Torture.
Bathing Isabella Hilgrove was complete and utter torture. If he survived the next five minutes without snatching her from the bath and kissing her senseless, it would be nothing short of a miracle.
Her swift inhalation of breath told him she had felt the contact, and that it had a similarly awakening effect upon her. “I can do the rest myself, Your Grace.”
She turned and snatched the cloth from him, but her hasty movement likely had a different effect than what she had intended, for her breasts bobbed free of the water, and he was granted a delectable, unobstructed view of them for just a moment. And what a moment it was. Her nipples were hard, jutting forward like offerings. He allowed her to snag the cloth from his suddenly nerveless fingers, and though he was doing his best to play the gentleman, he could not seem to tear his stare from her.
She caught him. Her gasp told him so, as did the manner in which she suddenly plunged back into the water, up to her chin. Her lustrous eyes narrowed, those long lashes rendering the gesture sultry rather than prim.
“Your Grace!”
A curious heat stole over his cheekbones as he forced his gaze back to hers. My God, was he blushing like a callow lad who had just seen his first pair of bubbies? And oh, how it nettled that she still declined to refer to him as Benedict. His title had not been so despised since it had first settled upon him at Alfred’s death.
“Fair enough,” he said agreeably. “I will tend to your hair whilst you see to the rest.”
Her nostrils flared. “No.”
He quirked a brow at her. “On this, I am quite firm, I am afraid. Your modesty shall have to martyr itself, my dear. I will be hanged before I leave you alone to drown in this tub. You are more overwrought after your ordeal than you realize. I would be remiss if I allowed you in here on your own. My honor as a gentleman demands it.”
He was not prevaricating on this much, at least. He did very much fear that her stubborn nature refused to admit how greatly the events of the day had affected her. To say nothing of the blow she had suffered to her head, which had rendered her unconscious and had been the reason he had summoned Dr. Gilmore. He was responsible for her now, and he meant to uphold that duty with all that he had.
“Did your honor as a gentleman not demand that you avert your gaze?” she asked him now, sliding a bit deeper in the tub, until her lower lip was a scant half inch above the waterline.
He wondered if she realized just how transparent the water was. It obscured nothing, but he supposed he would allow her to maintain the illusion of decorum it provided her. “It happened so quickly, I saw nothing.”
That was a despicable lie, but one he would have to live with, for her sake. He could ill afford to continue this argument with her. The longer he lingered, the less control he possessed when it came to her. And the less control he had, the greater his chances of hauling her dripping from the tub, carrying her to the bed in the adjoining chamber, and claiming her as his own.
Her eyes narrowed another measure, making it clear she did not believe him, but mercifully, she sighed. “Very well, Your Grace. If you insist upon washing my hair, I suppose I must let you. You have already trespassed where you do not belong. My water is growing cool, and I have no wish to catch a chill.”
He did not bother to suggest draining some of the water and refilling with the heated water that was primed and at the ready. For if it gave him an excuse to remain here with her, caring for her in the only way she would allow, it would be enough to content him.
Benedict relinquished the soap to her and moved to her damp hair. He began plucking the pins one by one, removing them and unwinding her standard, tight chignon with great relish. Her hair was beautiful, like silken honey, with a natural curl. The heavy skeins unwound around her shoulders, taking him back to the day he had kissed her in the library.
Prim Miss Hilgrove was a delicious cipher.
But Isabella with her hair running wild down her back was a sight to behold. Her hair was not just one shade but many, containing shots of copper, streaks as brilliant as the sun, and a tawny amber running through it. It was as extraordinary as the rest of her, he thought now as he tucked the last of her hair pins into the pocket of his waistcoat.
Miss Isabella Hilgrove was turning him into a thief. He stole kisses and hair pins. Again and again. It was a sobering notion, but he kept the pins where they were just the same and stood to retrieve an ewer on the washstand.
She was unusually silent as he filled the ewer with warm water before returning to her side. “Tip your head back, and I shall wet it,” he instructed her softly.
Part of him did not expect her to obey, but this time she offered no opposition. Instead, she paused in her ministrations and tipped her head back toward him. Her trust in him sent another spike of warmth straight to his heart, rather like a railroad tie being driven home, securing her place there.
With trembling hands, he slowly tipped the warm water over her crown, taking care to keep the liquid from running over her face. Tending to her pleased him greatly, both that this fierce woman had finally relented enough to allow it, and that he could do something for her. Since he had become the Duke of Westmorland, he had
