“Bess,” he echoed, his smile softening along with his voice.
Becoming even more intimate.
For a wild moment, she forgot that he had married her because of one reckless night when he’d mistaken her for someone else. But then she blinked and remembered, and she heard his voice on that long-ago, terrible day too, calling her a plain, plump partridge. She heard his laughter, the dismissal in his voice, and she wondered how he could not recall her when he had so easily and thoroughly devastated her, crushing her fragile heart to dust. When she could not forget him, nor the stupid, futile feelings she’d once possessed for him, regardless of how hard she tried.
“It suits you,” he added, further heightening her inner confusion, “far better than Elizabeth, I think.”
She hated that he was making her dredge up memories she’d done her utmost to lock away. The past was where it belonged. Her parents were forever gone, and so too was the girlish hope that a handsome, sought-after lord would ever find her attractive. Would ever willingly marry her.
Elizabeth sank lower in the water, until her chin dipped beneath the surface, wishing she could disappear altogether, terribly aware of his stare, his presence in her chamber, the fact that she was now inextricably tied to him.
Married.
“If you don’t mind,” she forced out, “I should like to continue my bath.”
“Alone?”
Surely he didn’t think to join her? The tub was hardly large enough to accommodate two.
“That is how one customarily bathes, is it not?” she asked, her voice emerging more shrilly than she had intended.
But the sharpness of her tone didn’t appear to perturb him; he remained where he was, the door to his chamber closed at his broad back. “Why is your lady’s maid not attending you?”
“I dismissed her for the evening,” she admitted, lest he take the poor woman to task for failing in her duties. “Culpepper was most attentive, but I desired to be alone.”
He frowned. “And do you still wish it?”
Tell him yes, she urged herself.
Better yet, politely request that he leave.
“No,” she said, astounding herself.
Where had that come from?
“I can assist you,” he offered, further surprising her.
“You, my lord?”
“I am your husband, am I not?”
His query stole her breath all over again.
“You are, indeed,” she allowed, but oh, how odd it felt, that acknowledgment.
For how could it be? Viscount Torrington, her husband? Not truly hers, she reminded herself, and not without a hint of bitterness. They had not spoken of fidelity, and she knew from experience that he was a rake. Heavens, for all she knew, Lady Worthing was still his mistress. The notion sent a wave of resentment washing over her.
“Your hair is quite long,” he said, interrupting her tumultuous thoughts. “A remarkable shade of mahogany. I could wash it for you, if you like.”
Did she want him to wash her hair? Her gaze caught on his long, elegant fingers, his large and capable hands. And she longed to feel them on her with a sudden desperation that seized in her chest. But if he drew closer, he would have a full view of her body. Her thick thighs and middle, her bountiful breasts. That was not what she wanted, was it? To remind him of the plump partridge he had married?
“I am unclothed,” she said primly.
His lips twitched, as if he found her statement amusing. “I’m aware, Bess. I am doing everything in my power to remain a gentleman and keep my eyes above your shoulders. But it’s proving deuced difficult, and more so by the moment.”
He wanted toseeher? Impossible.
And yet, he sounded earnest. There was no mockery in his countenance.
