“…Yes.”
“Good.”
A strange zing went up her spine as their gazes locked and she saw her own shock reflected in those tempestuous grey depths. His subtle scent pervaded her senses; he wore no cologne, smelling of clean water, citrus soap, and his own male musk, an indescribably stirring combination.
Swallowing, Cecilia nodded as his hands slid upward to cup the back of her neck, his grip strong. His gaze stole the breath from her very lungs, but it was not an unpleasant thing. “Do you know where you want to stay?”
“…Yes,” she breathed.
“And where is that?”
“The West wing.”
His brows lifted. “You are telling me you are not going to make a home in the library?”
“The rooms in the East wing, where I can set up my own drawing room, I can easily recreate a small library there,” she said, praying to any deity that would listen to her that she could escape his magnetic gaze.
Finally, he stepped away, and her skin was awash with gooseflesh. “Follow me. And Abigail, you are now Her Grace’s lady’s maid.”
After a lovely hot meal, Cecilia found herself inspecting her suite of rooms. The three chambers, her bedchamber, bathing room, and substantial wardrobe, were incredible.
Pale silver silk covered the walls, which were trimmed with freshly painted wainscoting. The bed was an enormous four-poster with roses carved into the posts and white velvet hangings.
Finding a spot near the window, she wrapped her arms around her middle.
Earlier today, when Cassian had pinned her with such a scintillating, scorching look, she had felt something strange. His words had said one thing… but the look in his eyes spoke of something else.
I’d wanted to ask him what that was… but why do I think I would not like the answer?
A rich dark blue Aubusson rug framed a seating area where a matching blue damask sofa and armchairs were placed along the wall near a low, carved coffee table. Through the far door, she could make out an adjoining bathing room as luxurious as the room she stood in.
“These are some lovely chambers,” she said to Abigail. She spotted some faded paneling and chipped washing bowls that told her Cassian had not periodized this home.
How long has he been away from this place?
“Yes, Your Grace, they are,” Abigail nodded with a touch of pride. “His Grace makes sure all his properties are well-taken care of, and he rotates his people.”
“He does?”
“May I be frank, Your Grace?”
“Yes, of course,” Cecilia assured as she headed to the washing room and the porcelain tub. She let the robe slip away and tested the water with her fingers before lowering herself into its warm embrace.
Taking her seat at the side of the tub, Abigail said, “I have the feeling that while he is very personable with a wide range of people, he does not allow many of them into his affairs. He’s more comfortable with a small set of people he can trust.”
Settling her head against the lip, she closed her eyes to breathe in the rose-scented water as Abigail washed her hair.
“Did you know his parents?” she asked.
“No, Your Grace,” Abigail answered. “The only person I imagine would know them is Mr. Andrews.”
“That does make sense,” she murmured, tilting her head to let her maid rinse her hair.
When Abigail finished with her hair, Cecilia took up the cake of soap and quickly washed. The water had cooled considerably, and her neck was aching from the awkward angle. Gingerly, she rose and reached for a towel to rub down before stepping out of the tub.
The exhaustion inside surprised her, but thinking it over, she knew it made sense—she had traveled all day, and though shehad spent many days in her rooms, she had slept poorly for the past week.
It was not too surprising that her body was demanding sleep now that her mind had been unburdened. Donning a nightgown, she sat as Abigail dried and rolled her hair in rags.
