Page 117 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

He reached down and took something—his watch, she supposed—off the table and lifted it close to his face before dropping his arm and heaving a sigh.

And then he casually raised his other hand and rubbed his groin.

Stacia’s face heated; he was touching what had been pressed against her.

Before she had time to examine the thought, he took the black cast iron kettle off the triangle in the hearth and made his way toward the screened wash basin.

Stacia heard the sound of water splashing—what sounded like a great deal of it—and bit her lip when she realized what it was.

She rolled onto her back, mortified, lifting her hands to her hot cheeks. After a moment, she swung her feet off the bed and took the opportunity to slip her loosened stays over her chemise and pull the laces tight before donning her gown. Once she was decently covered, she made her way to the trunk that held a brush, comb, and several other toiletries.

By the time Lord Shelton emerged from behind the screen Stacia had re-plaited her hair and pinned it up, which gave her a feeling of control, no matter how illusory.

Shelton held the kettle in one hand and there was a towel draped over his shoulder. “Good morning,” he said. He had not yet put on his coats and cravat, but his shirt was now tucked in. “I half-filled the basin with very hot water and there is cool water in the canister beneath the wash table, you’ll find a dipper in it. Soap leaves beside the basin and fresh bath linen in the wicker basket. If you leave your wash water, I will empty it for you when you are finished.”

“Empty it where?” she asked.

“There is an empty cannister for used wash water.” His lips twisted. “Our captor thought of everything.”

Stacia had to agree. She lifted a hand and pointed to her own jaw. “You have a bit of soap here.”

He raised the corner of the towel and wiped his jaw. “Better?”

She gave an abrupt nod, her face heating at the oddly domestic exchange, and hurried past him.

When she came out from behind the screen a short time later it was to find the candles lighted and the tea pot steaming on the coffee table, bread, ham, butter, and preserves along with what looked to be a small jug of milk and a sugar bowl.

“Ah, you are just in time. How do you like your tea?”

“Black, please. Not too strong. What time is it?”

“Just after seven. Did you sleep well?” he asked, handing her a cup and saucer.

Stacia thought about his body pressed against hers, hastily shoved the memory away, and said in an admirably cool voice, “Yes, thank you. Er, you?”

“I had a delicious sleep, thank you.”

Her eyes jumped to his face. He was smiling broadly, clearly aware of what she’d felt digging into her lower back and utterly unashamed of himself.

Men!

He sipped his tea, gave a happy sigh, and then hooked one muscular leg over the arm of his chair and slumped into an utterly masculine sprawl.

She swallowed at the sight of his leather-clad thigh, feeling the echoes of its weight and firmness pressed against her, almost as if her body had a memory all its own.

Again, she banished the disturbing memory. “Do you think Lady Kathryn will let us out today?”

“It is impossible to say what she will do.” He rubbed the heel of his free hand over his thigh and winced slightly.

“I do not understand how she could be so wild after growing up with such a strict mother.”

“I think that might be exactly why she is so wild,” he said dryly. A notch appeared between his blond brows. “Although I have the feeling, from some comments the duchess has made, that Kathryn was not like this before spending time with her aunt.”

Stacia thought back to what Ackers had told her—about the heated conversation between the countess and her daughter which had referenced that visit—and suspected he was right.

“So,” he said, staring across at her with an unreadable look on his face. “How will we occupy ourselves today…Stacia?”