She lost track of time and must have dozed off, because when she opened her eyes, the light had shifted. There was a faint, unmistakable sound of boots on the corridor stone.
She sat up, water lapping at her collarbones. The door creaked, and before she could gasp, Felix strode in, unannounced, in full morning dress. He stopped two feet inside the room and took in the tableau with a raised brow, equal parts mockery and appraisal.
“You can’t be in here,” Rose blurted.
He ignored her. “You’ve been gone for hours. I was beginning to think you’d run away to the nunnery again.”
She felt a flush begin at her chest and crawl up her neck, hotter than the bath. “I needed to bathe. After last night.”
Felix’s gaze flicked briefly to the open tub, then back to her face. “So I see.”
The maid knocked and entered, bearing a tray of tea and freshly folded towels. She froze on the threshold at the sight of her employer and the lady in such unclothed proximity.
“Your Grace—forgive me, I thought?—”
Felix turned to her, all charm and command. “Thank you, Mary. That will be all. I’ll help my wife.”
The maid made a sound like a stifled giggle and retreated, closing the door. Rose stared at Felix, who stood inspecting the array of bath oils with an air of supreme disinterest.
“You didn’t need to do that. I am perfectly capable?—”
He cut her off. “I know. But I wished to speak with you.” His eyes found hers in the mirror above the mantel. “Also, if we are to keep up the appearance of a normal marriage, it would be odd if the duke never spent time in his wife’s chambers.”
She glared at him, which only widened his smile. He plucked the linen shift from the chair and held it up.
“You can’t expect me to…” she began, trailing off as Felix moved closer, so that the warmth from his body cut through the moist air.
He extended the shift. “I promise to be perfectly decorous.”
“Close your eyes,” she said, and when he did, she stepped out of the bath.
He slipped the shift over her head, careful and precise, his hands lingering just a fraction too long at her shoulders as he straightened the fabric. Rose’s skin tingled.
“You can open them now.”
He did, and for a moment, his eyes drank in every inch of her. The hunger there was something deeply personal, almost reverent.
He touched her cheek with his thumb, catching a drop of water. “Thank you,” he said, so soft she barely heard.
“For what?”
“For not giving up on her. Or on yourself.”
She looked down, suddenly aware of how her hands twisted the edge of the shift. “I would do it a hundred times if I had to.”
His fingers trailed down to her wrist, where her pulse thrummed. “That is what terrifies me. You would.”
She pulled back. “You did not come here just to thank me, did you?”
He shrugged. “I came because I wanted to see you. To see if you were real.”
“I assure you, I’m real,” Rose tried to laugh.
He cocked his head, then leaned in and, with infinite care, tucked a loose strand of damp hair behind her ear. The touch made her whole body tighten.
“Why do you blush so much?” he asked. “You act as if you’re invisible, but you must know you’re not.”
He pressed his advantage, drawing her toward the mirror. “Look,” he said, voice gone hoarse. “See what I see.”
