Chapter Eleven
Mrs. Fletcher’s mealwas as tasty and satisfying as any the Cannings might have provided. When the good lady and her husband retired to their bed, Althea climbed to the attic bedchamber, aware of Montsimon close behind her on the steep wooden stairs.
The small room had a low, sloping ceiling. A green-hook rug covered the floor, a jug, basin, and towels had been placed on the tall dresser. A straight-backed wooden chair sat in the corner and the bed against the far wall. Mrs. Fletcher’s description of the bed had been accurate. The narrow wooden bedstead covered in a bright quilt was not designed for two. Althea eyed it and her throat tightened in dismay as Montsimon shut the door.
Seemingly unaffected, Montsimon peeled off his coat and sat on the feather-filled mattress, which sank visibly under his weight. He looked annoyingly at home. He tugged at his cravat, then undid the top button on his shirt to reveal a strong throat and a glimpse of dark chest hair. She found it hard to look away from him, his male strength and beauty capturing her. Finally, she turned to fuss with her cloak before hanging it over the chair.
“Would you help me off with my boots?”
“I’m hardly a valet,” she said, aware she sounded peevish.
“Not as strong as my valet, but we shall manage,” he said with a grin. His waistcoat joined his coat on the chair. Was he going to strip? She wished her breath would slow.
She took hold of the mud-splashed, black leather Hessian boot and pulled. It didn’t budge.
“Perhaps a bit harder?”
Annoyed by his manner, she gave a violent yank. The boot slid down Montsimon’s well-defined calf so fast she fell onto her derriere on the hard plank floor.
“Are you all right?” Montsimon’s grin widened, and he leapt up to offer her his hand.
“Perfectly.” She waved his hand away and climbed to her feet, resisting a rub of the damaged area. “Your other foot if you please.”
“If you’re sure?” He burst into laughter.
“Hurry up. I’m tired.” With a dismissive scowl, she planted her feet and took a firm hold of the boot, easing it down more gradually. It slid off his leg without further mishap. There was something disturbingly intimate about his broad chest encased in white linen, the form-fitting gray trousers, and his big stockinged feet. Had she ever seen Brookwood this way? He always came to her chamber dressed in his banyan and slippers. And she had dreaded the sight of him.
Montsimon stood, ducking his head under a beam. “You’ll never manage that dress on your own.”
She crossed her arms. “I am keeping it on.”
“Such a pretty gown was meant for a drawing room, not for sleeping in.”
“Nevertheless, I shall sleep in it.” She perched on the chair and took off her shoes.
He frowned. “Give me a look at those.”
“Why?” She handed them to him.
He turned a shoe over in his big hands. One sole had worn through. “These are about to fall apart. I had no idea you wore such flimsy shoes.”
“They are meant for drawing rooms, my lord. As is my dress.”
“That gown will be like a rag in the morning. As you have nothing else to change into, you will have to bear it until we return to London.”
Why did he so often make sense? She brushed down her skirts, which were already dreadfully crushed, and was forced to agree. She wasn’t a shy, green girl; she just didn’t want to inflame his passions. It would take very little encouragement, she suspected. But her underwear covered her and was perfectly modest. “The bed is too small. A gentleman would sleep in the chair.”
His eyebrows flew up. “It’s made of wood.”
“Obviously.”
He flapped a hand in dismissal. “I intend to sleep in that bed, my lady. Where you choose to sleep is entirely up to you.” He sat and pulled off his stockings. “I’m going downstairs to wash at the pump. While I’m away, you can undress and hide beneath the covers.” He paused, one hand on the doorknob. “Again, do you require help to undo those impossible little buttons at your back?”
“Odd that this problem didn’t occur to me when I chose to wear it.” Her lips puckered in annoyance. While they were arguing, what remained of the night was passing. She turned her back. “If you will.” If he treated her like a servant, she would do likewise.
Her hair had begun to escape the topknot, and she swept it up out of the way, scattering pins. She tingled under the gentle touch of his fingers as they moved down her back. Her gown fell away. “What are you doing?”
“I’m unlacing your stays. You can’t sleep in this uncomfortable garment!”
