Arden knew what she was doing.
She was keeping him distracted while the footmen brought a second load of water in, carting their buckets into the bathing chamber, where a quite decadently huge copper bath sat in the middle of an exquisite mosaic floor.
Yatt sent her a nod as he left, and Arden correctly surmised it was a sign that the bath was ready for him, because she loaded up her basket with the stripped sheets and asked him if he wanted her to attend him at his bath.
He blinked at her over the rim of his cup. It was his third. “I beg your pardon?”
“Would you like me to help you with your bath, Your Grace?” she said again.
“I…no?”
“P’raps to help you get in?”
Arden stared at her, uncomprehending.
“Your arse, Your Grace,” she said. “Might twinge a bit when you try to get a leg over.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said faintly. “Thank you, Magda.”
She looked unconvinced but dropped him a quick curtsy and bustled out with her brimming basket.
Arden knew what it was like to feel humiliated. His siblings had made sure of that over the years.
But this took the biscuit.
He finished the last of the chocolate, pushed to his feet, and smothered a yelp. Oh. Twinging didn’t begin to cover it. He set the cup on the tray and headed for the bathing chamber.
Steam wreathed up from the surface of the tub. If he’d had even a little more energy, he’d have launched himself across the room and plunged in, it looked so inviting. He contented himself with a swift and purposeful walk.
Tiny steps, though.
Arden slipped the robe off his shoulders and dropped it on top of the small cabinet that stood beside the bath, taking in deep, appreciative breaths of the fragrant steam. It wasn’t a floral scent. It was minty, and somewhat astringent. Presumably, it had healing properties.
All over again, Arden was almost floored with mortification when he realised that one of the footmen must have added some oil.
He clapped a hand over his mouth to hold back the horrified giggles at the thought of one of the big men stoicallyunstoppering a vial of oil that Mrs Foley or, worse,Marlhad pressed upon him, and pouring it in once they were done filling the bath. The whole surface of the water had an iridescent sheen to it. Oh, gods.
He’d probably mixed it in, too.
Arden leaned down and dipped a hand into the water. It was scalding.
Perfect.
He cautiously lifted a leg, and sucked in a sharp breath.
“Sore, sweetheart?” Jack said from the doorway.
Arden’s hands flew to cover his groin and he hunched over, as if that would make him appear any less naked. “Don’t look!” he said once he managed to get his voice to work.
By then, Jack had already had ample time to get an eyeful, and ample time to cross the room, his boots loud on the mosaic floor.
“Why not?” he murmured, standing close. “I’ve seen you naked already. I enjoy looking at you. My pretty little husband.”
Arden’s face flamed. “Pleasedon’t,” he whispered.
Jack obligingly stared up at the ceiling. “I would very much like to look at you, Arden,” he said. “Won’t you let me?”
Arden had never felt so exposed and awkward in his entire life. He hadn’t worried about it as much last night. Beckett had been there to draw the eye, after all. Who would waste time looking at Arden when Beckett was around in all his powerful, muscled glory?
