Page 15 of The Marquess Wins a Wife
Then again, neither would she. They weren’t fit even for the rag pile at this point, having been moth-eaten so thoroughly.
It had taken several minutes to clean the blade of the collected dust and grime, and then still longer to strop it back into a useable condition. So sharp and fine, not even a dandified city dweller likehis lordshipcould possibly have found fault with it.
She would have delivered it to Willie to convey to the marquess, but he had gone out to the garden to see if there were any apples near enough to ripeness hanging from the boughs of the few old trees they had to merit bringing in for a pie, and so she had elected to go herself.
It wasbraveof her, she reasoned, as she stomped up the stairs. She would not let his lordship and his foul humor command her within her own house. She would not let his threats and his jibes and his poor behavior guide her actions. She was not afraid ofdying.
She was afraid dying without ever havinglived.
Thank God the razor was closed within the tight grip of her hand, or she might have sliced her thumb clean off. She reached the door at the end of the hall, and reached for the handle—and then drew her hand back at the last moment. Did sheneedto knock? No; certainly not.
Butoughtshe?
Last time, he’d pitched the whole of his dinner—herdinner—straight at the wall. She hesitated to think of what he might do with the precious silver razor. She tamped down her irritation, lifted her hand, and gave a swift, sharp rap upon the door.
“Come in.”
Reduced to begging admittance in her own home. It grated upon a body. But she seized the door handle and pushed it open at last, stepping into the room. “I’ve brought you a—what inGod’s holy nameare you doing?” She screeched to a halt just a step or two into the room as her mind slowly caught up to her eyes.
She had expected to find him in bed still, but no—of course she could not be so lucky. He’d made it to the tub, whichhadto be full of cold, stagnant water, and had stretched himself out as much as the tub,muchtoo small for a man of his build, would allow. To his credit, he looked, however briefly, just as surprised to see her as she had felt to see him.
But the gape of his mouth softened into a twist of amusement, and the widening of his icy blue eyes faded. He scrubbed one hand through his damp hair and said, “Bathing. What had it looked like?”
A trickle of water slipped from the hollow of his throat down his chest. Which was bare. Of course it was bare. He wasbathing.
And she was staring.
She jerked, belatedly. “You told me to come in!”
“I thought you were Willie.”
Likely because she’d been stomping her way up the stairs, just the same way Willie tended to do.
“Ah, have you got my razor?” He stretched out his hand. “I’ll have it, then.”
He wanted her togiveit to him? In hisbath? “I will leave it upon the dresser,” she managed to say, cringing at the odd, thin pitch of her voice.
His face changed slowly, sliding from amusement into a hapless regret that seemed entirely too contrived. “I hardly made it to the bath,” he said. “How would you then expect me to make the dresser? It’ll be a wonder if I can get myselfoutof the bath. No; you’ll have to give it to me.” Still that hand was held extended expectantly.
“I couldn’t possibly. I shouldn’t even be in here while you’re—while you’re—”
“Bathing.” He reached down to seize the toweling that lay beside the tub in a crumpled heap of fabric, and in the doing she watched the muscles of his abdomen flex. A light splashing sound, some careful readjustment—he stretched the toweling across his lap, obscuring the largest portion of the water. And himself. “There. I’m perfectly attired, all said and done. And considerably more so than lately I have been. Bring me the razor, Lizzie.”
He said it in that commanding tone, the one thatrequiredobedience, and she found herself stepping forward despite herself. Crossing the floor in slow strides. Reaching the side of the tub.
Placing the razor into his outstretched hand.
“Thank you,” he said, closing his fingers around it. “Probably the stitches should come out soon. Don’t you think?”
“I—suppose.” They’d been in more than a week now. Much longer, and it would hurt something dreadful to pull them free. And the skin seemed to be knitting cleanly enough, besides.
“You’ll remove them tonight, then.” It was not a request. “For future reference, should you find yourself shooting any other blameless gentlemen erroneously accused of the seduction of innocents, you should know that gunshot wounds are generally meant to be cauterized.”
Horror tightened her throat. “I ought to haveburnedyou?”
“Why not? It would have been a great deal faster. Although perhaps you took too much pleasure in stabbing me with your needle.”
The dread that had begun to creep over her faded the very moment she realized he was notangry—he waslaughingat her. That curl to his lip was amusement, not the scorn and derision to which she had become accustomed.
