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With one pail on the carpet, she rasped the door. At his call, she opened it, took the pail and entered.
Lightning struck her on the spot. Edmund stood in the chamber, open shirt, breeches, no boots, and no socks. A wave of heat splashed through her, thirty percent bashfulness, the rest, nameless.
Her wide honey eyes slid down from his bristled square jaw and strong neck, to intrude in a vee of taut chest sprinkled with coal hair, calamitously hiding from view where the opening ended at the top of his ribs. The breeches wrapped muscular thighs, under which lay long, elegant feet with blunt toes. The damned man was more desperately gorgeous than a Grecian sculpture.
Breath arrested in her lungs as her mind struggled to continue functioning. The stillness that overtook the chamber enveloped her in a haze of delightful revelling for several moments. How could this despicable man provoke such a reaction?
The heavy pails saved her from shame, making themselves heavier. Her attention snapped to his face; his jet eyes were fixed on her.
“Your bath, my lord.” Unclasping her gaze from his, she marched to the dressing room.
“Are there no footmen to do this?” His incisive tone almost transformed her into a puddle of feverish response.
Her expression schooled to neutral when she answered. “We have a footman and a maid, but both are engaged in the laundry today.” And she proceeded to prepare his bath.
He padded behind her although she wished he did not. This was his manor, his bedchamber. There was nothing she could do about it.
“I will re-hire all the servants back,” he said. “Here, let me help you.”
Before she had time to protest, he grabbed the pails and poured them in the tub. The dressing room had a cramped space which obliged them to stand close. Too close. The steam curled in the air, creating an atmosphere of intimacy which should only be labelled indecent. His tall frame stood inches from her, irradiating pure male power together with the scent of horse, leather and undeniable man with a hint of clove oil. Her head fogged more densely than the room. In between gulps of forgotten air, she turned to the dressing table to pick up the bathing salts and the towel.
While bending to add the bathing salt, a strand of her hair escaped the confines of her hastily made bun. Vexation for his proximity and her unwilling reaction to it washed over her. No chance to re-do her hair now, she lamented as she straightened and turned to him. She met dark eyes, clasped on her. They took in the fallen strand as if smoothing it from root to tip, continuing down to her apron-covered bosom. His eyes darkened, if that was even possible. Her heart scrambled to a race, her skin flushed, and her breasts, damn it all.
Her mind clung to the last ounce of self-control. “Your bath is ready, my lord,” Otilia informed him in what she hoped was a level tone. “If you excuse me,” she murmured and strived to skirt him in the narrow space.
As she passed by him, he held her arm, forcing her to halt. Her honey gaze touched his hand, feeling its warmth through the fabric of her sleeve while more heat incinerated the skin beneath it. Her head barely reached his shoulder, so she must lift it to face him. “How long have you been doing this?” he rasped, granite imprinted on his expression.
By “this” she imagined he meant the household chores. “Since uncle got too indebted to pay the servants.” For her, helping meant repaying Earnest for his acceptance and affability towards her. It was nothing really.
“I asked how long.” She would have dived head first in that commanding tone, had it not become icier.
“Two years.” If he wanted precision, he would have it.
His long, elegant hand caught hers, and he turned it up to show reddened skin and calluses. His shapely thumb glided over her palm with torturous slowness, pausing over each callus. The contact of their skin blew into the most shameful sensation darting somewhere low in her belly. The shock of it caused her to snap her head to him. He was not looking at her hand. Not at all. His attention fastened on her, not missing any micro-movement she might display. Where had the oxygen gone when she most needed it? The steam from the water swirled between them, worsening the hazy sensuality of the moment.
Not five seconds had elapsed as she plucked her hand from his.
“You will stop it at once,” he issued.
Otilia was not stupid to the point of contradicting the Earl’s orders. Contradict did not mean obey, well understood. Unwilling to be crammed with him in that cubicle for a minute longer, she curtsied and left.
As if escaping from a dungeon of torture, she rushed to the washing room to hang the clothes with which Robson and Martha had done.
CHAPTER TWO
Edmund sat at the head of the table in the dining room with a sense of unease hovering in the back of his mind. Otilia behaved in a completely different fashion to what he expected. Come to it, unexpected should be elected the word of the day. Nothing here had gone as predicted. The woman he met did not match the one in his memory. All right, leave his memory be. He did not want to go there.
That she proved to be a busy bee and performed chores around the manor came as a complete surprise to him. Where did the woman interested in digging a title for herself go? Someone aspiring to a noble marriage would not work, they would consider themselves too good for that. Working was for the bourgeoisie, the middle-classes, the miserable living in the poor slums of this country. Never a noblewoman. Despite her parentage, or lack thereof, her mother had been a lady. Otilia herself grew up with a polished education and the training in deportment as a lady. Everybody knew she owned no such future, but she gained the skills, anyway.
After refreshing from the trip, he sat in the study to check the ledgers. They showed to be impeccable, with notations in a feminine hand he would bet his fortune on to be hers. She had apparently been running the manor as a housekeeper since Earnest passed. Brentwood had not made it to England until a few weeks ago, caught up in business. His export company for fabrics produced by the cotton mills up north resulted in a pretty profit. Now that the Napoleonic wars had ended, more so than ever. Therefore, he travelled the continent to sell them. Only when he disembarked in England had he found a man of business to act in his stead, giving him the chance to come to Leicester and see to the estate.
Otilia had kept the manor’s front in excellence. Not that he would tell her this. The impression he got was that she wanted nothing to do with him. And who would blame her? He did not pose as the most accommodating of men. He did not care to be. And she did not care for him, clearly.
Well, not until she opened his chamber and ogled him as if he was the most appetising morsel in sight. His blood rushed south faster than a meteorite. He did not think twice before following her to the dressing room. Only to conclude he made a mistake when he watched her bend to test the temperature in the tub and then put in the salt. Her delectable derriere was at the mercy of his appreciation, and her breasts were hanging ready for his attention. Her hair falling from its bun made it worse. He had this unstoppable impulse to roll the strand around his finger and pull her to him. His feverish body had settled for taking her hand instead. Who would have said that thumbing calluses would be the wickedest erotic move a man of thirty-three could ever experience? The bath was not as relaxing as he hoped, with these cravings thrumming through his flesh.
The dining room door opened, and Otilia marched in balancing a heavy silver soup bowl in her hands. Her straight spine and elegant movements brought to mind a high priestess carrying the oldest relic. She had not changed the high waist black dress from earlier which meant she had no intention of joining him. Fury flashed hot at her blatant disobedience of his
express orders.
