Without waiting for further protestations from her, he moved the cloth over her arms. He had not allowed himself to admire her bare skin, but it was impossible not to look at her when he was cleansing her with the soap and cloth. He cursed himself for the foolishness of this plan once more when he caught a glimpse of the fullness of her breasts beneath the water, a hint of the rosy pink nipples he had dreamt about ever since a prim-gowned, disapproving proprietress had stormed into his study.
Desire slammed into him, but he willed it away. He could control himself.
“Your Grace, you must not. This is the height of impropriety.” Her opposition continued, though seemed far less strident now that he was rubbing the cloth over the elegant curve of her shoulder.
Dear Lord, even her shoulders were beautiful. Every part of her revealed to him was glorious. He felt as if he were seeing a woman unclothed for the first time, which was ludicrous. He had seen any number of his lovers bereft of their feminine trappings in the past.
But none of them had been her.
He cleared his throat, banishing the unwanted thought. “To Hades with impropriety. I am helping you. That is all.”
“I neither need nor want your help,” she insisted, stubborn to the last.
“I begin to wonder if those miscreants delivered you to the alleyway because they recognized they had no hope of ever defeating you in a battle of wills,” he remarked lightly as he moved the cloth over her back, then her other shoulder and arm.
She laughed then. One short, splendid giggle of reluctant merriment before she rolled her lips inward, staving off further levity.
“Too late, my dear Isabella,” he told her with mock sternness, seeking to lighten the heaviness of the moment. “I now have proof you are capable of laughter.”
So much had happened. He hated that she had been injured. Hated that she had suffered. Hated the feeling of helplessness which had taken hold of him when she had been taken.
“You are one to talk, Your Grace,” she said as he dipped the cloth beneath the water, soaping down her spine. “I have never seen you laugh.”
“I have little cause to.” He worked his way lower, grinding his molars when his fingers inadvertently grazed the cleft of her bottom.
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.
