned about his chest in a parody of what she needed to do. “You might want to . . . er . . . cover yourself.”
“I . . .” She stumbled over what to say. She had never stood in this state of undress in such close proximity to a man in her life. For her first experience to be undressed in the vicinity of two men took the scenario from damning to hysterical. “My dress is . . . that is, my bodice
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