Page 97 of Duke of Diamonds
Fiona didn’t answer at once. Her eyes followed the tight set of his shoulders as he moved toward the adjoining chamber. The fabric of his coat clung to him, every line of tension outlined in damp wool.
There was something in his face she could not name, a shadow that had not lifted since they had climbed out of the lake.What are you hiding behind all that self-control, Isaac Glacion?
She folded her arms around herself, the wet sleeves chilling against her skin. “Only if you get yourself out of those wet clothes too.”
He stopped.
His head tilted down, slowly, as though he were just now becoming aware of the water dripping from his cuffs onto the carpet. He blinked, one slow drag of lashes over eyes that betrayed nothing. Then, without a single word, he turned on his heel and disappeared through the doorway, the quietclickof the latch falling like the closing of a gate between them.
She stood motionless, water trailing in faint rivulets down her spine.
A moment later, Mrs. Burton entered with swift, sure steps, her arms laden with linens. A chambermaid followed, hurrying to kneel by the hearth and coax the embers into flame. Fiona barely noticed them. Not until the warmth of the fire licked at her ankles and Mrs. Burton’s gentle hands reached for the fastenings of her gown.
“This’ll not do, my lady,” the housekeeper murmured, already unhooking the soaked fabric. “You’ll catch your death.”
Fiona allowed her arms to be lifted, the clinging dress peeled away with effort. It fell to the floor in a sodden heap. Between the two women, she was wrapped in dry linens, the scratch of toweling brisk against her skin, and then eased into a fresh shift. The woolen robe that followed was soft, if a touch too heavy. She welcomed the weight.
The chambermaid dipped a quick curtsey and slipped away, and after adjusting the robe once more and casting a last critical eye around the room, Mrs. Burton departed as well.
Fiona remained where she was, standing before the fire.
She knelt slowly, curling closer to the hearth as the blaze cracked and spat, throwing gold and orange across the floorboards. Her fingers stretched toward the warmth, still faintly trembling. She could feel the cold pulling from her bones, slowly, as though even her body doubted the reprieve.
Why did he look at me like that? Why did he pull away as if he had touched something he should not?
The door behind her opened.
She did not turn.
She heard the soft sound of his footsteps, the rustle of his robe. She sensed him before she saw him.
He crossed the room and crouched beside her, a tea tray balanced in one hand, a folded blanket over his shoulder. He placed the tray down with care, and then reached for the blanket.
She did not resist as he draped it around her shoulders, nor when his hands smoothed the folds with slow, measured precision. His fingers brushed against her arm—once, lightly—and then withdrew.
He poured the tea, the gentle chime of porcelain against porcelain unusually loud in the hush between them.
“I asked Mrs. Burton for something restorative,” he said, setting the cup on the tray. “Chamomile and mint, she said. To settle your nerves. And keep a chill at bay.”
Fiona glanced at the cup. Steam curled upward, fragrant and delicate.
“There’s only one teacup,” she said.
“It’s for you.”
She looked at him sidelong. His hair was still damp, curling at the edges, the dark strands falling across his brow. The robe he wore was belted tightly, as if he’d needed something to hold him together.
“You were just as soaked as I was. Perhaps even more so.”
He lifted a brow, one hand flicking in a vague motion. “I’ve no need for it. I don’t fancy grass in water.”
Fiona’s lips parted in disbelief. “Tea is hardly grass, Isaac.”
He shifted, leaning back just slightly. “Chamomile is a flower.”
“And not a blade of grass in sight.”
“Same thing.”
