Soon, he hoped, lovers.
But for this evening, he dared not press his suit. Instead, he thoroughly wetted her hair before taking up some soap and working it through the strands. As he did so, they were both silent, no sound between them save the crackling of the logs in the fireplace, the soft sounds of Bess’s breaths, the occasional stirring of water as she shifted to grant him greater access to her scalp. He devoted himself to the task, gently massaging with his fingertips until she rewarded him with a heady sigh of pleasure.
The floral scent of the soap reached him, and he was content to tend to her, lathering, working it through her long, wavy hair. He prolonged the contact as much as he dared, this opportunity to be so close to Bess, touching her as he wished, something to be savored. At last, he forced himself to rinse his hands and dunk the pitcher back into the water, pouring it over her hair again.
He studied her face as he did so, for the manner in which she tilted her head presented him with an excellent vantage point. And regardless of how badly he wanted to peek at her naked breasts beneath the water, he had made a promise to her, and he intended to keep it. She was his now, his to protect, to care for, to introduce to the pleasures of the marriage bed when she was ready for it.
That day couldn’t come soon enough.
How lovely she was, her long, dark lashes fanned over her cheeks, her full lips pursed as if she were concentrating on something. She was even more alluring like this, without the primness she tended to cling to as if it were a shield. She was at ease, he thought, and the realization pleased him, for it meant she trusted him.
One more dip of the pitcher, a second thorough rinsing. The silly notion rose within, that he could linger here all night under the pretense of washing her hair, just so he could stay close to her. But no, he wasn’t desperate, even if his cock was hard beneath his banyan.
It was suddenly as if all the aimlessness which had been plaguing him since he had awoken after the phaeton crash had been cured. He had a focus now, his life had meaning, a true purpose. He wasn’t sure what it all signified just yet, but all Torrie did know was that he felt, to his marrow, at peace. It was a sensation that was entirely foreign. All because of her.
The last of the Winters soap had been cleansed from her hair now, and he had no more excuses to continue touching her. He was sorely tempted to offer his assistance in the remainder of her ablutions, but he suspected he already knew what her answer would be.
“There you are,” he said, his voice thick, indicative of how much she affected him. “I’ll leave you to the rest of your bath.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, sinking lower in the water and turning to look at him over her shoulder.
The golden depths in her eyes glittered. She was a woman of secrets and mysteries, continually surprising him with new facets he learned and discovered.
“You’re quite welcome, Bess.” He wanted to kiss her. Wanted her mouth beneath his again so badly that it was an ache in his chest, fierce and deep, a gnawing craving far stronger than hunger. But he knew it wasn’t time for that yet, that she wasn’t ready. Her wide eyes and hesitation, her cool reserve, told him so. “Sleep well,” he added.
With that, Torrie rose, his cock stiffer than a fire poker, and took his leave from her chamber before he did something that both of them would regret.
CHAPTER6
Elizabeth was greeted at the breakfast table by an unsmiling dowager the next morning, her first full day in her new role as Viscountess Torrington. Her husband was notably absent. Just as he had been for the entirety of their wedding night, aside from when he had visited her and washed her hair.
She stifled the rising disappointment and seated herself, forcing a cheerful smile to her lips in an effort to win over the dour-faced woman already breakfasting.
“Good morning to you, my lady,” she offered.
“Indeed,” drawled the dowager, her tone icy, countenance uncompromisingly chilly. “There have been mornings far preferable to this one.”
Apparently, a night of sleep hadn’t done one whit to reconcile the viscount’s mother to the notion of her son wedding a mere governess in haste and scandal. Fair enough. Elizabeth had been prepared for such an outcome, although she had been secretly hoping the woman’s frigidity toward her would thaw now that her union with the dowager’s son had come to fruition. But she had been an unwelcome guest at many homes throughout her life. Why should this one be any different?
The sideboard was laden with an array of tempting foods, the scents wafting to her. Her stomach growled, for she hadn’t eaten much the day before, her belly being too twisted with anxiousness over her impending nuptials. Her uneasiness, however, had not relented, even if her appetite had returned. She still had no notion of what to expect from her new life, her new husband, her new home.
A fortnight ago, she had been resigned to her fate, secure in the knowledge that she must spend her life in service to others. That she would have neither husband nor a family of her own.
And now? What did she have? What did her future hold? No more service, certainly. But as to the rest of it? She still had no notion.
Her bed last night had been empty.
Distractedly, she rose again and went to the sideboard, fixing herself a plate. When she had it laden with a mouthwatering assortment, she returned to the table, catching the dowager watching her with a severe frown. Clearly, she did not meet with the august woman’s approval in any fashion.
“Where did you find that dreadful gown?” the dowager asked abruptly, her lip curling.
Stiffening, she glanced down at another of Lady Andromeda’s castoff gowns. The fit of the bodice was poor; her former sponsor had possessed a far sturdier frame than Elizabeth did.
“It belonged to my chaperone,” she admitted, knowing the cut of the gown was also outmoded.
“You must visit a modiste at once,” the dowager said, her tone sharp and cutting. “It simply will not do for you to go about London dressed in someone else’s old rags.”
The gown was hardly what Elizabeth would consider old rags. Lady Andromeda had never spared expense on her wardrobe. At least, not years ago when the gown in question had likely been commissioned. Her pockets had been far more flush then, a fact which Elizabeth suspected had far more to do with Lady Andromeda’s love of cards than she had cared to admit.
