Powell had been with his employer too long to be fooled. He helped Rhys shrug out of his tight-fitting garment. “You and his lordship tipped quite a few this evening. You’ll be wanting my remedy for a swollen head in the morning.”
Rhys’s stomach curled as he thought of the foul-tasting concoction Powell swore by. He thanked God he did not often have cause to take it. Rhys normally despised men who sought to ease their troubles in a cup of blue ruin. But Nick had offered him fine Scotch and Kenna’s accusing words this evening had been provocation enough to indulge in an excess of drinking. “Keep your remedy,” Rhys said. “I vow it is worse than the sickness itself.”
Powell shrugged good-naturedly as he folded Rhys’s coat over his arm. “I’ll take this for pressing. Will you be wanting a bath?”
Kenna’s breath caught.
“No.”
Her breath eased out slowly.
“Oh, what the hell.” He pulled off his boots clumsily and dropped them on the floor. They thudded loudly in the quiet room. He took off one stocking and waved it like a flag of surrender, laughing at his own foolishness. “Mayhap it will bring me out of this slow-witted stupor.”
Kenna ground her teeth together to keep from saying anything that would give her away, hoping if she maintained her silence Rhys would change his mind again.
“A hot bath’s just the thing,” Powell said. “I’ll send for a maid and we’ll have you fixed right and tight in no time.”
“I’m already tight,” Rhys said dryly. “Just fix me right.”
Powell chuckled appreciatively and left the room to rouse a chambermaid from her slumbers. Kenna was ready to lurch from the tub and make a dash for the door when Rhys stepped behind the screen, three-quarters turned away from her, and began undressing. Instinctively Kenna closed her eyes tightly as if it would make her invisible while Rhys muttered under his breath about the resistance of buttons and buttonholes being proportional to number of drinks one had consumed. Cautiously she opened one eye and saw him slip out of his shirt and toss it carelessly on the chair in front of him.
She told herself she shouldn’t watch, that it was wrong and faintly immoral not to make her presence known. But instead of closing her eye the other one came open and she stared unabashedly at her first glimpse of a naked man. Once, a few years ago, she had helped Victorine nurse Nicholas when he had come down with a high fever, but even when she had bathed him he had been covered by a sheet. She had had to slip the sponge beneath the linen to cool his feverish body. This was infinitely different, decidedly wicked, she thought, but there was a greater possibility of stopping time than there was of looking away.
Though she had no way of making a comparison, Kenna decided Rhys had a beautiful back. It was smooth, tautly muscled, broad at the shoulders and narrow at his waist. Of its own accord her mind wandered and she could see herself running her fingers down the length of his spine, making him shiver, making him want her intimate touch. She felt a certain heat begin to rise within her as his hands fumbled with the buttons of his trousers and finally dipped his fingers inside the waistband and pushed them off with his undergarments. He kicked them in the air and caught them, tossing them in the same chair as his shirt. Kenna thought the move was surprisingly graceful considering the foxed state of his mind.
Her eyes flickered down the solid length of his legs and she understood of a sudden why Rhys had no difficulty controlling that unruly beast he rode. Even that son of Satan had to be able to feel the strength in Rhys’s powerful thighs. His buttocks were taut, curving slightly inward at the sides, and Kenna had a barely contained urge to touch him there. Sometimes at night, just before she drifted off to sleep, Kenna would imagine her husband was beside her in the bed. She would turn on her side and curl against the warmth of his back, touch his bare shoulder with her mouth. Her arm would ring his waist and his flat belly would contract slightly beneath her fingers. He would turn over then, drawing her close, but she never saw his face in the dark room. His elegant hand would seek her breast, caress the swollen tip just so, and then…Kenna did not know what happened then and her imaginings always faded with the not knowing.
Rhys reached for his dressing gown and Kenna knew it was unseemly to be disappointed that he was going to cover himself, yet she found herself wishing he would not. His body, any man’s body, was a mystery to her, and she was quite unable to deny her curiosity even if it meant burning in hell for it. If she was consigned to Hades at least she would not go ignorant.
Without looking in her direction Rhys rounded the screen again as Powell returned with a chambermaid. They were both carrying two large buckets of water.
“That was quick,” Rhys commented, taking one of the buckets from the maid as she was in danger of slopping its contents on herself and the floor. His face was wry with amusement as she did not seem to know where to put her eyes.
“Aye,” Powell said. “Her ladyship supposed you’d be wanting to bathe and the water was already being prepared.”
“Kenna?” His voice held an odd inflection.
Powell shook his head and saw the light die in Rhys’s eyes. “Lady Victorine.”
“Ever the thoughtful hostess. Kenna could learn something from her stepmother.”
Behind the screen Kenna clenched her jaw. It didn’t matter that it was true, he shouldn’t have said it.
“I don’t know. Lady Kenna’s a right’un.” Powell turned to the maid. “Go on with you, girl. You’re practically asleep on your feet.” The maid curtsied briefly, put her bucket on the floor, and left the room in a flurry of skirts. “Skittish bit, ain’t she? I think she was wonderin’ what manner of man you are beneath that robe.”
Rhys shrugged. He had already forgotten what she looked like. He dipped his fingers into the bucket and found the water was not too hot for his purposes.
He stepped in front of Powell, blocking his manservant’s path to the tub and with an unholy grin touching his lips he poured the contents of the bucket on Kenna’s upturned face. He coughed to cover her sputtering then turned his back on her and addressed Powell. “Just leave the water there. I’ll see to the bath myself.”
Powell looked at him oddly, his brow furrowed. “It will only take a moment,” he protested.
“No. Leave it. I’ve had enough of your cosseting for one evening.”
Powell bristled, mildly hurt at Rhys’s tone. Young pup, he thought, and made a note to throw open the drapes on the morrow when he roused Rhys. All that harsh winter sunlight should set off an aching head nicely. “Humph,” was what he said though and when he left he shut the door very quietly.
Rhys pushed aside the screen with an impatient movement as soon as Powell was out of the room. Kenna was still crouched in the tub, pushing ineffectually at the strands of wet hair clinging to her face and neck and gulping back air in pitiful sobs. “There’ll be hell for me because of that, Kenna Dunne. I hope you’re happy I saved your miserable skin, to say nothing of your reputation. Get out of there. I’ve seen sewer rats in the worst alleyways in London that look better than you.”
Kenna could not even take offense at his remark, for she knew he spoke the truth. Gripping the sides of the tub she pulled herself upright and finally managed to stand in her sodden garments. The water made a funny little pinging sound as it dripped from the hem of her robe and her hair and hit the bottom of the tub.
