Page 12 of A Tempest of Desire
She made a sound in her throat that might have been a subdued laugh. No doubt she’d discovered her injured lip didn’t tolerate well being stretched into a smile. “Therefore, she didn’t cut her hair,” she stated.
“Came to dinner that evening with all her tresses sheared off.” He chuckled low, remembering how all the members of his family had tried to ignore the sight of her and to pretend all was as it should be.
Just as he was pretending now that having a woman in his tub was not unusual—even if his body was determined to continually remind him that it was.
Marlowe liked his laugh, titillatingly hushed as though he was sharing a secret or engaged in an act of a far deeper intimacy. But what she liked more was the affection reflected in his voice when he spoke of his sister. “Brave girl,” she said, filling her tone with admiration.
“That’s our Poppy. Don’t think she ever again took scissors to her hair, not even for a bit of a snip.” He applied the brush several times to the end of the strands he held. Finally a few of the knots gave way. He was positioned near the middle of the tub’s side, facing her, so she had a clear view of the triumph that lit his face before he advanced to the next set of tangles and began another battle.
While she had truly considered taking scissors or a knife to her hair, she was grateful he was attempting to save it. Even if she was convinced it would turn out to be a fruitless endeavor. It would require an abundance of patience. And yet, she couldn’t deny how much it warmed her to watch him taking such care and working so diligently. She couldn’t recall the last time anyone—other than Hollie or a paid servant—had sought to do something for her, to please her.
“Strange,” he said reflectively, quietly. “I remember you as having black hair.”
In spite of the notoriety being with the earl had brought her, she was surprised the viscount remembered such inconsequential details regarding her. She had assumed, when he’d walked away from the table that night, he wouldn’t be bothered to retain much, if anything, about her at all. “Hollie prefers dark hair so most mornings I mix a concoction of wine and a few other ingredients to pour over the strands.”
“You waste wine on your hair?” He glared at her, sounding truly offended.
“It’s not wasteful if the manner in which I use it brings someone else pleasure. Besides, I don’t usemy best wine.” No, she saved that for when she was alone. It was her comfort, her indulgence.
“Not much wine here. I prefer scotch.” He turned his attention back to her hair, and she was grateful for some reason that it was its natural shade of blond. It was only when the Season was fully underway and London was swelling with nobs that she colored it for Hollie. Although that time would be upon them soon.
She was a bit disappointed that at some point between the minute he’d gone to fetch the first pail of water and the last, he’d secured most of the buttons on his shirt, save a couple at his throat. She really shouldn’t be enticed by a man who obviously had no interest in her. Who had cheated at cards to prevent her from being alone with him and to ensure he kept her out of his bed.
Although she did wonder if she’d be sleeping in it tonight. After all, there was only one bed. Perhaps she’d curl up on the settee. He was too tall to be comfortable on it. Yesterday she wouldn’t have cared if he experienced any discomfort at all. But today, tonight, he’d saved her life. She didn’t take his actions lightly.
“Hollingsworth doesn’t fly with you?” he asked suddenly. While his gaze was homed in on his efforts, she couldn’t help but believe that he’d noted her stiffening.
With a shake of her head, she averted her gaze to the fire while searching the bottom of the tub for the lump of soap she’d deposited there earlier. “No, he prefers devoting his time—” She stopped abruptly. The last thing she wanted was him recalling the night she’d been part of a wager.
“To cards,” he finished for her.
“Yes, they are his passion.”
“I’d have thought it was you.”
She wasn’t certain if he’d meant the words as an insult or a form of flattery. What was his passion? “A valuable mistress knows her place in her man’s life and accepts it. And I am known for being valuable.”
She hated that with him she felt a need to point that out. Every other gent in London recognized the fact, but if he did he wouldn’t have changed his damned cards. Hollie had too much pride not to ensure that his peers were jealous of anything he possessed: fancy yacht, large country estate, fawning mistress.
If Langdon noted her tone was very much a reflection of someone educating the ignorant, he disregarded it, didn’t comment.
After locating the soap, she applied it to a cloth before bringing her arms out from beneath the blanket. Shielding herself from his gaze was really rather pointless when he’d had an eyeful of her while removing her clothing, but his offer to stand in the doorway in order to preserve her modesty had made her feel uncharacteristically shy, almost virginal, in fact. She’d grown accustomed to Hollie’s desire to keep her visible and flaunt her, to being on display. Langdon’s attempt to provide her with privacy had taken her aback.
She’d expected he might attempt to take advantage of the situation to view as much of her as possible as often as possible. She didn’t know quite what to make of his courtesies toward her, although perhaps they simply confirmed his lack of interest in her.
Sliding the linen along one of her arms, she was acutely aware of his gaze following her movements, his actions serving to make her a little more sure of herself. She’d always found distracting a man worked well when attempting to change the subject. They were such simple creatures, really. A little exhibition of skin caused their wits to abandon them completely.
She was at a bit of a disadvantage with her lumps, scrapes, and bruises, but displaying what had for a time been hidden worked in her favor. The brush ceased its movements, so she knew he was enthralled. But it wasn’t as long as she’d anticipated before he was again applying his efforts to tame her wild hair. Really, she should just have him rid her of it. It might grant her the opportunity to truly be free.
“Why live in this crumbling structure away from polite society?” she asked, continuing to give her arm the washing of its life.
“I don’t exactly live within these walls. I just come here when I need a bit of solitude. Why go off in a hot-air balloon?”
She couldn’t stop herself from giving him a winsome smile. “Same reason, really. When I crave being alone, alone but surrounded by peace. Very few people inhabit the sky. And the birds seldom bother me.”
“How did you even learn how to manage a balloon?”
“My father.” The blanket tented as she drew up her knees and rested her cheek gently against them. “He was often away, tending to business”—or sohe’d claimed—“but when he was at home, he’d take me up to touch the clouds. Or at least that was how he referred to it.”
