Rain pounded the roof of the carriage, lending a cozy, intimate feel to the interior. The earl’s long legs were sprawled in front of him, and Fiona endeavored not to gawk at the wet buckskin trousers clinging to his thighs. She was not, however, entirely successful. To be fair, a certain amount of study was necessary if she were to draw him at some point—and she intended to. Her artist’s eye noted the proportions of his hips and thighs, the pronounced contours of his leg muscles, and the slight hollows on the insides of his knees. But as a woman, she noticed him, too—on a whole different level. The heat from his body. The scents of leather and soap. The light stubble on his chin. Swallowing, she considered moving to the seat oppo­ site him, but they had already soaked the velvet squabs of one bench and she saw no reason to sully the other. Instead, she resolved to make use of this time to ad­vance her cause. Mustering as much dignity as she could, given her soggy gown and dripping hair, she squared her shoulders and faced the earl. “Now then,” she began. “I believe we were discussing the—”…