Darien’s shoulders slumped. “Perry!” he swore. “He was the man? All this time?”
“Lord Alfred supposes Celeste seduced you to make Mr. Empson jealous.”
“And I fell for it, like a great lumpen clod,” Darien said. He looked up at the ceiling. “Could there be anything worse?”
“I’m afraid so,” Henrietta said, kneading the sponge in her bowl of water. “Ruf—I mean, Mr. Bales called on Marsibel while she was here. It appears that Mr. Empson took with him some of your clothes, a great deal of your money, and a few of your sketches. Rufie suspects he means to pose as an engineer, or as you, to gain enough credit to live on.”
“Damn his eyes,” Darien said. “Doesn’t he care that Celeste’s babe could be his child?”
Henrietta’s hands trembled as she sponged the dried blood from Darien’s shoulder. “He could come back and claim paternity, couldn’t he? It wouldn’t matter that Celeste had given her up. The court would rule for the man.”
“We’ll make him sign something, and the duke as well,” Darien promised. “If you want her, Henry. Though I can’t think why you should.”
“I just do,” Henrietta said. “And not because of what happened to my sister, or Mary Ann’s son. I—I simply know that she belongs to me.”
Darien’s eyes held steady on her face, though he winced. “Does it have to be salt water?”
“Nurse swore by it, and in all my days at Miss Gregoire’s, I never saw a wound turn putrid.”
Darien rested his head on the pillow and regarded the ceiling. “So that is how you find your strays,” he said.
“I wish I could explain it.” She caressed his bare shoulder with the sponge. “I suppose it is unfair when there are so many in need. But I—sometimes I meet someone, and it feels like they need me, in particular. That it’s not simply aid they require, but what I can offer.”
“Your dwarf,” he said, his eyes dark and intent. “The girl from the workhouse. Celeste’s daughter.” He paused. “Me?”
She sat back self-consciously. “Turn so I might reach your back. Your cousin brought you a change of clothes.”
Dear heaven, the man had a magnificent physique. She wanted to fit herself against that sculpted muscle, rub her cheek against the soft brown hair patching his chest and rib cage. No wonder so many women lost their heads over him.
“I hope Rufie brought something flattering,” Darien said. “I wish to impress.”
“Darien.” She dunked the sponge and moved to the head of the bed, nestling herself behind him. “You do not have to pretend with me.”
She moved her hand over the tops of his shoulders, skimming the ends of his hair, as soft as the baby’s. The back of his neck was firm and smooth, and she wanted to press her lips there.
“You haven’t said yes, Henry.” She could feel as well as hear his voice, a low rumble in his chest.
“You dear oaf, I know very well you only kissed me because you feared you might die in a duel the next morning,” she said lightly.
“I had no intention of dying,” he retorted. “Iwantedto kiss you.”
“Yes, and you’ve kissed a great many girls you didn’t marry. Aunt Althea is right, you know. The son of a marquess can’t marry a tradesman’s daughter. The latest cartoon claims you staged our little tableau because you want Sir Jasper to fund your inventions, which I think quite clever of you.”
“Buffoons,” Darien swore. “Did they give me fangs and claws this time?” The muscles in his neck grew taut. “Is a kiss no longer a time-honored way of wooing?”
“For anyone save Lord Daring, perhaps,” Henrietta said. She realized the sponge lingered overlong on his lower back, on the sides of his abdomen with their visible bands of muscle. She found it hard to pull her hand away. “Charley says there is a bet in the book at Brooks that you will have a new interest within a fortnight.”
“Then tell Charley to lay odds on you, and I’ll make him wealthy.” He lifted his head. “What do you want, Henry?”
She withdrew, and he turned with a swoop and pulled her down on the bed beside him.
“Your stitches!” she yelped, pressing the sponge to his shoulder.
“You can sew me up again.” His gaze pinned her in place, dark and searching. She was in bed with a nearly naked man, and she felt warm and delighted and utterly safe. And something else, something that kindled and leapt through her innards as he reached up with his good hand and brushed his knuckles across her cheek.
“Henry.” His voice grated, deep and low. “Do you know the one thing I regretted when I thought Freddy had killed me?”
“Not leading a more virtuous life?”
