Did she dare accept his offer? Doing so felt dangerous. Having him near, allowing for the possibility he might see more of her beneath the water…
“Do you promise to avert your eyes?” she asked.
This time, he gave her a smile, his sensual mouth curving in a way that made something inside her melt. “If that’s what you wish.”
She swallowed against a rush of longing, the likes of which she thought she had lost the ability to feel long ago, the day she’d inadvertently eavesdropped on his vicious assessment of her. “It is.”
“Then I shall avert them to the best of my ability.”
She was still so keenly aware of her nudity. “Your promise as a gentleman, if you please.”
His grin turned wicked. “My dear Bess, as you ought to know by now, I’m no gentleman. But I do offer you my promise, just the same.”
And just like that, Viscount Torrington was walking across the Aubusson, headed straight for her.
* * *
Torrie approachedthe tub containing his wide-eyed and deliciously naked wife with care. He’d startled her, and that hadn’t been his intention. Nor had intruding on her bath. But from the moment he’d opened the door between their chambers to find her all creamy and glistening in the tub he’d requested be delivered to her rooms, he hadn’t been able to quell the sudden and ferocious tide of hunger rising within him.
Wife.
He had one now.
It made some instinctive part of him swell with pride and possessive furor.
And seeing her thus made another part of him swell, too.
But that would have to wait, he reminded himself sternly as he reached her side, keeping his eyes carefully pinned to the carpet at his feet instead of feasting upon her curves as he would have preferred. She was hesitant, rather like a spooked horse. He had to proceed with caution if he truly wanted to earn her trust. And after the manner in which they had first met, he owed her that much and more.
The scandal which had ensued had been blistering, thanks in part to Eugenia, who had done her damnedest to spread the gossip of how he had run away with her governess and thoroughly debauched her. Her fury, particularly after discovering he was marrying Miss Brooke and ending their affair as he had promised, had been vicious.
There was a small stool placed beside the tub, likely originally for the lady’s maid she had dismissed.
“Bess.” He tested her name again, liking the way it sounded, the way it felt. Liking, too that she was here with him. That she washis. “I’m going to sit on this stool behind you now.”
“Very well,” she agreed, her voice husky and soft.
He wanted that voice to call his name when he was deep inside her. He couldn’t explain what it was about having a wife that made him so bloody desperate to bed her. Certainly, she was lovely, and what he’d been able to discern of her figure beneath the hideous castoff gowns she’d been wearing was delectable. But it ran far deeper than mere attraction.
Torrie sat, forcing himself to keep his gaze trained on her hair. No hardship, that. It was long and shining with a natural wave to it, so many different shades of brown now that he was nearer, the candlelight shining off burnished hints of gold hidden within. He inhaled slowly, taking in the gentle scent of whatever oils her lady’s maid had applied to the water. A blend of rose and lavender, he thought, fingers itching to touch.
“May I?” he asked her, the question a thick rasp laden with suppressed longing.
“Yes.”
Her quiet acquiescence was like a fist squeezing his heart. He reached for her, fingers tangling in silken strands. For a moment, he weighed the heavy tresses in his hands, thinking it had been a terrible sin for her to have hidden all this beauty beneath an ugly cap. He didn’t recall taking the time to admire a woman’s hair before. Proceeding slowly, wooing a woman who was new to the art of lovemaking, was its own pleasure.
She held still as he took note of the elegant column of her throat, the tempting skin at her nape, the pale curves of her shoulders. There was something inherently lovely about a woman’s naked back, and somehow, he’d failed to take note. Or, at least he had not done so in recent memory, which was all he had to rely on. The pieces of his past he could recall were few and incomplete. So much of his life was shrouded in mystery and the unforgiving shadows of his mind.
As always, he set that frustration aside, for there was no need to dwell upon that which he could not change.
There was a pitcher conveniently placed on a nearby table. He took it and carefully lowered it to the water, allowing it to fill.
“Tilt your head back, if you please,” he instructed, reminding himself yet again that he must not steal a peek. “I’ll wet your hair for you.”
Wordlessly, she did as he asked, tilting her head back toward him, giving him a view of her smooth forehead and pert little nose. Torrie tipped the pitcher, slowly sluicing water over her hair. There was something about the act of helping her bathe that was so very intimate, and yet tender too. He liked the coziness of the fire licking away in the grate, no one else about save the two of them, no fear of discovery or reprisals.
They were Torrie and Bess, husband and wife.
