Stiffly, Titus set about shaving half of his face—the scarred side saved him that much effort, at least—and dressing in the clothes Augustin had ironed and set out for him the night before. His valet had done so without consulting his employer’s preferences. Titus had made it clear on Augustin’s first day, that the earl didn’t give a fig about the garments he put on his body. Titus didn’t care to impress others, or even to leave the privacy of his study.
But today… after last night… He could not help but wonder whether his attire lived up to Miss Dodd’s innocent expectations of a respectable society gentleman. Or if his disinterest in following fashions marked him as every bit the outsider those sanctimonious prigs had accused her of being.
No matter. Titus wasn’t going to replace his wardrobe, even if it lagged far behind la mode du jour. This was who and what he was. And he wasn’t trying to impress Miss Dodd. There was no point. She would soon be gone from his life, leaving no more evidence of her presence behind than the ashes from Oliver’s blanket. So be it.
Once he was clean and dressed, Titus retrieved the novel from his nightstand and made his way down the stairs to the breakfast table, where he would spend an hour turning the pages of his book with one hand whilst half-heartedly picking at a plate of cold toast with the other, as he did every morning.
Except, this morning, he arrived to discover more than cold toast in the breakfast room. Miss Dodd was already seated at the table, a plate piled with eggs and kippers and fresh buns before her.
At his arrival, she flashed a guilty look from beneath her lashes. “I’m sorry I didn’t wait for you. I wasn’t certain when you would rise, and Cook had assured me it should be no bother at all for the menu to include—”
“Stop. Talking.” He tossed his book next to his empty plate and dropped heavily into his chair, leaning forward to rub his temples.
“You sound horrid. Have you a megrim?” Miss Dodd sprang up from her chair, abandoning her breakfast, dashing behind Titus’s chair in a flash. “I know just the thing to… Oh. I forgot.” Her voice trailed off hesitantly. “No touching.”
He held himself stiffer than ever, his fingertips frozen at his temples, his nostrils twitching from the warm fresh clean scent of her enveloping him from behind.
“Do whatever you please,” he growled. “Then eat your breakfast.”
There was a pause, and then her hands settled at the base of his neck and over the ridge of his shoulders. Slowly, firmly, her thumbs kneaded the tight tendons and rigid muscles. Though her hands never strayed from the base of his neck and the top of his shoulders, Titus’s muscles grew limp. His hands fell from his temples to dangle loosely at his sides. Even his throat was no longer clogged. It was as though each stroke mended a tiny thread over the holes he had ripped in himself when he’d destroyed his brother’s blanket.
“Is it helping?” she asked, her voice soft and soothing.
“I don’t know what one’s neck and shoulders should have to do with a headache,” he said coldly.
“You’d be surprised how many headaches are contained in one’s neck and shoulders. Shall I continue a little while more?”
He never wanted her to stop. “Go and eat your breakfast. You’ve done enough.”
Miss Dodd retook her seat without the least sign of offense or chastisement. She dove back into her eggs as though no interruption whatsoever had occurred.
Just in time. The door to the dining room swung open and Cook strode through, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted red apron. “What did you think of the tarts, Mattie? If you prefer elderberry to fig, I can always…” Her round face paled at the sight of Titus. “My lord! Good morning! Your toast has been waiting since dawn, as you requested.”
His voice was a dangerous growl. “What did you just call Miss Dodd?”
“Oh, I asked her to,” his ward said breezily. “Anyone who beats me at Loo and Commerce deserves to first-name me. Which essentially puts me on equal footing with every member of your household. Or unequal footing, depending on how you view it. By my count, it was only the ten-year-old hall boy who failed to annihilate me at least once during—”
“You played cards with my servants?”
“Not for money,” she said quickly. “Rhoda has a jar of pretty pebbles she collected from the river, which serve perfectly as game currency. No need for fancy ivory fish like Aunt Stapleton carries. Although if we had played for money, George and Isaiah might not have shown up for work today and taken an extended holiday instead. I don’t think I’ve ever lost that much at one sitting, except for the time—”
“Who the devil are George and Isaiah and Rhoda?” he burst out.
“Stable-master, footman, and chambermaid,” Cook murmured. “You know them as John Coachman, John Footman, and—”
Oh, enough! “Miss Dodd, I forbid you from fraternizing with servants.”
“You can’t. Or rather, you can forbid all you like, but I’ve already given my word to join in on the nightly games whenever I am home to enjoy them.”
“This is not your home,” he sputtered, then glared at Cook. “You all play nightly games? Do I not assign enough tasks to—”
“Oh, don’t be such an ogre,” said Miss Dodd with an indulgent wave of her hand, then smiled conspiratorially at Cook. “Is he always like this before his morning toast?”
Cook wisely refrained from opining, and fled to the safety of the kitchens instead.
Unconcerned, Miss Dodd resumed her breakfast.
Titus dropped three pieces of hard toast onto his plate. He made a production of placing his book right in front of his face and removing its crimson ribbon.
