The pink-and-gold chamber was bedecked with damask roses everywhere, the finest carpet, beautiful wallcoverings, an exquisite bed of carved mahogany dominating one wall and a Louis Quinze writing desk arranged before a window. All the lights were electric rather than gas, and the water in the tub Whitmore had just readied was piped in, already heated.
The private apartments of Westmorland House were a miracle of modern function, blended with old-world elegance. She knew without being told the enhancements were all the doing of Westmorland himself.
Benedict, he had asked her to call him.
But she must not think of that now.
“Will you be wishing for me to attend you in your bath, Miss Hilgrove?” Whitmore asked next. “You look a wee bit tired. I cannot imagine how you are still standing on your own two feet after all you have suffered today, my dear.”
“I will manage on my own, Whitmore, thank you,” she said. “I have always done for myself. That will not change now.”
Though she had allowed the lady’s maid to fuss over her a bit, Isabella told herself that had been down to shock.
“Certain, Miss Hilgrove?” Whitmore sounded skeptical.
“Certain,” she echoed. “I shall be fine. Thank you.”
She watched the lady’s maid depart the chamber before venturing toward the bathing room. Whitmore had not been wrong, of course. She felt tired. She also felt confused.
Her time with her captors had been the most terrifying moments of her life. She had been so certain those men intended to kill her, or at the very least to do her great bodily harm. And then, in the end, they had merely abandoned her. Left her behind a used book seller’s shop, all alone in an alley.
How she had ever found her way back home was in itself a sort of miracle. She had walked in a stupor, buffeted by cold she had not felt. Grateful to have been spared. All the strength within her had fled at the sight of the duke standing there, his arms open for her.
He had called her Isabella.
And sweetheart, too, reminded a voice within.
He had held her as if she were precious to him. As if he cherished her. Dangerous thoughts to entertain, especially while she was suddenly a guest beneath his roof.
And what a roof it was to share. Not even her throbbing head could diminish her admiration for the private bathing room. Much like the bedchamber, it was lavishly spacious. But unlike the plush carpet, here, white marble tiles lined the floor. Gleaming wood encased a porcelain-lined tub, perfectly matched to the dark wall panels and the washstand at the foot of the tub. A water closet in the corner of the room boasted a pedestal in the shape of a mythical-looking sea serpent, complete with scales.
A whimper of sheer amazement escaped her as she shed her gown and undergarments. There was a potted plant on the ledge overlooking the tub, its foliage green and lush. The air was scented with orange and rose oil, and steam rose from the inviting bath. She had never seen the like. Of course, after the splendor of the library and the rest of the public rooms, she supposed she ought not to be surprised.
It was quite unlike her to be impressed by such unnecessary superfluities. Perhaps her reaction was owed to the upheaval of the day. Perhaps it had been caused by the blows she had taken. Her cheek still smarted, and the back of her head ached with an insistent ferocity she suspected would plague her for several days to come.
Also unlike her, she did not bother to neatly arrange her gown. She simply stepped out of it, allowing it to pool in a heap on the immaculate floor, the black of her skirts a sharp contrast reminiscent of the differences between herself and the man in whose home she was now a reluctant guest. She made short work of her corset cover and corset, before bending and unhooking her boots. The action enhanced the throbbing in her head. A wave of nausea assailed her, and she had to straighten, toeing off her boots whilst she steadied herself with a hand against the wall.
A deep breath, then another, eyes closed.
She inhaled the sweet scent of the bath, and it soothed her frayed nerves. She was safe here. Westmorland would protect her, of that she had no doubt. Her equilibrium restored to her, she returned to the business of removing the rest of her undergarments, her stockings the last raiment to be shed.
At long last, she lowered herself into the warm luxury of the bath. The calming lick of water engulfed her, easing the tenseness from her limbs. She sighed in bliss, sinking as deep as she could go, all the way to her chin.
It was glorious.
So she remained for an indeterminate span of time, relishing the rare indulgence.
Until a shadow fell across the threshold of the door adjoining the bathing room to the bedchamber, which she had neglected to close in her distracted state of mind. An instinctive scream rose in her throat.
“Isabella?”
The familiar, deep voice, laden with worry, stayed her terror.
But only for a moment. She scooted deeper into the tub, drawing her knees to her chest and crossing her arms over her bare breasts beneath the water just before the Duke of Westmorland appeared.
“Your Grace,” she gasped. “What are you doing in here?”
Her eyes, however, devoured him in spite of her mind’s stern warnings that he could not possibly be inhabiting the same space whilst she was entirely nude. In the bath. It was the height of impropriety.
However, he was tall, golden, and handsome hovering at the doorway. Despite the mayhem of the day, he was unflappably graceful in a way few men possessed. His broad, lean form filled the doorway, clad impeccably in a dark cutaway jacket, matching trousers and waistcoat, and a crisp white shirt with a slate-gray necktie.
His startling blue gaze connected with hers,
