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What had she even asked?

She helped him off with his waistcoat, unfastened his braces, and began to undo the buttons of his shirt.

“Taught my nephew how to swim?” His jaw tensed. He could smell her hair, and her skin, and it was all he could do not to fall upon her all over again. He studied her eyelids, the black curves of her lashes, as her fingers moved down his chest.

“I did,” he said. “It promotes health. Trains the muscles, regulates breathing.”

She sighed as his shirt opened, revealing more cloth.

“Bathing costume,” he told her, trying not to smile. That was regret on her face. “I’m not swimming in the buff.”

“I didn’t expect so. A gentleman like you.” She gave her head a toss as she stepped back, but she was smiling with adorable chagrin. He pulled his arms through the sleeves of his shirt.

“Promoting health. Is that it? With your nephew?” She gripped her elbows. “You hope the swimming will strengthen his chest?”

He threw his shirt after his waistcoat.

“It strengthened my chest.” He shrugged. “I know it will strengthen his too.” He frowned as he knelt, untying his boot laces as quickly as possible, in case she tried to offer assistance here as well.

“Geoffrey used to admit the lessons were beneficial.” He levered off the boots, peeled away his socks, and rose. “Since I’ve become a persona non grata, he’s forbidden them, on medical grounds.” He snorted. “And now I’m not permitted to exchange so much as a word with Claud or my nieces. Unless I call off the sale of the portraits.”

“That was his response to your letter?” She swallowed as his hands moved to his trousers, watching out of the corner of her eye.

No one had ever watched him strip with such sly fascination.

He watched her as he let his trousers drop down.

Her lips parted, and her gaze shot up, shot to his face, then over to the treetops.

His bathing costume did blasted little to conceal a cockstand.

“The scales,” she said tightly. “They haven’t fallen from his eyes.”

“I don’t know who ever had the idea that they would.” He kicked the trousers onto the pile of discarded garments. “Some rank optimist.”

“And what was wrong with your chest?”

He stretched slowly, rolling his head on his shoulders, the keen edge of his excitement blunting.

“Pneumonia,” he said at last. “I contracted it as a baby. Gave my mother quite a fright.” He’d heard the story innumerable times. How she wouldn’t return him to the wet nurse afterward. How she’d known her life’s purpose was to keep him close. “She took me to Switzerland, France, Germany, Italy, the United States, anywhere she could find a sufficiently scenic sanatorium.”

“It developed into tuberculosis, then? You don’t seem . . .” Nina was looking at him now, compressing her lips. What word had she fought back?

Pale. Thin. Dead.

“I was misdiagnosed.” He shook out his limbs. “I wasn’t tubercular but asthmatic. And I brought the asthma under control by swimming. An American doctor taught me.” He smiled. “Dr. Barth threw me in a river in the Rocky Mountains.” He turned toward the placid lake. “The Serpentine is like lava in comparison. We swam every morning. The results were . . . eye-opening.”

You’ll kill him! his mother had screamed at Dr. Barth when she’d learned of their outings.

Mrs. Umfreville, you are killing him. Dr. Barth had replied more quietly, so that Alan, bundled between nurses on the sleeping porch, could barely make out the words.

Mrs.? His mother had gasped. I am the Duchess of Umfreville!

I don’t care if you’re the Queen of Sheba. Dr. Barth had raised his voice then. I am a doctor, and your son suffers from bronchial spasms. He doesn’t have tuberculosis, do you hear me? You should be pleased.

They hadn’t stayed a day longer in Colorado.

“Swimming is the closest we can come to flying.” He willed away the memories and turned back to Nina.