She nodded, slowly, understanding in her eyes, as if she’d intuited his thoughts.
Likely, she had. So much had passed between them in the week since they’d met. It struck him that he and she knew each other about as well as two people ever did, if not better.
He’d never particularly wanted to be known, but now he did. By her.
“I suppose I should begin readying myself for the night, starting with a bath.” She picked at her clothes and wrinkled her nose.
“I could help.” The words had left his mouth before he could give them a second thought, or any thought for that matter. “A return of the favor from last night.”
She blinked, opened her mouth to speak, closed it, then opened it again. “I do not think that would be—”
“Wise?”
She nodded, the movement tight. “I shall see you here when it is time to leave.”
And she was gone.
He pivoted on his heel and made directly for his study, unable to trust himself upstairs with the knowledge that she was bathing only a few doors away.
He came to a dead stop and called out, “Stinton, send to the mews for my dappled stallion.” He had another idea. His most rational one of the day. “And have my riding clothes brought to my study.”
He needed to vacate Asquith Court altogether. Perhaps a hard, sweaty ride through Hyde Park would cool blood that wanted to run hot at the merest thought of her.
Merest thought?
He snorted. He’d had her.
And still he wanted her.
But wanting wasn’t the same as having. He could have her myriad ways, but, truly, he wouldn’thaveher, not the way he wanted. Not just with his body, but with his soul. This morning, when he’d awakened, alone, he wasn’t sure his bed had ever felt so empty.
He gave his head a clearing shake. What treacly, mawkish rot.
But…
Was it untrue?
Chapter Twenty
Oars sluiced throughthe inscrutable Thames, night having fallen hours ago. From the Westminster side of the river, Jamie had hired a wherry to row him and Hortense to Vauxhall Gardens. Across the water floated sounds of revelry, its volume growing in intensity as they drew near. The boatman, indifferent to all but the river, kept his sharp eye on the murky water, managing the current and the odd scrag of debris with a sort of stoic aplomb, pipe ever clenched between his teeth.
“Do you think your lady’s maid will be able to handle Sir Bacon?” Jamie asked in an attempt at small talk. They’d been awkward with one another since setting out from Asquith Court. The woman certainly had no quarrel with a lengthy silence.
“I have my doubts.” She didn’t sound particularly concerned.
“His antics with the pelicans aside, he does seem better behaved within doors.”
“All he needed was attention.”
Again, tetchy silence descended. He’d given it a think on his breakneck ride through Hyde Park and determined he shouldn’t have offered to help with her bath. That had been a mistake, which had bungled their pleasant morning as a result. Why had he done it?
The answer was simple.
Because he’d had her last night—in his tub, in his bed—and the wanting followed him into the day. His blood couldn’t stop running hot with her.
“Have you ever visited Vauxhall Gardens?” he asked, ignoring his hot blood.
“I have.” She drew her blue fur-trimmed, velvet cloak close. With the clear night had descended a northerly chill.
