She gave his hair one final rinse. “There you are. I am afraid I do not recall what else she said, though she was adamant about reaching your bedside.”
He said nothing, merely returned to a sitting position in the tub.
Well, then. Bridget had bathed him, agreed to his truce, and her duties were at an end. She alone had nursed him through his illness. Not the golden, sainted, beautiful Duchess of Ashelford. A woman who was a true duchess rather than a pretender. A woman who had spoken of Carlisle asLeo, who had shared a past with him, who had meant enough to him that his jaw had hardened at the mentioning of her.
She stood, drying her hands on the silk of her skirts without a care for if it stained them. “I do realize ours is a marriage in name only, and you were forced to wed me. But would it be too much to ask your lovers to refrain from visiting your home while I am in residence?”
“Bridget.”
She was already halfway to the door when he called her name. She paused, refusing to turn back to him, for he had an uncanny ability to read her thoughts and mood by examining her expression and searching her gaze. “Yes?”
“Face me.” It was not a command, yet neither was it a plea, issued in his deep voice, enough to send a shiver through her.
But that did not mean she would heed him. She was Bridget O’Malley, by God, and she bowed and scraped for no man. “No.”
“Please, Bridget.”
After a slow, deep inhale and exhale to calm her turbulent emotions, she turned back to him. His hair was wet. His chest glistening. His expression concerned. “The duchess is not my lover. She was my betrothed once, but she chose another man over me. I cannot fathom why she was here, nor why she importuned you, and for that I am wholeheartedly sorry.”
Bridget studied him cautiously. He seemed sincere. Contrite. But there was also the matter of the social gathering he had hosted. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to explain the nature of the soiree I intruded upon after I escaped from my imprisonment.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning his head back. “Ah, Christ. I thought we had established a truce for today.”
“Good evening, Your Grace.”
“It is Leo,” he growled, “and despite your forcing me to consume nothing more than tepid broth for my dinner, I am well enough to stop you should the situation merit it.”
“What shall you do?” she challenged. “Throw me over your shoulder? I think not. If you wish our truce to continue, and if you want me to remain in this chamber, then you owe me an answer,Leo.”
Chapter Thirteen
Throwing her overhis shoulder was a tempting invitation.
She was right. He did owe her an explanation. By God, he owed her more than one. And the hell of it was, it would seem he owed her far more than mere explanations. He also owed her his life. He had been seriously ill. He had not realized how ill until consciousness had returned to him in stages. Until he had attempted to stand and walk on his own for the first time.
It had required every bit of strength and determination he had possessed to force himself to the bathing chamber. Now, he was relaxed and warm after her tender ministrations, and damn it to hell if he hadn’t enjoyed her hands upon him far too much. The sensation of her washing his hair had been pure heaven, and though she had studiously avoided soaping him below the water line, he could only imagine how decadent it would feel to have her hand upon the rest of him.
His cock twitched to life at the thought. Good to know that, while being with fever had made him maudlin, it had not affected the most important part of him whatsoever. But the time for dwelling upon his desire for her was not now. Not when she faced him defiantly, eyes blazing.
“I am sorry for hosting the fête. In truth, I had forgotten about it, as the arrangement is rather a longstanding one.” He paused, for disclosure was foreign to him. Leo had spent half his life hiding his work for the League out of necessity. But Bridget already knew who and what he was, and making an admission to her would not signify. “The parties are a part of my efforts to conceal who I truly am. If all London thinks me a wastrel rakehell, they will not be inclined to hold the candle to me and question further.”
Her posture lost some of its starch, her countenance softening. “It is rather an ingenious method of hiding in plain sight.”
He had always described it thus. Despite their obvious differences, he considered her a worthy opponent, and he admired her cunning and intelligence both. Her compliment filled Leo’s chest with a burst of warmth.
“Thank you.” He allowed his gaze to rake her form. “Is our truce still intact?”
Damnation, but the dresses the Duchess of Trent had sent over for her hugged his wife’s figure with a commendable tenacity. Today’s gown was ice blue, nipped at the waist, and she had unbuttoned and rolled back her sleeves to reveal her forearms. He had seen her naked before, and the sliver of ivory flesh on display should not make him feel so voracious, but as he looked at her now, he felt a sudden kinship with the starving man who had been given a feast.
A pink flush tinged her high cheekbones, no doubt the result of his thorough perusal. He liked ruffling this woman’s feathers. Getting beneath her skin. And Christ, but he loved knowing he affected her. That try as she might to remain true to her godforsaken cause, in his arms she was as sweet and malleable as summer honey.
“There remains the matter of your imprisonment of me,” she reminded him, the starch that had left her bearing finding its way into her voice instead. “You disappeared for three whole days, keeping me locked in my chamber. It required an act of forgetfulness on the part of Wilton for me to even escape, and just in time too, for you needed me.”
You needed me.
The words wrapped around his heart like a briar, tightening. Painful. He prided himself on never needing anyone. On never being weak or dependent. He was the Duke of Carlisle, the leader of the League, and he was as hard and as cruel as the world had made him.
He was going to tell her as much.
