“You cannot attend me, Your Grace,” she hissed, clearly horrified by the prospect of him playing the role of servant.
Too damned bad. She may be made of steel and fierce as any queen, but she had clearly underestimated just how badly she had been shaken by being taken captive and so thoroughly abused by those bastards.
“In the absence of Whitmore, I will do,” he countered. “And before you offer maidenly protestations, rest assured that it is not my intention to ravish you, madam.”
Not now, said a wicked voice inside him.
A voice he promptly silenced.
Her countenance was skeptical, and he could not blame her, for he did not entirely trust himself when it came to her. However, he was not such a beast that he would attempt to woo a woman who had just been through hell and had suffered a knock to the head. His sole intention was to see to her welfare.
“It is horribly improper,” she protested still.
Yes, it was. He did not give a damn.
“If I release you, you will not go sliding back beneath the water again, will you?” he asked, ignoring her. He still held her with one arm around her back.
Her lush lips compressed with disapproval. “I already told you that I slipped.”
He released her, but only so he could shuck his morning coat, the sleeves of which were quite sodden after rescuing her from the bath. He hung his coat on a gilt hook before turning back to her, rolling up the cuffs of his shirt to his elbows. She watched him with wide eyes.
“No more arguments, Isabella. I am assisting you in your bath, and that is final.” He crossed back to her side, doing his best to avert his gaze from the tempting sight of her creamy flesh beckoning beneath the water.
“I could scream,” she countered, stubborn to the last.
“No one will hear you,” he lied with a confidence he did not entirely feel.
Westmorland House was a vast, rambling monstrosity, it was true. However, it was also overrun with servants, any of whom were likely to hear a scream, particularly in the wake of the upheaval in the household this morning and the sudden abundance of detectives and agents swarming its perimeter.
He pulled a chair near and seated himself at her side, taking up the soap and washcloth Whitmore had neatly laid out for Isabella’s use. He had never bathed a woman before, and he found the prospect of washing her strangely appealing. Not in a sensual sense, either, but gratifying. He wanted to tend to her, to take care of her, to reassure her she would always be safe with him.
He cared for her.
Good God.
The errant thought, completely unexpected, nearly struck him dumb. He froze, his gaze tangling with hers, and thought for a heady moment he saw deep within their sparkling depths an answering profundity.
“Your Grace,” she objected once more, though her voice lacked the strength of her previous declarations. “You cannot.”
“Benedict,” he told her. “In this chamber, I am merely a man, tending to a woman he holds in high esteem.”
“A woman he asked to be his mistress,” she reminded him of his stupidity.
He winced, then dipped the soap and cloth into the water before rubbing the two together, creating a sweet-scented lather. “A man who is an obtuse dunderhead.”
But she was not in the mood to be gracious, it would seem.
“A woman he said resembles a drowned cat.” She raised a brow, lips pursed.
He wanted to kiss those lips, damn it. “The most beautiful drowned cat in history.”
The corners of her lips twitched as if she were tamping down a smile. “It is too late for flattery, I fear.”
“Then you will not mind my aid,” he said swiftly.
Without waiting for further protestations from her, he moved the cloth over her arms. He had not allowed himself to admire her bare skin, but it was impossible not to look at her when he was cleansing her with the soap and cloth. He cursed himself for the foolishness of this plan once more when he caught a glimpse of the fullness of her breasts beneath the water, a hint of the rosy pink nipples he had dreamt about ever since a prim-gowned, disapproving proprietress had stormed into his study.
Desire slammed into him, but he willed it away. He could control himself.
“Your Grace, you must not. This is the height of impropriety.” Her opposition continued, though seemed far less strident now that he was rubbing the cloth over the elegant curve of her shoulder.
Dear Lord, even her shoulders were beautiful. Every part of her revealed to him was glorious. He felt as if he were seeing a woman unclothed for the first time, which was ludicrous. He had seen any number of his lovers bereft of their feminine trappings in the past.
But none of them had been her.
He cleared his throat, banishing the unwanted thought. “To Hades with impropriety. I am helping you. That is all.”
“I neither need nor want your help,” she insisted, stubborn to the last.
“I begin to wonder if those miscreants delivered you to the alleyway because they recognized they had no hope of ever defeating you in a battle of wills,” he remarked lightly as he moved the cloth over her back, then her other shoulder and arm.
She laughed then. One short, splendid giggle of reluctant merriment before she rolled her lips inward, staving off further levity.
“Too late, my dear Isabella,” he told her with mock sternness, seeking to lighten the heaviness of the moment. “I now have proof you are capable of laughter.”
So much had happened. He hated that she had been injured. Hated that she had suffered. Hated the feeling of helplessness which had taken hold of him when she had been taken.
“You are one to talk, Your Grace,” she said as he dipped the cloth beneath the water, soaping down her spine. “I have never seen you laugh.”
“I have little cause
