Page 78 of The House Saphir
He spun away and marched back into his room, leaving the door hanging open.
Which was almost an invitation. Close enough for Mallory, anyway.
She stepped inside, marveling at the suite’s sitting room. Black marble around the fireplace, veined with copper and cream. Damask wallpaper of blue and gold. Brass chandeliers dripping with crystals. Every surface covered in elaborate moldings and gilt details.
Armand had disappeared into the next room. Mallory saw a four-poster bed hung with cerulean velvet curtains and trimmed in thick golden tassels. Armand himself was standing in front of a mirror that hung above a washbasin, where the bowl, the pitcher, and even the soap dish bore the crest of the House Saphir. He was peeling back the bandage to apply some sort of salve from a jar. When he was finished, he scowled at his reflection, angling his head back and forth and running his fingers across the bit of dark scruff on his face.
She craned her head further, noting the ebony armoire, the leather reading chair, the stacks and stacks of books messily strewn into every corner. She spotted the ring of keys that Armand usually wore on his belt, now hung on a hook beside the bed.
Cursing, he leaned back on his heels and dragged both hands through his hair. “It won’t stop growing. I don’t understand it.”
It took Mallory a moment to realize he meant the facial hair—the barely there shadow of a beard creeping across his jaw.
“You’re growing a beard?”
“Not intentionally,” he said, sounding frantic. “People already say that I resemble him. And now, this? It’s a nightmare.”
“Some women find a full beard quite fetching,” Mallory said.
He cast her a withering look.
“That isn’t helpful,” she conceded. “But surely you can shave it off.”
“That’s what I was trying to do. But I used to have a valet for that, and Claude took over the job months ago, and now…”
She tried to bite back a snicker. She really did.
Buthonestly.
“You nobles. So spoiled,” she said jokingly, well aware that few nobles would be willing to make their own hot chocolate. “Is that why you’re bleeding? You cut yourself?Shaving?”
He leaned forward to inspect the wound in the mirror. “I thought I hit something important. It was bleeding a lot a minute ago, but it’s stopped now.”
Mallory crossed to the vanity. “Show me where you keep the razors. I can do it.”
Mallory had never held a straight razor before, but she was no stranger to sharp objects, and the dusting of hair on Armand’s jaw could hardly qualify as a beard. It would only take a moment.
Armand looked dubious at her proclamation—but not, perhaps, as dubious as he should have been. “You?”
She grinned. “How hard can it be?”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Despite her confidence, Mallory was still surprised when Armand pulled out a drawer on the washstand, revealing a collection of small tools organized into open boxes. There was a round brush with a puff of badger hair bristles attached to a crystal knob, and a puck of tallow shaving soap settled inside a porcelain mug. Inside a long wooden box was a folding straight razor with a bone handle and a dreamy steel blade, its edge perfectly sharpened and glinting in the light from the window.
Armand started to unbutton his shirt.
Mallory’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?”
His hands froze, his expression more alarmed than ever. “Sorry. Should I keep it on? I always… before…”
Great gods.“Right. Yes. Carry on. I’ll just… find some towels.” She darted into the washroom and gathered up an armful of towels, ignoring the one streaked with blood that had been throwninto the bathtub—which truly was enormous. She wondered how many buckets had to be carried up from the well to fill it.
When she returned, Armand was seated in the vanity chair, his head leaned back against the bowl of the washbasin.
Shirtless, again.
She tossed the entire armload of towels at him. He caught most against his chest, though a few scattered across the floor.
