I won’t let that happen.
—but something inside Sophia told her not to summon Lord Damon, and that something was rather insistent. She absolutely detestedthe man. Roxboro could be angry with her later.
“Better?” she asked, pressing the cloth to his uninjured side.
His head lolled against the rim of the tub. “I don’t know why Oakhurst insisted on bringing me here. I already tupped Lady Hastings at Binson’s. And taking me to that opium den, which I wasn’t in the mood to enjoy at all, though it was lovely to see Lady Maxwell. She kept asking when I had time to change my coat. Said there was a wine stain. Can you imagine me, with a wine stain?”
“No,” Sophia replied softly. “You don’t drink wine.”
Because of the wine cellar.
“Hate the stuff. Tastes of sour grapes and…the cold.” His brow furrowed and he shivered. “Why is this bath so bloody cold? Can I have a scotch?”
“Not right now, Roxboro.”
“You’re a sassy wench. But I like you.” He grinned at Sophia, closing his eyes. Taking one of her hands, he placed it firmly between his thighs. “As much as I’m enjoying the bath, there are other matters which need attending to.”
Sophia went completely still.
Thanks to Ann, she had a decent description of male anatomy. Mama had been much less forthcoming with her talk of “lengths,” leaving it to Sophia’s imagination. All of which is to say, she had a vague impression of what lay beneath Roxboro’s smallclothes.
“I’m—” Sophia attempted to move her hand, but Roxboro held fast. His…cockwas hard, like a bit of stone beneath the fragile cotton of his small clothes. And as heated as the rest of him. A gasp left her asitswelled beneath her touch.
“Come now. I enjoy a good bath, especially the ending.” His eyes opened to narrow slits, the gray green bathing her in wickedness.
Arousal, because this must be what the sudden throb taking up residence between her thighs must be, struck Sophia.
Oh. Dear.
Roxboro was delirious with fever, thinking her some trollop at abrothel. He was ill. Could possibly die. Still entirely carnal in nature but that was no excuse for Sophia’s…reaction. She tamped down every one of those delicious sensations.
“This isn’t the time for such matters.” When she pulled her hand away this time, Roxboro didn’t try to stop her. “You aren’t well at present.”
“I’m not?” He shivered violently. “I want a scotch.”
“Later, Your Grace.” His skin had cooled, but hiscockstill twitched. She continued to bathe him until he no longer felt hot to the touch, studiously keeping her gaze averted from…matters.
“Barstow,” she raised her voice so the butler, just outside the door, could hear her. “I require your assistance. And possibly Stone’s.”
Chapter Twenty
The fever returned.
The baths helped, but only so much. Sophia poured cups of the potion Dr. Reading prepared down Roxboro’s throat all while he screamed out his protests. She fed him sips of broth and water, worried as he ate little and the hollows under his glorious eyes deepened. Mopped his cheeks when he grew too warm between baths, which was near continuous. Listened to him ramble about a variety of subjects, most of which had her blushing. Roxboro’s…exploits were colorful to say the least. Her husband had earned his reputation, though he was careful to remind Sophia that the sheep incident was completely fabricated.
Sheep?
Roxboro didn’t slur or stumble over his words in his delirium, his speech remained cool and patrician, colored with arrogance. The only indication he wasn’t in his right mind was the glassy, unfocused gaze and the sweat clinging to him.
At times Roxboro thought he was on the pleasure barge, the one he’d fallen into the Thames from, with Oakhurst. Or at Binson’s waiting to play hazard. Usually, he thought Sophia to be a courtesan and spent a great deal of time listing the acts he wished her to perform.
Her cheeks flamed the entire time.
But the most unsettling hallucination, the one that had him shaking not from fever but terror, was the wine cellar. Roxboro thoughthimself a lad of ten once more. Locked in the wine cellar of The Pillory, screaming for help.
Barstow had found him. Curled into a ball and surrounded by broken glass. He’d drank the wine because he was hungry and thirsty. Cold. How Roxboro had come to be locked in the far recesses of the wine cellar was anyone’s guess.
How had the staff lost a ten-year-old duke?
