Too long.
Indeed, she could not recall ever feeling this way for anyone other than him. And still, knowing her weakness, she pulled the final button free of its moorings and peeled her robe down her shoulders, head still tucked to her chest, giving him full access to her bared flesh.
“There we are,” he said, a new thickness entering his voice. “Much better.”
For a few moments, he simply massaged her neck, finding all the places where her tension had turned into knots. When his hands briefly left her, she could have cried out at the loss, but bit her lip. A sound filled the silence, the unscrewing of the tin lid. And then a cool, thick ointment was being spread over her neck in a thin layer. The scents of eucalyptus and lavender surrounded her. He continued his effort, plying just enough pressure to help ease her tension.
Her eyes slipped closed, and with her hair hanging over her face, she simply reveled in the moment. In the release he gave her, in the pleasure of his touch, the refreshing calm of the ointment, his nearness.
“How is your neck feeling now?” he asked at length, still rubbing, but his motions gentling.
“I have far less pain,” she said honestly. “Your hands are magical.”
His low chuckle made her realize what she had said.
“You have no notionhowmagical they are, my dear,” he returned, his voice teasing as he removed his touch at last. “But you will feel sore tomorrow after the massage, and your muscles feel far less tense. I think that ought to do for the evening.”
The loss of his ministrations left her feeling bereft. But then she reminded herself that if she lingered in his chamber for too long, his hands on her, she would find herself wanting to remain. Her defenses would lower. And then…
She must not think it. Not yet. It was far too soon.
“Thank you,” Pippa told him instead, for she appreciated the interest he took in her comfort.
“Your gratitude is not necessary, my dear.” Despite his words, his tone was light, lacking in censure.
The sound of the lid being screwed atop the ointment pot reached her. Then the rustling of cloth as he presumably wiped his hand clean. His hands returned then, on the twain ends of her dressing gown. He pulled the wrapper into place on her shoulders, his fingertips gliding over her arms as he performed the task.
Warmth pooled in her belly.
She liked his touch.
Liked being in his chamber.
Likedhim.
He swept her hair into place, allowing it to spill down her back. Was it her imagination, or did his fingers sift through her tresses longer than necessary? The press of his lips to her crown was decidedlynother imagination. He carefully avoided the lump she still sported. The tender gesture made her heart give a pang.
Was this what she had been missing? Was this compassionate man who he had been, all along?
Yes, said her heart.
“I am sorry you were attacked,” he told her, and there was a new vehemence in his voice, a sense of urgency, of anger. “It never should have happened.”
“You are not at fault.”
“If I had not gone digging into Shaw’s past, none of this would have occurred. If I had not given those letters to Scotland Yard…”
“No.” She rose and turned to face him, his mother’s chair separating them. His handsome face was all harsh angles, his dark eyes glittering with emotion. She searched them, fell into them. “We have spoken of this before. You must not blame yourself. You were right to give the letters to Scotland Yard. If there are others suffering as Mr. Hastings did, something must be done.”
He nodded, but his countenance remained stern. “Still, I would never have you hurt. Not for anything, Pippa.”
She believed him. She did. There was such sincerity in his voice. Such longing in her own heart, beating with a swiftness she fancied he could hear. Yearning and foolishness made her want to skirt the chair and throw herself into the comfort of his arms.
But no, she must not. It was too soon. She had made mistakes before. Had misplaced her trust.
“You did what was just,” she said softly. “I ought to go, so that you may get your rest. The day has been a long one.”
And it had; all the hours which had passed and the changes they had wrought seemed more like a lifetime. She had risen that morning as Pippa Shaw in a London hotel and by the sunset, she was in Yorkshire, the Duchess of Northwich. It was dizzying to contemplate.
