She fumbled, momentarily losing sight of said broad chest. Her heart thumped as she scrambled to set the telescope back against her eye. She leveled it again, trying to keep it steady.
Having glimpsed many bare-chested men working in the fields during harvest whilst she and her cousin rode out of Warszawa and into the country, she had learned to appreciate a good chest. And this man had a good chest.
He turned away, tossing a robe onto the bed, his broad, muscled shoulders shifting. With a few swift movements, he dropped his trousers and undergarments around muscled legs, leaving him gloriously naked.
Zosia gasped. Only the support of her own chair kept her from toppling over. Whilst she considered giving him his due privacy, ultimately, she decided against it. After all, if she planned on marrying him, she had every right to know what his body looked like.
The muscles in those long, lean legs and firm backside flexed and rippled like satin as he leaned over and grabbed up his nightshirt. To her disappointment, he never once turned around to present what she was most curious to see.
The length of his body disappeared in a single sweep beneath a long, white linen nightshirt. He grabbed up a robe that was also on the bed, slid it on and adjusted it into place around his solid frame.
She’d never thought British men could be as attractive as Polish men. Her cousins were always telling her how stoic and uninteresting the British were. Of course, none of her cousins had ever been to Britain.
Lowering the spyglass, Zosia slid the brass extension back into its casing and set it on the sill of the window, letting out a breathy sigh. She tugged out the braided chain buried beneath her nightdress and fingered her ruby-studded locket, wondering how she could get him to call on her. Without annoying him.
A movement made her release her locket as the partially closed curtains she’d been keenly watching were swept wide open. The bright glow of countless candles filtered out, fully displaying Lord Moreland as he casually braced the frame of the window and stared out toward … her.
Mother in heaven. He was going to think she was obsessed. Her heart pounded as she grabbed hold of the spoked wheels and pushed back. For some reason, her chair resisted movement. Her chest tightened as she glanced down toward each large wooden wheel and realized it wasn’t the two side wheels that were caught, but the small wheel behind her chair. The rotating wheel had embedded itself atop the long ends of the curtains behind her, locking her in place against the window.
Jezus i Maria. Of all times.
She violently jerked forward and back, forward and back, trying to move the chair. The curtain rod above rattled. She gritted her teeth and jerked back again. This time the curtain rod jumped off the hooks in the wall and crashed with a huge clang and a thud behind her. Her hands jumped up to cover her head as the last of the curtains whooshed past, barely missing her and the chair.
She groaned, realizing she had not only completely destroyed the curtains, but was now on full, candlelit display for Lord Moreland. Her cheeks burned as she lowered her hands primly back onto her lap. Knowing there was no point in wheeling away from the situation, she eyed him across the distance of the square.
His hands slid down the length of the window frame he’d been bracing. Though she couldn’t make out the expression on his shadowed face, it was obvious he was intrigued as to why she had ripped off the curtains and was flaunting herself before him.
She lifted an awkward hand and waved, hoping that by being friendly she would appear a little less devious.
He hesitated, then lifted his own hand and offered a single, curt wave with the flick of his wrist.
She drew in a shaky breath and let it out. Maybe this was the opportunity she’d been waiting for. Words were not always needed to spark interest. Zosia waved again, ensuring this time it was far more enthusiastic and visible.
He casually set his hands on his hips and shook his dark head from side to side, attempting to convey his complete disappointment in her lack of maturity.
But he stayed.
She giggled. Pushing her dark braid over her shoulder, she shifted forward in her chair, closer toward the sill. It was obvious by his stance and the way he lingered that he wanted to play.
Zosia leaned far forward and balanced herself on the ledge of the sill. Setting her lips against the pane, which sent her swinging locket to chink against the window, she playfully smothered kiss after kiss across the entire window, before leaning back and admiring the moist, smeared marks she’d left all over the glass.
He readjusted the belt of his robe, his broad shoulders shifting, and braced the frame of the window again. Only this time, he stared her down as if restraining himself from leaping across the square and collecting those kisses himself.
“So you do like me,” she announced softly. How very curious. Why would a bachelor who was supposedly in the market for a wife avoid a woman he appeared to like? Did he already know about her amputation?
The door rattled, startling her into veering her whole chair toward the direction of the door.
“Countess?” There was a tapping and the rattling of the knob. “You should not be latching your door.”
Zosia rolled her eyes and dropped her hand into her lap. Mrs. Wade. Forever tending to her needs as if she were two. “I am quite well, Mrs. Wade,” she called over her shoulder. “There is no need for you to come in.”
“I heard a terrible noise from within your room. Please assure me all is well.”
“Yes, yes.” She waved her hand about. “The curtains and the rod fell off the wall. As old as this house is, I dare say everything will fall off the wall in time. But there is no need for concern, I assure you. All is well. You may retire.”
“You cannot possibly expect me to retire without even knowing what—”
“Mrs. Wade,” Zosia snapped, turning her chair and glaring at the door. She wished the woman would cease treating her like an invalid. A missing leg did not denote a missing brain. “I have a right to privacy. Do I not?”
“Yes, Countess, of course, but—”
“Good night. Or as we Poles say, dobra noc.”
“And what of your laudanum?”
Zosia smoothed the lace and linen nightdress against the length of her sore thighs and winced. She needed to use her crutches more, lest she become too sore. She hated being dependent on a rancid liquid that made her feel like she was drowning in a hazy fog. She considered pain a much better option than missing out on reality. “I feel content to sleep as I am, thank you. Tomorrow, I intend to make use of my crutches and take a few turns about the square. That should relieve whatever discomfort I am in.”
“You know full well you aren’t permitted to leave the house without His Majesty’s approval. If you seek a turn about the square, Countess, you must send him a missive.”
She was surrounded by wardens, not servants. She’d already sent His Majesty countless missives asking for permission to leave the house, only to be told it wasn’t advisable. “His Majesty seems to be under the delusion that I have no rights left to my name. I am tired of his games and refuse to be confined to both a chair and a house and will find my way to the door whether it pleases His Majesty or not. I suggest you send him a missive telling him that. Now I bid you a very good night, Mrs. Wade.”
The door rattled again. “Please. Unlatch the door. What if you should require assistance during the night?”
Zosia sighed. “I do not mean to be ungrateful, Mrs. Wade, but I am increasingly agitated by everyone’s misguided devotion to my well-being. Now, I demand you retire and will not ask again.”
Mrs. Wade hesitated. “As you wish, Countess.” Steps clicked down the corridor and faded.
Zosia veered her chair back toward the window, ready to resume her play,