And his shirt. He left that with her as well, taking only his jacket and waistcoat with him. He chose the room next to hers, in hopes he’d hear her arrival, that the echo of her movements would reverberate through the wall. As he settled into the bed, he was determined to remain awake until she was ensconced in her bedchamber, preparing to retire.
But his determination betrayed him, and he succumbed to the lure of sleep, where she came to him, her sultry eyes offering promises he willingly accepted in his dreams.
Chapter 7
Marcus awoke to sunlight filtering in through a narrow slit where the draperies had not been brought completely together. Considering the ache in his shoulder, he was surprised he’d slept at all and yet, it had been the sleep of the dead. He supposed all the events of the night had caught up with him.
Gingerly, he worked his way out of the bed and glanced at the corner where he’d discarded his trousers. They’d been marred with blood, so he hadn’t wanted to leave them on any furniture or carpeting, opting instead for the wood of the floor. But they were nowhere to be seen.
He spotted some folded clothing on a chair near the fireplace. On top was a note, written in delicate yet demanding script.Yank the bellpull and a bath will be brought up to you.Beneath the foolscap, his trousers rested, cleaned. They must havebeen washed and placed before a fire to dry. His shirt, waistcoat, and coat, absent of blood and either washed or brushed free of any evidence he’d been involved in a scuffle, had been mended, the stitches tiny and neat, like the ones in his shoulder. She’d done the handiwork, he’d wager—
He had nothing at all with which to wager but if he did, he’d risk it all on the chance she’d seen to everything herself. Had snuck in as silent as fog to retrieve his clothing and done the same to return it. He’d been exhausted and she’d carried on. Was she sleeping now? He very much doubted it.
The clock on the mantel revealed the time as a little past ten. He couldn’t recall the last occasion that he’d slept so late. Following her written orders, he yanked the bellpull before wrapping a sheet around his naked form.Are you modest, Stanwick?
He smiled at the memory of her words, then warmed at the memory of what had brought them on. Her facing him as though they shared an intimacy, as though he were familiar with every inch of her. Damn his lustful longings because he wished he was.
A rap sounded on the door. “Come.”
Brewster marched in, carrying a bucket, followed by two footmen who placed the copper tub before the fireplace. The butler dumped the steaming water into it and remained after ordering the others to fetch more. “I’m to shave you.”
Marcus scoffed. “I wouldn’t trust you with a razor anywhere near my person.”
Brewster smirked. “She said you were a smart one. When you’re done, breakfast will be waiting for you in the dining room.”
He didn’t sound as though he’d enjoyed saying that, was studying Marcus as though he didn’t trust him any farther than he could toss him. “Is she awake?”
Brewster’s eyes narrowed, his mouth moving like a cow chewing its cud. “Has been for a while.”
“Where will I find her?” Her butler’s chest and shoulders swelled up like some ancient warrior preparing to rush into battle. He was incredibly protective of his mistress, Marcus would give him that. “I can simply meander through the residence until I run across her.”
“Not if I lock you in.”
“You don’t think I’d break down the door? Pit yourself against me, Brewster, and you’ll discover you’ll always lose.”
“Don’t be so sure. But you’ll find her in the library.”
“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
What was hard was maintaining his patience while more water was brought up. He quickly bathed, took a razor to his face, and dressed in attire that smelled of her. The terrace house was good-sized, but its layout was simple, and he had no trouble at all locating the library. He’d approached quietly, his stealth paying off as he stood in the doorway, studying her standing partially bent behind the desk, her hands resting on it, asshe examined an array of what appeared to be papers spread out over it. Her dark green frock buttoned to her chin, down to her wrists. It wasn’t as provocatively designed as the first night’s red or last night’s gold attire, and yet it was far more enticing because he thought of the pleasure he’d take in slowly setting each of those buttons free, touching a finger and then his tongue to each bit of skin revealed. To uncover the whole of her and feast.
“It’s rude to stare, Stanwick.”
He deflated. “How long have you known I was here?”
She lifted her gaze from the items she was scrutinizing and skewered him with her golden-brown eyes. “From the moment you arrived. How is your shoulder this morning?”
He began walking toward her. “Aches like the very devil.” He stopped before the desk. “How is your—”Breast.He fought not to clear his throat. “—wound?”
One side of her mouth quirked up. “I find it rather charming that you blush. I’d have not expected it of you.”
“I’m not blushing.” He was rather certain he was, damn her. “I’ve just come from a rather warm bath.”
She gave the tiniest of nods. “As you wish. My breast aches as well. At least your clothing isn’t designed to hug you like a lover. I dispensed with the corset this morning.”
Yet, still, she was so well toned that not oneaspect of her sagged or drooped out of place. “I daresay you don’t require one.”
“A compliment. I shall be the one blushing next.”
