A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(27)
Author: Tessa Dare

Ten

Bram froze, quill poised above the paper, praying his ears deceived him.

“That’s F-I-N-C-H,” she spelled helpfully. “Finch. Like the bird.”

He looked up. “Susanna, what the devil are you doing?”

“I don’t know who Susanna is. But I, Stuart James Finch, am volunteering for your militia.”

Gone was that frothy, leaf-green muslin frock he’d admired in church. In its place she’d donned a pair of nankeen breeches that fit her surprisingly well, a crisp linen shirt cuffed at the wrists, and a cobalt-blue topcoat that oddly enough did lovely things for her eyes.

And gloves, of course. Men’s gloves. Heaven forbid Miss Finch appear in public without her gloves.

She went on, “My birth date is the fifth of November, 1788. And that’s the God’s honest truth, my lord.”

Her hair was bound in a tight queue, and she was dressed in man’s clothing, but there was absolutely nothing that wasn’t feminine about her. Her voice, her bearing . . . God, even her scent. She couldn’t fool a blind man.

Of course, she didn’t mean to fool Bram. The interfering minx simply wanted to make a point. And she intended to make that point in front of scores of people. The entire village crowded around them, men and women alike, eager to see how this scene would unfold. They all wondered, who would emerge the victor?

He would. If he let her get the better of him today, he would never have the men’s respect. What’s more, he wouldn’t deserve it.

“Write my name,” she urged.

“You know I won’t. Only men are eligible to serve.”

“Well, I’m a man,” she said.

He blinked at her.

“What?” Her voice dripped with mock innocence. “You took Rufus and Finn at their word. Why can’t you take me at mine?”

He lowered his voice and leaned forward over the table. “Because in this case, I have firsthand knowledge that contradicts your word. Would you like me to tell all these people precisely how I know you’re a woman?”

“Be my guest,” she whispered through a tight smile. “If you’d rather be planning a wedding than a militia.” She cast a glance to either side. “In a village this small, filled this chockablock with ladies, an announcement like that is sure to incite matrimonial panic.”

They stared one another down for a long moment.

“If you accept Finn and Rufus,” she said, “you have to accept me.”

“Very well,” he said, dipping the quill again. He would see just how far she was prepared to take this. “Stuart James Finch, born November fifth, 1788.” He turned the paper and shoved it toward her. “Sign here.”

She took the pen in her gloved hand and made a flowery signature, complete with flourish.

“Next,” he said, rising from the table and gesturing toward Thorne, “we’ll need to measure you for a uniform.”

“But of course.”

Bram walked her over to the second table and ripped the measuring tape straight from Thorne’s hand. “I believe I’ll see to this recruit myself.” He held up the tape for Susanna’s inspection. “You have no objection, Finch?”

“None at all.” She hiked her chin.

“Remove your coat, then.”

She complied without argument.

He found himself without words.

Sweet heaven.

Bram wasn’t fond of ladies’ current fashions, with their high, empire waists and draped columns of skirt. While he approved of the way such designs served up the bosom for a man’s appreciative view—what man didn’t appreciate a nice view of plump br**sts?—he didn’t like the way they obscured the remainder of a woman’s body. He liked shapely legs, trim ankles, generous hips. He had a particular fondness for a round, cuppable arse.

Who could have guessed that gentlemen’s attire would perfectly hug Susanna Finch’s every last feminine curve?

Her borrowed waistcoat wouldn’t button at the top, due to the ample swell of her br**sts. It did, however, fit snugly around her middle, emphasizing her slender waist and the sweet flare of her hips. Her breeches ended at the knee. Below them, white stockings clung to every contour of her long, lean calves and ankles.

“Turn around,” he croaked.

She obeyed. And as she turned, she flipped her long queue of hair forward, giving him a clear view of her back . . . and backside. Those nankeen breeches stretched tight over a sweet, round arse. God, she was made for his hands. And stubborn, headstrong thing that she was, she’d given him the perfect excuse to touch her.

He began with her shoulders, placing the measuring tape at one shoulder and stretching it slowly across her back to the other. He took his time, allowing his touch to skim along the elegant slopes and ridges of her shoulder blades. As though he were touching her not for tailoring purposes, but for his pleasure and hers.

Her shoulder trembled under his touch. His heart kicked.

“Seventeen inches,” he read aloud.

He measured her arm length next, beginning at the top of her shoulder and stretching the tape down the length of her arm, all the way to her wrist, before reading aloud the measurement.

“Stand tall, Finch.”

As her shoulders squared, he fitted one end of the tape at the nape of her neck, just at the top of her collar. Then he stretched the narrow strip of marked fabric down the length of her spine, touching each individual vertebra. Then dipping lower, halfway down the delectable curve of her backside. He heard her sudden intake of breath, and it echoed in his groin.

“Twenty-six inches, for the coat length.” As he stood, he pulled on the front of his own coat, hoping no one would notice he’d gained several inches in his personal measurements. This scene had him so aroused, he’d completely forgotten the pain in his knee.

“Face me, Finch.”

She performed a slow, sensual about-face. Almost as though they were dancing.

“Arms up,” he directed. “I’ll measure your chest now.” His blood heated at the mere thought of sliding his hands around the circumference of that lush bosom.

Her eyes flashed, and she crossed her arms, impeding him. “I believe I know that measurement. It’s thirty-four inches.”

He sighed gruffly. “Perfect.” Damn, how he wanted to feel that body under his again. Yearned for it.

“Are we done?” she asked, shrugging back into her coat.

“Weapons next,” he said, struggling to regain his composure. “I’ll need to issue you a musket, Mr. Finch.”