Page 41 of The Devil and the Heiress
“Good. Let us speak of it no more. I much prefer to discuss how grateful I am for you saving me.”
That was another conversation he could not stomach. Saving her had never been a choice. He did not deserve to be celebrated for it. “I would much prefer that you eat and return to your sleep. We can speak of all of this later.”
She frowned, but she didn’t argue as he made certain she ate the entire bowl of porridge.
Chapter 15
Temptation had never felt as visceral as it did that evening. That was the night Rose knew that the game had become her entire life, and she was willing to risk all to win.
V. Lennox,An American and the London Season
Several days had passed since the accident, and Violet was enjoying her first proper bath. Well, it was a hip bath, soproperwas a stretch, but it was luxurious nonetheless. Mrs. Mitchell worked the lavender soap all the way down to the roots of Violet’s hair, the soft and repetitive grazing of the woman’s fingertips relaxing her.
“Tip your head back.” The command came all too soon, but Violet obeyed, tipping her head back so that the woman could pour warm water over her hair to rinse out the soap. After a few dips of a small pitcher into a large pot hanging near the fire, Mrs. Mitchell said, “Good lass. That is done. Let us remove your bandages now.”
Violet took in the kitchen as the woman began the tedious task of unwrapping the length of cotton fabric that swathed her ribs and held her right arm secured to her side. When she had begged for a bath instead of the usual sponge bath, Dr. Mitchell had relented on allowing her a little time out of bed to accomplish the task. Mrs. Mitchell had beengracious enough to offer her assistance, and Christian had carried her down the narrow stairs. She had told him that she could walk, but he had insisted on carrying her, to which she had conceded easily because it meant that he held her in his arms. In bed, he kept himself rigidly away from her. When she did bridge the gap between them, he never touched her with his hands. He certainly never held her.
The kitchen was a humble room with an ancient fireplace and hearth on the long side with the window, a cast-iron range and a table for preparing food along another wall, a water pump in the corner, storage shelves, and a larger table in the middle of the room. The hip bath, a steel contraption that was so small her legs hung over the side, had been set before the fire. Modest though it was, the home was quite charming with its plaster wall and thatched roof. She found herself imagining what it must be like to live here in this tiny village with no expectations beyond raising a family and being friendly with her neighbors. She could raise children in the daytime, write in the evenings, and make love to her husband at night. Christian was the husband in her fantasy. It was a silly daydream, because life was infinitely more complicated than that, but that didn’t stop her from imagining it.
Deep laughter drew her eye to the window. Christian sat in the warm afternoon sunshine at a small table across from Dr. Mitchell. They were playing chess, and whatever Christian had said had apparently been hilarious. Dr. Mitchell took off his glasses to wipe his eyes. She wished Christian were that at ease with her now. Their days at the inns laughing over their meals seemed far removed from this small cottage.
“You have a good man there, lass.” Mrs. Mitchell had long since moved past formality in their relationship, a happening for which Violet was grateful. The doctor and his wife had been kind and comforting during this time. “You’re a very lucky woman.”
The older woman was looking at Christian out the window. Mrs. Mitchell glanced down at her and raised a brow, a very knowing smile on her lips. Violet blushed and looked away, uncomfortable with the minor deception they had been forced to play out on the nice couple, especially now when she was losing all hope that Christian might come to return her affection. He had been so polite and distant. “He is a good man.”
“What bothers you, lass?”
Violet shook her head, staying silent as the woman took off the final pieces of bandage wrapped around her ribs and injured shoulder. She braced herself for the burning pain in her shoulder to return, but it didn’t. A tender ache replaced it, but it was a pain she could handle. She had rejected more laudanum as soon as she had been able to sit upright on her own.
The older woman picked up a washcloth lathered with the soap and gently ran it over her bruised side. “Poor child,” she muttered.
Trying not to wince in pain, Violet looked back to the scene beyond the window. A light wind ruffled Christian’s hair, sifting through the waves like her own fingers longed to do. His clothing had been laundered and returned to him, so he wore those, giving her a new appreciation for how well they fit him. His coat stretched tight across his shoulders, making her gaze linger on their breadth, only to drop down to his chest. He had taken to leaving off his tie in favor of keeping the top buttons of his shirt unfastened. Her gaze lingered on the triangle of skin that would have been scandalously indecent back in London. She longed to press her fingertips there and feel him. He would be warm; she knew that much from the times she had pressed a hip or an arm to his side in bed as he slept. But what would his skin there feel like? Would his chest be heavily furred, like some of the men she had seen once when she had accompanied Papa to the docks? Or would he be nearly bare, likeTeddy? One hot summer afternoon in Newport, she had pushed her fingers between the buttons of his shirt as they kissed.
“He cherishes you,” Mrs. Mitchell said, that same knowing look in her eyes as she handed Violet the washcloth so that she could finish her bath. The woman turned away to attend to a stew bubbling on her stove. “I can tell, because he takes very good care of you.”
The latter was true, if not the former. Christian had been at her bedside whenever she had needed him. He still insisted on feeding her since she was right-handed, but it seemed to her an obligation and not as exciting as it was the first day. He tried his best not to look at her as he did it. His gaze went between the food and her mouth, only looking up briefly if she spoke, and then returning to his task.
Could she truly blame him, though? No one enjoyed looking after an invalid, which is why she had resolved to get better as quickly as possible.
It was true that he made certain she wanted for nothing. Nothing but his affection; no, his passion. He treated her like a favored younger sister. Not a woman in whom he had interest beyond friendship. “He is a very kind person, though he would likely not admit it.”
“Why is that, do you suppose?”
“He has not spoken very much of it, but it seems that his early life was not filled with very much affection and understanding. I don’t believe kindness was encouraged.”
“Ah, then you must hold a very special place in his heart.”
Unable to encourage the pretense of the lie that they were a happily married couple, Violet said, “It is merely the kindness he tries to keep hidden.”
Mrs. Mitchell scoffed, adding salt to the pot of stew. “Is that what you believe? He takes care of you because of his kindness?”
Violet paused in her ablutions and glanced back atChristian. Though he faced her window, he had not once attempted to look inside. Perhaps the light was such that he could not see her in the bath, but as foolish as it sounded, she wanted him to at least want to see her nude. Oh! She looked away, disgusted at her own thoughts when he was simply being honorable.
“Yes, I fear he doesn’t...” How could she explain to this woman that her own supposed husband didn’t want her? What a predicament. They were not truly married. He was behaving the way any gentleman should. “I fear that my convalescence has dampened his attraction.”
The woman glanced at her again and then out the window. “You don’t see how he gazes upon you, lass, when you’re not looking. I think he keeps his hands away because he fears hurting you.”
This time Violet blushed with pleasure. Her right side was covered in blue and purple bruises, and he did carry guilt even though she had told him the accident and her injuries were not his fault. Could it be true? “Perhaps.”
