Chapter 6

Upon his first return to the bedchamber, much to his surprise, he’d discovered she’d tidied up the mess—shattered plate, butter

smeared on the stone floor—placed the copper tub, which had been against a wall, in front of the fireplace and dumped the

pail of water he’d left behind into it. He’d brought another plate of buttered bread along with another bucket. After that,

numerous times he’d lumbered up the stairs carrying a pail in each hand. The current trip would be his last.

Like the times before it, returning to the chamber was pure torment... and absolute heaven.

With his shirt hiked up just below her hip, she sat on the bed, one leg curled beneath her, the other dangling off the edge

of the mattress, her gaze focused on the windowpane where raindrops sluggishly answered gravity’s call. Beyond, the stars

were still obscured, and the sea, visible only when lightning struck, continued to churn in protest of nature’s foul mood.

Holding a handful of her hair, she attacked the ends of the tresses with his brush, striving to rid herself of the tangles. She appeared lost in thought.

Perhaps her musings kept her occupied to such a degree that she didn’t notice his arrivals or departures, didn’t notice the

splash as he poured the heated water into the tub. He’d never known a woman to show such a lack of interest in modesty.

He couldn’t help but think there would be no games with her. A man would always know where he stood. No coyness, no pretense

of shyness. No devious flirtation hinting at promises that never would be delivered. No false protests or insincere teasing.

He wondered why, while wearing little clothing, she appeared so comfortable around him. Not that he’d given her any reason

to fear him—or at least he hoped not. The females in his family would have his head if he ever treated a woman poorly. Not

only the females. Every last member.

Perhaps because he’d had such a rough youth, his father had taught him and his siblings to treat others as they wished to

be treated. Although at the moment what he wanted was to be treated to those lush lips moving provocatively over his.

He cleared his throat. “I believe you have enough water for a nice bath now. I’ll leave you to it.”

Quickly she twisted around. “Don’t go, please. I know it’s silly, but I don’t like the howling of the wind, the way it screeches.”

“It makes that noise because this building is centuries old and not everything is as firm as it once was. But its foundation

is sturdy, dependable. It’ll not carry you back out to sea.”

“I didn’t think it would. I just... I can’t really explain it. I’d just rather you not go.”

He wished she didn’t look so worried. With all her injuries, the deep furrow in her brow, caused by the depth of her concern,

had to be painful. If she weren’t ruined but were a lady with a pristine reputation, he wouldn’t remain in the residence,

much less consider staying within the bedchamber with her. He’d be huddled outside in his greatcoat, battling the storm rather

than his fascination with her boldness and lack of decorum. No proper lady would dare ask of him what she just had. However,

he was far too familiar with how the horror of a traumatic event—and a tumble from the sky had to be a harrowing experience—could

linger and make a person feel surrounded by and immersed in danger. Even when encircled by friends in a familiar environment.

Here she had neither friend nor the familiar. While he’d prefer to be elsewhere, because the last thing he wanted to see was

her actually bathing, he felt a measure of responsibility for her since she was in his domain. “I’ll stand in the doorway,

my back to the room.”

“No need.” She slid off the bed and he fought not to envision her sliding over him. “Simply turn around. It’ll take me only

a tick to discard your shirt. Then you can make yourself comfortable on the settee.”

Every word she’d uttered was dangerous. But the water wasn’t going to remain hot forever. She needed to make use of it while

it was.

After swinging around without further argument, he closed his eyes to ensure he caught no glimpses of her. Unfortunately, without his vision to distract him, his hearing heightened until his ears absorbed the rasp of his shirt traveling over her skin. Although she kept her promise and moved quickly, it still seemed that eons passed before the sound faded away. In its place came the soft splash as her foot disturbed the water. To be liquid, to have the ability to close around her—

It was lust, all lust. Just a need that had come upon him because he’d been too long without the comfort offered by a woman’s

body. Then he heard the other foot going in.

Following that came her soft satisfied moan as she lowered herself. Quite suddenly his trousers were far too tight. Jesus.

He might die right there. He should journey out into the storm so nature could squelch all these rampaging thoughts and desires.

“You are free to turn around,” she said.

No, he bloody well wasn’t. After inhaling deeply, he slowly released the air that had filled his lungs. It didn’t help. He

could hear the water stirring, imagined her leaning back, lifting her arms, and the water droplets sliding over her skin as

the rain did the glass pane. She would be that smooth, that taut.

“Langdon?”

He shook his head, knowing he had no need to explain the inappropriateness of the situation and yet some comment was called

for. “You are the least modest woman I’ve ever met.”

“Not so immodest. Turn around.”

He glanced over his shoulder and released a huff of air that could have passed for a laugh. A blanket was draped over the tub. Only her bare shoulders and above were visible. He’d seen more skin in ballrooms. He faced her.

“I thought it would allow the water to remain warm longer,” she said with a small smile that involved her eyes more than her

mouth, the sort that would bring men to their knees. It almost did him. It was teasing and fully come-hither.

Good Lord but he was tempted to strip down and climb in there with her. But that required an invitation. He wondered what

it might entail to secure one. On the other hand, she belonged to another—although not by law or before God. She had an arrangement

that could be broken in a heartbeat.

Before she could detect where his thoughts were wandering, he cast a glance toward the bed, easily finding that for which

he was searching: his brush. She’d had little success taming her hair. It reminded him of a rat’s nest he’d once come across

in the stables at the family’s estate across the way. He’d been a young lad at the time and fascinated by it. Strange how

as a man he was now fascinated by another sort of tangled mess.

After retrieving the brush, he sat on the floor by the tub and took hold of a section of her hair. She was the one who had

established the atmosphere for setting aside all societal norms. He certainly had no intention of coming across as a timorous

schoolboy.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m going to see if I can work more of these tangles out.”

“It’s a slow, tedious process. Probably best to simply chop it all off.”

It would be a sin to do so when it appeared to be gloriously thick and full. He wanted to see the golden strands glistening

after a good brushing and cascading around her shoulders and down her back.

“My sister, Poppy, once wanted to cut off all her hair. She thought it unfair that her brothers didn’t have to spend as much

time caring for theirs. My mother tried to dissuade her by telling her that hair was a woman’s crowning glory. Poppy responded,

‘Must be why men are always at war, seeking to obtain that crown that comes to women naturally.’”

She made a sound in her throat that might have been a subdued laugh. No doubt she’d discovered her injured lip didn’t tolerate

well being stretched into a smile. “Therefore, she didn’t cut her hair,” she stated.

“Came to dinner that evening with all her tresses sheared off.” He chuckled low, remembering how all the members of his family

had tried to ignore the sight of her and to pretend all was as it should be.

Just as he was pretending now that having a woman in his tub was not unusual—even if his body was determined to continually

remind him that it was.

Marlowe liked his laugh, titillatingly hushed as though he was sharing a secret or engaged in an act of a far deeper intimacy.

But what she liked more was the affection reflected in his voice when he spoke of his sister. “Brave girl,” she said, filling

her tone with admiration.

“That’s our Poppy. Don’t think she ever again took scissors to her hair, not even for a bit of a snip.” He applied the brush several times to the end of the strands he held. Finally a few of the knots gave way. He was positioned near the middle of the tub’s side, facing her, so she had a clear view of the triumph that lit his face before he advanced to the next set of tangles and began another battle.

While she had truly considered taking scissors or a knife to her hair, she was grateful he was attempting to save it. Even

if she was convinced it would turn out to be a fruitless endeavor. It would require an abundance of patience. And yet, she

couldn’t deny how much it warmed her to watch him taking such care and working so diligently. She couldn’t recall the last

time anyone—other than Hollie or a paid servant—had sought to do something for her, to please her.

“Strange,” he said reflectively, quietly. “I remember you as having black hair.”

In spite of the notoriety being with the earl had brought her, she was surprised the viscount remembered such inconsequential

details regarding her. She had assumed, when he’d walked away from the table that night, he wouldn’t be bothered to retain

much, if anything, about her at all. “Hollie prefers dark hair so most mornings I mix a concoction of wine and a few other

ingredients to pour over the strands.”

“You waste wine on your hair?” He glared at her, sounding truly offended.

“It’s not wasteful if the manner in which I use it brings someone else pleasure. Besides, I don’t use my best wine.” No, she saved that for when she was alone. It was her comfort, her indulgence.

“Not much wine here. I prefer scotch.” He turned his attention back to her hair, and she was grateful for some reason that

it was its natural shade of blond. It was only when the Season was fully underway and London was swelling with nobs that she

colored it for Hollie. Although that time would be upon them soon.

She was a bit disappointed that at some point between the minute he’d gone to fetch the first pail of water and the last,

he’d secured most of the buttons on his shirt, save a couple at his throat. She really shouldn’t be enticed by a man who obviously

had no interest in her. Who had cheated at cards to prevent her from being alone with him and to ensure he kept her out of

his bed.

Although she did wonder if she’d be sleeping in it tonight. After all, there was only one bed. Perhaps she’d curl up on the

settee. He was too tall to be comfortable on it. Yesterday she wouldn’t have cared if he experienced any discomfort at all.

But today, tonight, he’d saved her life. She didn’t take his actions lightly.

“Hollingsworth doesn’t fly with you?” he asked suddenly. While his gaze was homed in on his efforts, she couldn’t help but

believe that he’d noted her stiffening.

With a shake of her head, she averted her gaze to the fire while searching the bottom of the tub for the lump of soap she’d

deposited there earlier. “No, he prefers devoting his time—” She stopped abruptly. The last thing she wanted was him recalling

the night she’d been part of a wager.

“To cards,” he finished for her.

“Yes, they are his passion.”

“I’d have thought it was you.”

She wasn’t certain if he’d meant the words as an insult or a form of flattery. What was his passion? “A valuable mistress

knows her place in her man’s life and accepts it. And I am known for being valuable.”

She hated that with him she felt a need to point that out. Every other gent in London recognized the fact, but if he did he

wouldn’t have changed his damned cards. Hollie had too much pride not to ensure that his peers were jealous of anything he

possessed: fancy yacht, large country estate, fawning mistress.

If Langdon noted her tone was very much a reflection of someone educating the ignorant, he disregarded it, didn’t comment.

After locating the soap, she applied it to a cloth before bringing her arms out from beneath the blanket. Shielding herself

from his gaze was really rather pointless when he’d had an eyeful of her while removing her clothing, but his offer to stand

in the doorway in order to preserve her modesty had made her feel uncharacteristically shy, almost virginal, in fact. She’d

grown accustomed to Hollie’s desire to keep her visible and flaunt her, to being on display. Langdon’s attempt to provide

her with privacy had taken her aback.

She’d expected he might attempt to take advantage of the situation to view as much of her as possible as often as possible.

She didn’t know quite what to make of his courtesies toward her, although perhaps they simply confirmed his lack of interest

in her.

Sliding the linen along one of her arms, she was acutely aware of his gaze following her movements, his actions serving to make her a little more sure of herself. She’d always found distracting a man worked well when attempting to change the subject. They were such simple creatures, really. A little exhibition of skin caused their wits to abandon them completely.

She was at a bit of a disadvantage with her lumps, scrapes, and bruises, but displaying what had for a time been hidden worked

in her favor. The brush ceased its movements, so she knew he was enthralled. But it wasn’t as long as she’d anticipated before

he was again applying his efforts to tame her wild hair. Really, she should just have him rid her of it. It might grant her

the opportunity to truly be free.

“Why live in this crumbling structure away from polite society?” she asked, continuing to give her arm the washing of its

life.

“I don’t exactly live within these walls. I just come here when I need a bit of solitude. Why go off in a hot-air balloon?”

She couldn’t stop herself from giving him a winsome smile. “Same reason, really. When I crave being alone, alone but surrounded

by peace. Very few people inhabit the sky. And the birds seldom bother me.”

“How did you even learn how to manage a balloon?”

“My father.” The blanket tented as she drew up her knees and rested her cheek gently against them. “He was often away, tending to business”—or so he’d claimed—“but when he was at home, he’d take me up to touch the clouds. Or at least that was how he referred to it.”

“What do clouds actually feel like?”

As substantial, as wonderful, as you. The response that ran through her mind was automatic because it was the sort of thing she would say to a man to make him

feel more masculine, more appreciated, more... desired. She always knew precisely what to say in order to wrap a gent around

her little finger, but she didn’t want to play those games with this man. When she was in her hot-air balloon, she didn’t

have to play games. She could be herself. She was left with the impression that for the few days while she was here, she wouldn’t

have to play games either.

Wincing as he tugged on a particularly nasty knot, she slipped her arms back beneath the blanket. She didn’t want to use her

learned wiles to seduce him. “I don’t know that I ever actually touched one. I suspect, however, that it would be very much

like running your hands through smoke. Have you ever been in a balloon?”

“I went up in one at Cremorne Gardens. It remained tethered to the ground. It didn’t travel with the wind.”

“Then you haven’t really been in a balloon. I’d give you a ride in mine, but it is no doubt at the bottom of the sea, causing

a stir among the fish as they attempt to determine what sort of creature it might be. I don’t suppose you saw any remnants

of my conveyance on the shore where you found me.”

“I was scouring around for survivors, not wreckage. Mostly, however, I was focused on you, and ensuring you continued to breathe.”

He glided the brush through her hair, and she wondered when he had managed to rid her of so many tangles. “You’re remarkably

at ease around a man you don’t know.”

She was extremely comfortable around all men. “But I do know you, Langdon, and I’m well aware I appeal to you not in the least.”

His brow furrowed and his hands stilled. “How did you arrive at that conclusion?”

“That night when Hollie made his ghastly offer—before he did—I saw your cards.”

“I suspected as much. Upon your return, your hand going beneath the table was a signal to him, wasn’t it?”

What was the harm in revealing the truth? “Yes, I was letting him know he couldn’t beat you.”

“Yet, he was still willing to wager... you .”

The last word was delivered so sharply that it could have cut glass. “I’ve never understood why you accepted his terms. You

were so uninterested in me that you deliberately took action to lose.”

He skimmed his finger along her chin, and she felt the touch clear down to her toes. “Do you truly believe any man in London

is uninterested in you? Especially when you go to such bother to ensure they are?”

She didn’t hear any censure in his tone—and yet, he’d tossed away his aces. “You proved you’re not.”

“Is that the reason you take no shame in baring your legs to me?”

With a scoff, she rolled her eyes. “Why must women’s legs always be hidden?”

“Because they are the path that leads a man to paradise.”

Good Lord, she was accustomed to seducing, not being seduced. She was fairly certain she’d grown so warm her body was reheating

the water.

They were staring at each other, his silver eyes going dark. Was he interested? His previous actions indicated not, but at

that precise moment he looked as though he might be contemplating kissing her. She was considering pressing her lips to his,

but he didn’t strike her as the sort who would stop with only a kiss. She already knew she would be unable to resist him,

so if she did as she yearned to do, they might end up in this tub together. Most certainly they’d end up in that large, enticing

bed.

While he might have once rejected her, he wasn’t spoiled for choice here. Perhaps that was the reason she very deliberately

and quite slowly moved her head back so her chin was no longer able to enjoy his gentle strokes.

A corner of his mouth hitched up. “Wise woman. With that cut on your lip still healing, it would have been painful to kiss

me.”

Her screech was tiny but shrill. “You arrogant man. I wasn’t considering kissing you.”

“Weren’t you?”

“No.” She didn’t know why she was intent on lying. She knew only that in a relationship it did her no favors to be shown yearning for anything. It could turn the most innocent thing —a frock, a broach, an outing, a dog—into a weapon. Always, always, she had to show that nothing mattered. Only then would she matter.

Although truth be told, she wasn’t in a relationship with this man. Wasn’t even contemplating one. She was of the opinion

that if he had been moving toward her and she’d said no that he would have stopped. He wouldn’t take what she wasn’t willingly

offering. Perhaps that was the reason that she kept testing him. Or perhaps it was simply her nature now not to care what

men saw of her. A foot, an ankle, a calf, a knee, a thigh. What did it matter?

The pathway to paradise.

She thought she might be blushing when she hadn’t blushed since the evening Hollie had made his proposal that she become his

mistress. All she had to do was lie with him and all her troubles would go away. She’d been nineteen and so naive. She hadn’t

realized other troubles would take their place.

“Where did you go just then?”

She snapped her mind back to the present. She’d locked away the past. Why was it suddenly here? She shook her head. “Nowhere

of import.”

How had he even noticed that she’d drifted away? Hollie certainly never noticed. Although he never noticed anything beyond

the physical. He could never detect if she was morose or joyful or happy or sad. Their relationship was based on pleasure,

all sorts of pleasure. They kept to themselves anything that would distract from it.

“I’ll leave you to finish your bath.” He unfolded his body, placed the brush near his razor, started to walk from the room, and stopped. “ I was considering kissing you.”

“I know. You have no skill at hiding your thoughts.”

“Trust me, Marlowe, I am a master at hiding my thoughts when the situation warrants.”