“A whole room for bathing,” she repeated. “Why?” It wasn’t unheard of for country houses to have rooms for bathing, or even whole bathing houses. But that was in the country, where houses had plenty of space to expand and rooms to spare. This was a London town house, and not an exceptionally large one at that.
“Because of this.” With a flourish he opened the doors of a large cupboard in the corner.
Joan stared at the mass of metal within. “What is it?”
“It’s a water heating system. This tank fills with water from a collection device on the roof.” He rapped his knuckles against it, and it gave a resounding glug. “It’s quite ingenious; rainwater fills it with just enough for a full bath, and then the rest runs down into the main cistern in the courtyard. When you light a fire in the stove beneath it, the water is heated, all at once. Then you open this valve”—he turned the lever mounted on the wall as he spoke—”and heated water flows into the bath.” And right before her eyes, water streamed from the mouth of a lion’s head mounted on the wall just above the tub.
“Is the water really warm?” Joan stripped off her glove and put her fingers in the water still pouring out the lion’s mouth. It felt cold to her.
“It has to be heated first. See, there’s a specially built stove here.” He opened the grate beneath the water tank. “In half an hour, this entire tank of water can be heated. And if you work this agitator, it can take even less time,” he added, grabbing a handle near the top of the tank. “It stirs the water so it heats evenly. That was my idea.”
“Your idea!” she exclaimed. “You designed this?”
He laughed. “No, just the agitator.” He turned the valve, and the water running from the lion’s mouth slowed and stopped. As they watched, the water drained out a hole in the bottom of the tub. “Far superior to carrying buckets up and down from the kitchen. This apparatus only requires one servant, to stoke the fire and work the agitator, and takes less time. And then the water drains out into the sewer at the end, saving more labor.”
“Yes, I see what you mean.” She looked around the room with considerably more respect. It was an extravagance to be sure, but a very appealing one. Joan quite liked the idea of bathing in a tub of toasty hot water; Janet frowned on such things, saying brisk water was best for young people.
And Tristan was extremely proud of this room; he opened other cupboards to display shelves for linens and toweling and soap. “The chimney from the stove rises right behind the linen cupboard, enabling it to warm the towels. A warm towel after a bath on a cold March day is just the thing.”
“I can imagine,” she said longingly.
“I hear a man over in Ludgate has invented a new shower-bath, to enable one to bathe standing up, with water pouring down like a waterfall,” he went on. “I hope to get one.”
“Standing up!” She laughed. “You could stand in your tub and have your man pour the water over you.”
He grinned. “What would be the appeal of that?”
“If there is nothing mechanical about it, it cannot be appealing?” She wrinkled her nose. “I’m quite content to have a servant pour the water, thank you.”
He didn’t say anything. His exuberant grin slowly faded even as his attention seemed to sharpen. Joan found herself caught by his gaze, and suddenly remembered how very alone they were. The house was quiet around them; the workmen must be taking a rest.
She wet her lips. “What are you thinking?” She meant to break the tension, but instead her voice came out low and husky.
He put his hand on the edge of the tub. “I was thinking what you would look like, bathing in this room. How your skin would glisten when wet. How your hands would glide over your body as you washed. How flushed you would be from the steam.”
Oh sweet heavens. It was just the sort of thing that would happen to Lady Constance. Joan’s heart leapt and raced. She was being seduced. Not even Tristan could say such things—he was picturing her in his bath!—and not know what it would sound like.
She gripped her hands together to hide their sudden trembling. “That’s very forward.”
“To picture it? Or to say it?”
Neither one of them had moved, but the room seemed to be shrinking by the moment. “To say it, of course.” What should she do? Joan desperately wanted him to kiss her; she had wanted him to kiss her downstairs, too. There was no point in denying that any longer, but the problem was, she didn’t know how to be seduced. Lady Constance would do the right thing, but she had no idea how to proceed. “I’ve long since admitted defeat on controlling what anyone else thinks.”
One corner of his mouth turned up. “I’m the one who admits defeat. You have controlled my thoughts almost from the moment we met on your brother’s doorstep.” She gave him a wary look. That might not be such a good thing, given what had passed between them then ... but the focused desire in his face stopped her from saying anything. “I wanted to strip you out of your horrible frock that day, and I thought about kissing you as a way of winning our argument. I even thought of reading you some prurient poetry in that bookseller’s shop, just to see you blush.”
She gasped. “You did not!”
“You know I did,” he replied. “And it would have been worth being slapped because my God, Joan, you blush so beautifully.”
“I do not!” She knew her face must be as red as a brick right now.
“Stop it,” he said in a low voice. “Stop pointing out every flaw you imagine. You are not too tall. You are not too plump. You blush like a bowl of ripe strawberries under a mound of whipped cream, and it makes my mouth water to think of tasting you.”
Her heart thudded so hard at the thought of his mouth on her skin, Joan began to fear she’d have an apoplexy. “If you thought so highly of me, why did you behave so provokingly?”
“Because that’s the way I behave,” he said without a hint of apology. “I’m not much of a gentleman. And my thoughts of you are decidedly not high-minded.”
“What are they?” she whispered.
