She changed the towel under his neck before water could soak the sheet, and noted the dirty color of the water dripping into the basin. She dribbled more warm water through his hair, then put soap on her hands again and worked it through. “Your mother put you in the music room when your leg was broken. So you could continue to play and compose while you healed.”
His eyes flew open. He stared at her.
She slowly poured more water, working it through the silky strands. “It strikes me that music was important to your mother. And that she wanted you to develop your talent. Indeed, you are the most talented singer I’ve ever heard.” Under any other circumstances she would likely never confess something this boldly to a gentleman acquaintance. But in the privacy of her candlelit bedchamber, performing this intimate act of service for a man she was beginning to think of as a friend, someone with whom she wanted to spend more time, she thought it important that he know.
He didn’t preen at her compliment. Just continued to stare at her.
“And bear in mind, I have heard many other singers perform, even some who can sing as high and as low as you. Men who also consider the notes of the pianoforte merely a starting point for their range. Heard Lord Fairfax sing just this evening, in fact.”
“Pox on Fairfax,” he silently mouthed.
Chapter 14
His hair and scalp no longer felt gritty. She poured more water, concentrating on rinsing out all of the soap. Soon she had to empty the basin out the window and refill the ewer from the bucket on the hearth.
“You have any idea what it’s like, inheriting a title when you haven’t been raised and trained for it? Never wanted it?” he said when she sat on the bed again. “Suddenly being responsible for protecting the lives and livelihood of so many people? Servants, tenants, relatives who I barely knew existed? Taking a seat in the House of Lords? On top of losing three beloved family members at once?” His voice broke on ‘beloved.’
She swept water from around his ears in an excuse to cup his cheeks and stare into his troubled hazel gaze. “No, I don’t.” She had lost both parents in one accident, in one afternoon. Her only immediate family. An orphan because of a broken axle. But she would not make this a competition about who had lost the most or which loss was more painful. “I can’t imagine how much your life changed the instant you stepped over the threshold of the Ravencroft townhouse.”
A little more rinsing, and the streak at the center of his forehead was white again instead of grey. “I have, however, observed that some gentlemen find a way to balance their responsibilities and their amusements. Find a way to share their talents and not hide their light under a bushel, and still give their title its due.”
She dribbled more water, making sure to rinse every strand. Ravencroft continued to watch her. “I don’t pretend to know what compromises or sacrifices are required to achieve at least an appearance of balance.” She changed the towel under his neck again and poured more warm water, running her fingers through his hair. “I just know what a pleasure it is to hear you sing and play. What a shame it would be if you didn’t continue to perform.” Surprised by the lump in her throat, she focused her gaze on his hair. On the water in the basin. Anywhere except his face.
He cleared his throat but didn’t speak.
“I’m not the only one. You should have seen Lady Danforth tonight,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. “She had to make do with Fairfax and Westbrook’s singing.”
“A pox on Fairfax,” she said in unison with him. They shared a brief grin.
Satisfied the soap was all rinsed out, she wrung the water from his hair with her hands, then got a towel. She was leaning over, squeezing the towel on his long strands, when her stomach let out a growl, unmistakable in the quiet of her room.
Mortified that her body had again betrayed her in front of a gentleman, she refused to meet his gaze.
Fabric rustled, and she was startled to feel his hand on her stomach. No mistake. He definitely had his palm pressed to her abdomen. It felt more intimate than if he cupped her breast. She glanced from his hand to his face.
“Don’t suffer on my behalf, Ashley. You haven’t been keeping enough food for yourself.” He spread his fingers, gently caressing her. “You need to eat more.”
It took her a moment to remember to breathe. “The scullery maid is probably asleep by now. After I dry and brush your hair I’ll go down and raid the pantry.”
“That’s my girl.” He closed his eyes and dropped his hand … to her leg.
Her heart hammered in her chest.My girlechoed in her mind. She forced her arms back into action, gently drying his hair.
“This part is easier if you can sit up.” She guided him into position so he was properly arranged on the bed, pillows bracing him from behind, the blankets pulled up to his lap. She brought his bag of toiletries to the bed and rummaged inside until she found his brush. “Westbrook sent this over.”
“If Gilroy packed it, there should be a bottle of hair oil.”
She fished out a small, corked bottle.
David nodded. “Gilroy’s secret recipe. He negotiated a monthly allowance to buy the ingredients. Apparently he didn’t like the way I cursed at him when he combed out the tangles when I first hired him.”
She pulled out the cork and sniffed the bottle—the scent reminded her of the coconuts Uncle Edward had brought back to England—then held it close to David. After he sniffed and nodded approval, she poured a small amount of the liquid onto her palm, rubbed her hands together, and worked it through his hair.
Face-to-face was so much more intimate than sitting at the dressing table while a maid stood behind her to do her hair. She thought about climbing onto the bed to sit behind him, but the idea of her feet and legs on the bed with him somehow seemed even more indecorous. Too brazen, even for her.
Any awkwardness faded when he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. Too softly for her to hear it, she felt him humming as she gently worked through the knots. This would be much easier if she had thought to brush his hair each day, instead of letting the mud dry on his head and the pillowcase, and then stay messy and damp during his fever.
She tried to brush it into the style she remembered him wearing, using her fingers to lift and separate the chestnut-colored strands and slowly let them fall. To speed the drying process, of course. Not because she was enjoying the freedom of touching his luxurious, almost shoulder length hair. And since he had played with her hair several times, it seemed only fair. Did he feel the same kind of delicious tingles when she touched his hair, as when he toyed with hers?
