He did not move from his tub, assuming a servant had come to ensure his comfort and safety. Sometimes, a young maid would come and coyly pretend that she thought she had been called to bring tea. They knew that he would just smirk and receive the tea, anyway.
“I did say I was not to be disturbed,” Cassian muttered, trying to be serious about it this time.
He did not really care if people came in while he bathed. Let them watch. However, this particular day, it would help if he could have some rest. Some reprieve.
Instead of a maid giggling or the butler’s heavier footfalls, he heard the soft thud-thud of slippers and the sound of a page turning. Yes, he always thought that sound distinctive, but he expected it in libraries and—
Cassian opened one eye.
Juliana was walking toward a plush settee near a cluster of potted palms, engrossed in a leather-bound book. She managed to balance a small plate of biscuits in her other hand. She looked like she intended to settle in the sunroom for quite some time, fully unaware of the presence of the room’s primary occupant. The said occupant was even steaming in his copper tub, mere feet away.
Her appearance seemed utterly and devastatingly domestic, with her hair tied up in a regal updo, revealing her elegant neck. While she might be completely antagonistic most of the time, she was at least wearing one of the new gowns he had bought for her. He remembered personally choosing it to complement her eyes.
His wife was engrossed in her book, her guard lowered because she believed herself alone and unobserved. He supposed the sunroom was large enough that she would not feel the thick steam from the tub. She was chewing a biscuit and about to set the plate on a side table while she settled on the settee. It seemed that when she had a story to keep her mind occupied, her movements were slow and tentative.
“Is your book truly so riveting that you have no mind of your surroundings, Duchess?”
Juliana jumped as if he had fired a pistol, and her plate clattered to the floor. Her eyes bulged when she finally deigned to look at him. The poor biscuits slid to the floor, and the fine porcelain shattered. Even her book flew from her hand and fell to her feet. His wife seemed to be destruction incarnate.
“W-what are you doing bathing in the sunroom?” she spluttered, as the full scenario finally dawned on her.
Cassian leaned back, not the least bit ashamed. In fact, he felt a smirk splitting his face. He puffed his chest out and made no effort to cover himself. The various liquids offered modesty, though only barely.
“What is so shocking about taking a bath inmyhouse? This ismysunroom. I can do…anythingin it.”
Juliana’s face shifted from pale to crimson in a heartbeat. He noted with pleasure that her eyes were fixed on him, her gaze traveling from his slicked-back hair to his broad shoulders. Her bold stare dipped lower to his chest and then… Well, it looked like she shook herself from whatever trance she had fallen into.
“S-still, it is a sunroom,” she protested weakly.
“But why not here? The light here is agreeable. Do you want a poor, crippled duke to wallow in his sorrow in a dark, cold room? If you had asked the servants, they would have let you know that I am here during these hours and that I shall not be bothered.”
“I did not hear anything about a planned bath, Your Grace,” she said, using his title, but not in a manner that suggested obeisance.
“So, you found a naked duke because of that,” Cassian drawled. Earlier, he was goaded to the brink of desperate want when she was nowhere to be found. In her presence, he could not help but shift in the water. She did not have to know her effect on him. Instead, he wanted to tease her the way the mere thought of her teased him. “Is it safe to say that this might become a habit of yours, then? I am beginning to believe you have a penchant for watching me bathe. Are you thoroughly enjoying it? Is it your guilty pleasure?”
“Do not flatter yourself, Your Grace,” she hissed, but she did not leave the room. “I would rather watch a dry desert than have my eyes linger on your arrogant visage.”
“Oh, truly?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Instead of answering, Juliana went down on her knees, trying to scrape together the pieces of the shattered plate. It seemed that her pride stung at the thought of making a mess in his presence, or so he would like to believe.
“You should not have startled me so, you know. Now look at this mess!” she exclaimed, sounding very annoyed.
Her dainty-looking hands began quickly collecting each sharp shard. She seemed intent on finishing the task down to the smallest powder.
“Leave it,” Cassian commanded, his voice becoming sharp. There was no room for teasing now. His bride should not have to pick up splinters and—
“Ouch,” she said softly. He knew she did not mean to exclaim for him to hear at all.
“I said leave it,” he said firmly, as he suddenly stood up. He startled himself with the swiftness of his movements, water droplets cascading down his body. His hand grasped for a drying sheet, which he wrapped haphazardly around his waist in the unfathomable absence of his robe.
Cassian stepped out of the tub, ignoring the stabbing pain in his leg as he stalked toward her. His bare, wet feet streaked on the marble floor. His wife was still reaching for more shards, her eyes focused on the task. He reached for her and caught her wrist.
“A simple bell pull can have a maid rushing to do the task without the risk of you getting hurt,” he insisted. “Doing that with your bare hands is folly. You will cut yourself. Then, I will have to listen to your grandmother ranting about how I am mistreating my new bride.”
Juliana rose to her feet and met Cassian’s gaze. For a moment, there was silence. They were merely inches apart, and he found himself breathing hard at her proximity. She looked so much smaller, given that she had taken over his daydreams.
“You have trapped me here,” she whispered, breaking the fragile silence. Her voice trembled. “You bought me from Kit like another horse for your stables, a broodmare, perhaps. I am here merely so that you can see any Hawthorne grovel, am I not?”
