Page 29 of The Lawrence Browne Affair
“Bleeding buggering Christ!” He must be in Radnor’s trench. That sodding ditch had been waist deep, and now he was sitting in it, wet to the shoulders in muddy, freezing water. Now what the hell was to become of his boots, to say nothing of the rest of his clothes? It wasn’t like he could nip over to the tailor and equip himself. Not likely in bloody Penkellis, where he couldn’t even guess the direction of the nearest actual town. “Fucking fuck—”
“Turner!”
Why the bloody hell was Radnor out here to witness his humiliation? Could he not be left to his muddy misery in peace? “What do you want, Radnor?”
“To fish your skinny arse out of my trench.” And with that, Radnor stepped into the ditch and lifted Georgie against his chest, with one arm behind the knees and the other arm around Georgie’s back, as effortlessly as if Georgie were a newborn kitten. “Stop wriggling. There’s nothing about Penkellis that would be improved by the corpse of a secretary. Let me get you out of here.”
Georgie might not be a great brute of a man like Radnor, but he was soaked to the bone, and his sodden topcoat alone had to add a stone to his weight. Nonetheless, Radnor climbed out of the trench without breaking stride. In any other context, Georgie would be content enough for the earl to demonstrate his strength upon Georgie’s person as much as the fellow liked, but being rescued from a ditch in such a sorry state was a bit much for his pride to take.
“Hold on to my neck,” Radnor ordered, his mouth terribly close to Georgie’s ear.
“Like hell I will. Put me down.”
Radnor did so immediately, and Georgie landed on the ground with a revolting squish in his boots. He made a sound of disgust but kept walking.
“Wait.” He noticed where the earl had brought him. “Why are we heading towards the kitchen door?” He wanted nothing more than to strip, climb into bed, and mourn the loss of his clothes. “Don’t tell me you’re suddenly concerned about the state of your carpets.”
“So you can dry off.”
“I can dry off in my own bedchamber, please and thank you.” His teeth were chattering, which made it hard to speak with the necessary sangfroid.
“Aye, but I need to tell Janet to bring you a hot bath.”
“What?”
“You told me that was the proper procedure. The housemaid brings hot water for a bath lest one catch a chill.” Even in the dark, Georgie could tell that Radnor was having fun with this, the bastard.
“Quite. That’s the procedure for earls, not for the rest of us.” Any acerbic dignity he was trying for was quite lost in the chattering of his teeth.
“Doesn’t matter.” He held open the kitchen door and gestured for Georgie to enter.
Georgie found himself turned over to the care of Mrs. Ferris. She took his coat and boots, promising to return them to some semblance of presentability. Janet was dispatched with pitchers of hot water to carry upstairs to Georgie’s bedchamber.
When he turned around to thank Radnor, he found that the earl was gone.
CHAPTERELEVEN
Georgie soaked until the water turned cold, trying to wait out the ruinous urge to towel himself off and promptly climb naked and uninvited into Radnor’s bed. It was tempting, the idea of Radnor’s warm body covering his own, pressing him heavily into the mattress.
No, it was more than tempting. Apple tarts were tempting. New waistcoats were tempting. Stealing a gentleman’s hat was tempting.
Radnor was disastrous.
It was as if after a quarter of a century of blithely not giving a damn about anybody, he had accrued a surplus of damns to give. First, old Mrs. Packingham, and now the earl.
Right now, at the very moment he ought only to be thinking of how best to secure his own future and his family’s safety, he was instead so stupidly touched by the earl’s thoughtfulness in having a bloody bath drawn for him that he couldn’t even manage to wash himself without feeling that it was somehow Radnor’s hands rubbing the soap along his limbs, rinsing the mud out of his hair.
Even now that the water was cold, he didn’t want to get out of the tub because this bath had been Radnor’s doing. The sad truth was that Georgie’s policy of not giving a damn had gone both ways. He knew how to charm and wheedle his way into almost any society, but once there he kept his marks at arm’s length; he kept his secrets and lies and any other vulnerabilities safe within a hard shell of indifference.
And then Radnor had come along and turned his shell to mush, and his brain right along with it.
As much as Georgie hated to admit it, it was, after all, pleasant to have somebody who wished to carry one out of a muddy mire, to ensure one was warm and cared for.
Fucking pathetic, it was.
Sighing, he toweled himself off and quickly stepped into a pair of loose trousers. No sooner had he pulled on a shirt than the door creaked slowly open behind him. He spun around, assuming it would be Janet come to fetch the bathwater, and for one mad moment hoping it was Radnor.
Barnabus, tongue lolling, trotted through the door and hopped onto Georgie’s bed.
