He had been fretting over her, and the knowledge warmed her in a way that had nothing to do with the sweetly scented hot water in which she was immersed. Still, she had her pride. She had already allowed him far too many liberties.
“I am well, as you can see,” she forced herself to say, keeping her tone tart. “Now if you do not mind, Your Grace, I should like to finish my bath in peace. It is indecent of you to be in my chamber at all, let alone in the bathing room while I am unclothed.”
Reminding him of her nudity was a mistake. Because his eyes dipped to the bath, searing her through the distance separating them. An answering yearning thrummed through her, landing between her thighs in a pulsing awareness. Oh, what this man did to her. She had been hit over the head, taken captive, carted through London, terrified. And somehow, all she wanted was to kiss him.
He cleared his throat, seemingly shaking himself from the maddening attraction sparking between them better than she could. “Of course, my dear. Pardon my alarm. It has been a trying day for us all. I merely wished to tell you that I have sent for my physician. He will arrive within the hour to attend you.”
“I am perfectly well,” she insisted. Aside from her aching head, of course. “I do not need a doctor, though I do thank you for your worry on my behalf. It is quite unnecessary. I have already caused trouble enough in your household.”
“You have caused no trouble at all.” He frowned at her, looking stern, suddenly reminiscent of the arrogant stranger she had met that first day when she had confronted him in his study.
How far they had come since then.
So far that having him here in the bathing room with her did not disturb her. Instead, the intimacy felt strangely right. “Still, I do not require a doctor. I have a will of iron and a hearty constitution.”
“You will see him, nonetheless,” countered Westmorland, his typical domineering self.
Somehow, she did not mind in this instance. Another blossom of warmth unfurled within her instead. “I am fine.”
Of course, she ruined her insistence in the next instant when her bottom suddenly slid against the slippery porcelain of the tub. She threw her arms out to keep herself from going under, but it was too late. She slid beneath the water, the world briefly a muddle of blurred sound and light.
Large, capable hands hauled her back to the surface.
She coughed and furiously wiped the water from her eyes.
“Fine, are you?” his tone was grim.
“I slipped,” she managed to sputter.
“You should not be in here unattended.” His voice was curt, laden with disapproval. “What the devil was Whitmore thinking? I should see her sacked for this.”
“The fault is not hers.” She blinked her eyes open to find his handsome face hovering shockingly near. “I asked her to leave me alone.”
“I ought to take you over my knee,” he muttered. But his motions were tender as he took up a towel and dried her eyes and face. “You look like a drowned cat.”
That was hardly a compliment, but she had no doubt he was right. In her rush to get into the bath and her awestruck ogling of the splendidly appointed room itself, she had neglected to take down her hair. As a result, loose tendrils were plastered to her face. She swiped at them now.
“If you attempt to take me over your knee, I will scratch you like a cat,” she warned him pointedly.
His lips quirked into a smile. “There is the lady typewriter with the backbone of steel I have come to know and admire.”
She forgot her irritation. Even the throbbing of her head retreated to a dull ache when he looked at her thus. Not just admiring, but as if she were the most glorious sight he had ever beheld. He admired her, he had said. She could not linger over that revelation, however.
The water was quite transparent. And her ability to resist him was waning fast.
“You must go now, Your Grace,” she forced herself to say. “I will finish my bath and see your physician if I must.”
“There is absolutely no way I am leaving your side after this.” His low voice was austere, commanding. Ducal. “I will not chance you slipping beneath the water once more. You are in a weakened state, and until the doctor examines you, it is best if you are assisted in your bath.”
He could not possibly be suggesting what she, in her addled state, thought he was. Could he?
He finished drying her face and set aside the towel. “I will attend you.”
Isabella’s expression reflected his own inward sentiment: this was madness. Pure and utter madness on his part. He was trespassing in most egregious fashion. Treading dangerously near to scandal. Leading them both perilously close to ruin.
He could not explain it himself. But when he had knocked at her chamber door and there had been no answer, the terror clenching his gut and radiating through him had been almost violent. He had instantly hearkened back to that morning, and fearing the worst, that one of those villains had somehow found their way through the defenses he had arranged around the perimeter of Westmorland House, had sent him into her chamber. When she had not been there, he had gone to the bathing room, expecting the door to be closed. He had intended to knock, to assure himself she was within.
But the door had been open.
Blessedly, temptingly open.
And there had been Isabella in the bath, a goddess of cream and spun gold. Her wide, blue eyes had sizzled into his, and he had been helplessly drawn. Moth to
