Page 39 of West End Earl
The small metal scissors slipped, cutting into the precious brocade silk instead of snipping the fine thread of the seam. She sighed, then set aside the waistcoat before she could damage it further. Altering clothing required meticulous attention to detail. An endeavor that required her full focus. Something she lacked as her brain skittered from thought to thought.
Usually, when she needed a soothing, repetitive motion, she whittled. As hobbies went, it was a far cry from embroidery and watercolors, but useful if one’s life revolved around impersonating a man. The number of wooden cocks she’d made over the years was rather impressive. Oil, then wax sealed the wood when she finished, but even with that, a wooden pizzle didn’t have a long life. They tended to absorb odors. Nasty things, but a necessary evil. When she made a new one, the old made excellent kindling.
It took only a quick trip down the stairs to ask for the supplies needed. She could have pulled the cord in her room and summoned someone, but having servants at her beck and call felt strange. Higgins provided a scrap piece of wood and a penknife, and Phee retreated once more to her room.
The repetitive motion of blade against wood, the sound of the knife cutting through the grain soothed her. Yes, this was what she needed. Her shoulders eased, and she settled into a familiar rhythm, leaving her thoughts to mull over the matters at hand. Perhaps today it wouldn’t be a pizzle. Being in hiding meant no social obligations, which meant she wouldn’t need to use the pizzle she still had.
The knife dug into the wood, cutting its way into a new pattern. She could make anything she wanted for once. Maybe she’d carve a bird, with wings open, flying free.
With their spy in place, it stood to reason that remaining within Cal’s house would be safest, but part of her wanted to fly like the bird she would coax from this wood. Maybe she’d go to the Outer Hebrides. Or Kent. Kent might be a better idea.
Lord Amesbury would take her on as an employee at his estate. She didn’t know a damn thing about sheep or hops or crafting ale, but she could learn. Ethan and Lottie would assist if she asked. All she had to do was knock on their door.
But she’d promised Cal she wouldn’t run away today. Honoring the spirit of their agreement would mean waiting to take action until he came home. Although waiting didn’t come easy to her. Allowing anyone a voice in her plans was such a foreign concept, it left her feeling adrift, with no idea of what came next.
She’d chosen to trust Cal, and trust him she would. But if need be, she could still run.
Some promises must be broken—especially when it came to her safety. The emergency exit plan to speak to Ethan about a position in Kent or simply head for the coast was tucked like an ace up her sleeve. As long as an escape plan existed, she could wait.
For now.
In her hands, the bird took shape, channeling her nerves into something useful. Phee held it out in front of her, examining it from different angles. The details would take time, but creating something different with her hands was a unique challenge.
The clock chimed, indicating it was nearly the hour to change into evening clothes—not that she could, since she wore the only clothing that fit—when the sound of Cal’s door closing filtered down the hall to her room. She’d see him at dinner in a while. The last time they’d discussed schedules, he had mentioned a rout Emma wanted to attend this evening.
The wood and penknife in her hand weren’t enough to distract her for long. After all, the latest misadventures of Emma weren’t something she could keep to herself. Not for another minute. Emma may not be her problem, but Cal’s sense of responsibility regarding his sister went deep.
Without further thought, Phee darted across the hall and opened his door.
The wrong door, it turned out. This wasn’t Cal’s dressing room but his bedroom. During their morning meetings in his room, he’d always been at least partially covered by the time she arrived. This? His arse was a thing of beauty. She sagged against the door on knees gone wobbly, closing herself into the room while Cal wiped a soapy sponge across his chest, then dipped it into a small basin of water. A squeak escaped—a reaction to seeing him in the altogether or a polite alert to her presence, she’d never know.
The dips on the sides of his tight bum were absolutely enthralling. Her arse didn’t look like that.
Phee didn’t know where to look first. Every fevered imagining she’d indulged in while alone, in which she’d ruminated on her friend’s extraordinary beauty, hadn’t come close to reality. Before now she’d thought she possessed a pretty lively imagination. Lordy, had she been wrong.
He looked over his shoulder, eyes widening, then shuttered whatever emotion might have been there. Instead, he grinned as if he stood nude in front of her every day. “Here to wash my back, Phee?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t knock. Um, I’ll turn around. Or return later.” She started to do that and even had her hand on the doorknob, when the sound of splashing stopped her.
“No need. You’re here now. Hand me that banyan, will you?” Cal stepped from the basin and bent over to towel his legs. Sweet lord above. His movements were without modesty or self-consciousness, and she couldn’t stare hard enough. Everything was on display. Every. Thing.
Covering him might constitute a crime, but she needed to do it if her pulse had any hope of calming. A velvet brocade banyan was draped over the end of the bed, within reach, so she held it out.
“I’m sorry. I heard you come home, and didn’t think.” She couldn’t take her eyes off him as he walked toward her. Everywhere she looked there were sleek muscles and graceful lines, the likes of which she’d seen only on marble statues. Cal moved as if he knew what every muscle was doing at any given second and had complete control of his body. Goodness, to have that kind of inherent grace.
Offering the dressing gown with one hand, she covered her eyes with the other. Shutting her eyes seemed to be the best way to avoid temptation, but it only narrowed her senses to the steady cadence of his breath and the warm spicy scent coming off all that bare skin. Perhaps it was his soap that reminded her of gingerbread, and not a cologne.
With him invading almost every sense, nearly two years of ruthless self-control unraveled like a runaway spool of thread. In a moment he’d dress, covering all that perfection, and that would be a damn shame. Biting her lip, Phee threw modesty to the wind and peeked through her fingers.
Even though he took the gown, Cal held it to his side instead of covering himself. He angled his head with the same smile he’d given her this morning. “You’re staring, Ophelia.”
Caught. She dropped her hand. “I’m trying not to. But it’s quite hard.”
With a raised brow he glanced down. “Not yet, but it’ll get there if you keep looking at me like that.”
Well, now she had to look. Her eyes widened, and Cal laughed, but there was a tinge to it she couldn’t identify.
“You’ll look at me naked but wouldn’t let me kiss you last night.” He shrugged into the dressing gown, leaving the sash loose at his sides.
