25. Coming Clean

25

Coming Clean

The faint, disappearing waft of things better left unsmelled greeted his nose when he braved venturing beyond his room. His legs, which should have strengthened overnight, trembled like a newborn foal’s as he shuffled toward the kitchen. His enfeebled steps given to staggery, made possible only by the strength of his outstretched arms bracing his weight on either furnishings or betwixt narrow walls.

Her back to him, hands busy at the sink, she pretended not to hear his reeling, noisome steps as he clutched one hand on the back of a pulled-out chair (one he’d previously placed in its current position expressly for that purpose—and she’d left it alone, bless her) and hauled himself around to sit in the next nearest.

“You cleaned. You scrubbed everything .” He sat there, stunned, craning his neck and taking in what all she had done—and it was substantial. He barely wavered in place, more steady than he would have been four months ago. Hell, even two months ago. How easily he recalled the disaster that had bedecked the kitchen mere hours ago. He whistled as his gaze flicked from gleaming counter to sparkling floor. “And you are here . In truth.”

She’d turned at his low whistle. “I am.”

“So ’twas not my imaginings. None of it.” How did he feel about that?

“Nay, it was not.”

How did he feel about her? Aphrodite Primrose, so close he could almost touch.

And for the first time ever, not wearing heavy dark bombazine better suited to mourning than morning. Instead of the thick, ugly fabrics he had always associated with her form, softer attire adorned her now. The simple day dress she wore might have been years out of style, noticeably older and slightly worn, but upon her, ’twas so very fetching. In truth, the pastel blue—a much thinner fabric than he associated with her—tempted his touch. So much so that he gripped his thighs under the table and out of sight, to occupy his hands. His trembling, tingling hands…

As he stared at her, her eyes bright and cheeks flushed, gilded hair pulled back close to her scalp and tied up tighter than he might wish, more cinnamon-copper today instead of the fiery hue he longed to sink his fingers into.

Her hair. That and the flare of her hips he’d discerned in the past despite the brown abominations she had worn, the least angelic things about her.

Part of their past floated to him, unbidden.

Many evenings into the house party, when it was closer to ending than not, after the hours of dancing and revelry he had watched but not participated in, easily overlooked in his quiet spot between two curtained French windows, the loneliness of his situation had struck hard. Long after everyone else was abed, he remained in the now silent, empty and dark room, staring into the shadows.

The outside shadows, no candles nor other lamps burning behind him to distract how his attention sought out the inky blackness of night. A cold night, not a hint of clouds to blanket any warmth over the land.

The moon but a sliver, the crescent beaming stark and pale through the barren branches of a tree. Had that been the tree where his earth-bound angel had greeted him when thoughts of Albuera hounded and cast their own shadows over his mind? Was that near the bench where Redford had caught them? Or more precisely, caught Warrick reaching for what he craved…

And told him to keep his hands, and his yearnings, to himself.

As though his mental wanderings had conjured the presence of the prickly, perplexing female, her silent-but-nevertheless-sensed incursion into the ballroom had him, already reduced to utter stillness, watching her reflection as she loosed a loud sigh and walked the edges around the floor. Wistfully? At least he thought it was so, and could not stop himself from spinning his chair away from the cold window and toward the hoped-for heat and light of Miss Prim.

“Is it true,” he’d mused, hoping she would stay and engage and only feeling a slight sliver of guilt when his voice caused her to startle and skid to a halt. “What Ed claims? That before your governing talents were hired to tame the firebrand, that Lady Harriet used to change governesses as frequently as most ladies do dancing slippers?”

Her inhale was audible. The hand she wound within the fabric of her skirt—and nerves it bespoke of—discernible only because he was attuned to the night. To nuances, it seemed, where she was concerned. “As to that, my lord, I would not know.”

Her tightly bound hair had fallen, the strict knot she began each day with slackened until it sagged, releasing blazing strands to waft about her face. Strands that tempted more than they should.

Would he have held her upon the dance floor, he knew of a certainty his fingertips would have claimed a place within that hair. Destroyed the knot completely, and likely landed him an invitation to leave. And her? Likely on her way as well and without a reference. He could not do that to her. Would not, no matter how his nails now gouged his palms, so rigid did he hold his fists.

He would pretend that others had not danced joyfully just hours past where she stood and he now sat. He would pretend that he was not wistful over the lack—of dancing. Of laughing. Of female companionship.

He released his fists and wheeled his chair as close to her slippered feet as he dared.

Then rolled some more, as she began backing away from him. Angled only once, to keep her heading toward the windowed wall, and not the exit. Step. Step. Step.

Creaky wheel. Creak. Creak. Creak.

She retreated and he advanced.

He wanted to bump into her legs. Knock her askew. Haul her over the arm of the ambulatory chair and capture her.

Capture her lips with his own.

Capture her in his lap.

Capture her ripe arse against his thighs. His dead thighs. Dead lap. Buried prick.

Lost to war and regret and?—

“You’re very adept at operating that.” Her words had wrenched him away from the familiar maudlin turn of thought.

Thank God for poignant distractions. Turning too deathly mawkish, Rich. “Thanks only to more practice than one might wish.”

“Have you any hope of walking again?”

Did he? “It rather depends on what day you ask me . Or who you ask.”

While she pondered that, and debated another query—he could tell because her lightly freckled face, sans bonnet and shadows—now that he had maneuvered her closer to the window—was very expressive. So he added, “The surgeon on the battlefield wanted to leave me for dead.” Over her gasp, he continued. “Based on his prognosis, I think I’m doing rather well.”

“Something to be heartened by, I’m sure.”

“I know what would hearten me.”

This time, over her definite gasp, he also heard her reluctant laughter. “Not that familiar refrain, again, my lord. I am most certainly not jumping upon your lap.”

“Ah, something which, I am sure, we will both regret.”

Had that occurred? That dark night so long ago when bitterness and regret swamped, but her unexpected light threatened to dig him out before misery could bury him whole? Or was it more of his fevered imaginings? Such as now… When his body burned with the recollections of her touch, her willing touch. Cradling his head upon her lap?

Her delicate hands feathering all over his body making his skin dance, if not his feet…

The clang of a pot hitting another wrenched him back to the present.

How long had his mind drifted, awash in memories? He sought her face. Her lips were pinched. Gaze somewhat uncertain… So a while, then.

He grinned. “Did you bang two lids together to gain my attention?”

“No.” She bit down on both her lips, then released them. “Mayhap.”

His gaze took in the entire kitchen. “I cannot believe you cleaned everything, every stench-filled, disgusting inch to such glittering perfection. Thank you. Sincerely.” She inclined her head in acknowledgment, but naught else. “Thank you also for my things folded so neatly and returned to my chamber.” Another silent nod.

This was unusual. Her reticence. If anything, he should be the one mortified—by all she had seen and done for him. From beholding his weakened state, without a scrap of clothing to shield his shame, to scrubbing his mess, his bodily filth…

But despite the ease, the overly casual, overtly flirtatious tone their letters had taken a few months ago, he had not seen her in two years. Last evening didn’t count, given how, in his exhausted state, he had thought it naught but a figment.

But now that he knew the truth? He wanted the fun, emboldened Aphrodite returned to his presence. He liked it when she fought words with him. Brought him out of his thoughts, and challenged him.

“So,” he began, hoping to rile her—if just a bit. “Satan’s spawn is your uncle?”

She frowned at him again, plucked an invisible nothing from her skirt and avoided his gaze and just like that— boom! —memories from their first meeting conveyed instantly to him. When he was seated at the edge of the Ballenger gardens, grumbling about how he got there, spying her within the trees, covered in?—

Covered in…

He got tickled. Started laughing.

“Really, Prim, after all you have done for me in the last day, I should be heartily too embarrassed to remain here holding your gaze but instead… Instead, I cannot help but recall how the very first time I saw you, you were blushing and besmeared with pig skit.”

He wanted to say shit . To shock her as he had so often in the past. But at the last moment, harnessed the temptation, aimed for a slightly—if only—more acceptable version. And was glad, when a small smile finally began to flit about her lips.

“Thank you for that reminder.” Again, her fingers plucked at her skirt, but this time, she continued to meet his gaze. Standing there, back pressed against the sink, long skirts swaying with what had to be the motion of her feet or legs.

“My pleasure. I also cannot help but note you are no longer trussed quite so tightly and not bound in brown.” Instead, she was attired in that soft-looking blue gown, more suited to spring than winter. Something that put a smile on his face—and then a full one on hers, finally.

Stop smiling at him. Encouraging him. You should not be here!

Of course she should. This is home, is it not?

And Aphrodite could not help but notice how very enlivening it was, at this particular moment, in the home she’d always associated with warmth and welcome, with steadiness. But now instead with eagerness, and mayhap a touch more excitement than was wise.

Not with an unmarried man residing here, it isn’t! Sleeping not far from you…

She ignored the thought. For was he not wide awake now? And engaging with her—in the kitchen? The sort of place a titled man such as he would never venture.

Your uncle gave him little choice.

True. And during the hours Richard had slept, both late yesterday evening and early this morning, while she applied herself to straightening things after scouring the sordid spillage, she had ample time to think, to recall, to ponder possibilities…

Possibilities? Aphrodite, you harlot!

The protest was a snicker. Because she was anything but, and every part of her knew it. Else she would have responded differently to his governess offer this past summer. Would have known by now if she had the will to resist him.

“Your sisters. What became of their governess situation? Did you find the right person to care for them?”

And if she held her breath, selfishly in dread of learning he’d found the perfect woman?

“I did not.” His next words set her instantly at ease. “But nor have I looked, not since receiving your letter counseling to the contrary.”

He had listened. Actually listened and taken her advice? The knowledge warmed her—that relief knowing another did not share his abode. No wife, nor governess.

“Your dress?” he prompted. “You did not explain why it is so different from the abominations you prefer in the country.”

“Ah. Um.” Her gaze fixed upon a point just beyond his ear. How much did she want to tell him? She had already, long ago, hinted at the reasons. “Only to dissuade attention away from myself. Servants are not to be seen nor heard, if we can help it.”

And because he shifted, until his face replaced the nothing at which she stared, and looked as though he was about to inquire further, she rattled off, “What did you do for Christmas? Were you still at home? When did you get here? And where is Uncle Silas? I have known him to travel, often to London, but certainly not in December.”

Now that she was no longer avoiding his gaze, his body angled upright again, fingers tapped upon the tabletop. Strong fingers, she couldn’t help but note. Beautiful hands. She could stare at for?—

“Oh, so many questions you pose.”

She ripped her attention back up to his face. “So many answers you do not disclose.”

He chuckled. “I love how you make me laugh.”

She inclined her head. “And I would love it if answers ventured from your mouth.”

His mouth. That was beautiful as well, his lips?—

“For Christmas?” Those beautiful lips spoke. “Made sure the Thieving Beast was watered, fed and pissed, then finished off your uncle’s best bottle of brandy and snored till dawn. Until noon, if I’m to be honest.” A far cry different from the boisterous joy he had anticipated with the twins and girls. Money might be in evaporative supply, but he had still managed to procure a special gift for each of them. Gifts he’d decided to leave hidden away in his room, until he could see them delivered in person.

“Frown at me all you want, Aphrodite Primrose, but ’tis the truth. It was my second full day here and after the deceit the spawn of Satan wielded to attain my presence? I was due one night of pity and near puking.

“If it matters to your delicate sensibilities”—not that he needed to justify any of his actions to the softly alluring governess (aside from the change in attire, what was it about her that made her seem more approachable than ever before?)—“I have not imbibed to excess since, nor is it something I make a habit of doing at home. Not anymore.”

Not since well before his mother’s funeral.

“Glad, I am, to hear it.” The smile she gave him was full of understanding. “But for your sake, not my own.”

Silence thrummed between them for several heartbeats.

“Soap, though.” Drying her hands on a towel, she left her station at the sink and took a chair at the table opposite him. “You have a penchant for collecting it?”

He frowned at her. “Soap? Not particularly. Why would you— Ahh.” His expression cleared. “You spied my pyramid? When you delivered my clothes?”

The triangular mound of precisely placed and stacked soap he’d made in one corner of his room, blocked by his trunk on a diagonal so not yet destroyed by the dog. “I did indeed.” Though she pretended to find the towel she folded into precise quarters fascinating, he saw the gentle lift of her cheeks before she smoothed the expression and lifted her lashes to meet his gaze. “Do you care to explain? Or do you always travel with fifty cakes or more?”

Once again, laughter beckoned. “If you must know…” His tone boasted, even if his words did not. “I explored the house after Arbuckle decamped. First in my chair, idly rolling where I could manage?—”

“Wait.” The folded towel forgotten, her hand snapped across the space between them to squeeze his forearm. “The house. So that is Uncle’s supply? The one stored upstairs ? I thought it looked like Mrs. Dobson’s work. However did you manage…”

“To gain the second landing? Mastered the stairs with these.” Definitely boasting now, he raised his arms overhead, clasped his hands together and tightened every muscle. It mattered not that his shirt sleeves hid his impressive shoulders from view. What mattered was how strong they were, for after crawl-climbing the stairs following Sophia that day to the third-floor nursery to rescue Julia, he continued to make the same upward journey long after dismissing the wretch Trugmoldy.

He’d gained strength and muscle because of the effort. Gained, of vastly more importance, the solid trust of both his sisters (and a bit of their awe, too).

What mattered, as he lowered his arms and grinned at Prim, was the incredulous—definitely impressed—look writ upon her face. “You managed the stairs ? With your arms ?”

“Aye.” And now felt the fool for voluntarily dislodging her touch, for he still felt the slight pressure of her hand where it had gripped his forearm.

“Drag— Uh, hauled— Um…”

“You can say it. Dragging my somewhat dead legs behind me? Aye, I did. Rested a bit, but ventured a survey into every room. Found his and a newly delivered supply of soap upon his bed.

“Didn’t know what was in it until I opened the already-torn corner of paper and yanked the heavy package to the floor. Rotten of me, I’m sure, but I was near seething at the time. Didn’t much care. Counted out fifty-two cakes— What manner of man needs fifty-two cakes of soap, I ask you?”

Did she realize she had edged her hand back across the table? Approached his sleeve again…

“So I unwrapped the lot. Tossed them each from the room. Down the hallway. Threw them fiercely down the stairs, ahead of my slow descent, taking perverse pleasure in every corner that chipped and went flying.”

As though she had been the one to hurl soap hither and yon, with every sentence, the renewed grip on his forearm squeezed again, encouraging him to continue.

“Then, with Mercury’s help, I scuttled the lot into my room and—without his help—piled them up. Kept me—and the dog—occupied a good two hours if I include nosing about upstairs.”

Color stained her cheeks. Her rounded cheeks, for she smiled at him. No censure there at all. “I cannot decide whether to commend you or call you cracked.”

“Both, perhaps?”

As though finally realizing where her hands had come to rest, to squeeze and stay, they flew backward and she grappled with the towel, snapping it in the air between them. “Definitely, you wretch. Because I used the last of the soap this morn, cleaning myself and Mercury. And will have need of part of your pyramid, posthaste, if you please.”

“You may claim every stone should you have need of it.”

“Generous, are you, with Uncle’s supply.”

Warrick sat back on a satisfied inhale, enjoying the morning immensely. “I can afford to be; he paid for it.”

She was laughing in earnest now. “And fifty-two because he buys them from a neighbor who makes it for her family twice a year. Twenty-six weeks and he uses two bars a week.”

“Two bars a week when they have not chipped corners from traveling down the staircase.”

“Aye, that.”

“And if you’re wondering, I did not explore your room. Once I identified ’twas the sphere of a female, I assumed it was the niece he had mentioned, and I did not venture past the doorway. Not that you have any reason to believe me.”

“I do believe you. Although I am curious what your reasoning was behind exploring everywhere else.”

“You mean into his domain? Every shred of it I could reach? His deceit. The trickery he called upon, convincing me I needed to be here both for the waters and his constant attention. It was naught but a ploy. One that sacrificed both his dog and my time with my girls.”

Her smile drifted away. “I can only imagine your frustration, with him, then. Have you seen gains? Since you arrived?”

He gestured to his legs. “You mean these? In all honesty, nothing has changed. Save for that difficult crumple into the floor upon your arrival.”

“But why are you not using your chair if you still need it so? Surely you brought it?”

“Assuredly, I did. And used it in my first days here. I jest not when I say it disappeared one night recent. Not to be found inside nor out. So either we have ourselves an unusual thief about Bath or that dog hides it with my drawers and other absconded sundries.”

And finally, Warrick realized with regret hitting him hard at the look of disbelief she now wore, after everything else that had been exchanged between them, with that most recent revelation, he had managed to make her doubt his sanity.