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“Your Grace.”
His reply made her want to cry, and she didn’t know why. He was… something to her now, but it was all so complicated, made more so by his title and all it entailed. If only he’d been a pleasantly poor man—a solicitor or merchant. Penelope wouldn’t have been interested in him then. Artemis wouldn’t bear the guilt that she was hurting her dear cousin. They could’ve married and she would tend his house and cook their meals. It would’ve been so much more simpler.
And then, too, she would’ve had him all to herself.
He turned back to the dresser without a word, picked up a flannel cloth, and rubbed it with soap. He raised one arm, the muscles flexing on his back in a rather spectacular show, and washed himself along that side and under his arm.
He dipped the cloth into the basin and repeated the performance on the right side as well before finally glancing over at her just as she shivered again.
Maximus scowled and dropped the cloth into the water. He stoked the fire, making it flame high. Then he strode to his wardrobe and plucked out a lap rug, came to her, and arranged the plush folds over her legs.
“You should’ve told me you were cold.” His hands were infinitely gentle.
“Your water is cold,” she murmured. “Doesn’t it bother you?”
He shrugged. “I find it bracing.”
“Then bring your cloth here.”
He looked at her curiously, but did as she bade.
She took the wet cloth from him. “Turn around and kneel.”
He arched one brow, and she remembered that she was ordering a duke to kneel before her. But he wasn’t just that anymore, was he? He was Maximus now.
Maximus, her lover.
He turned and lowered himself. The fire burnished his broad back, highlighting muscle and sinew.
Slowly she drew the wet cloth between his shoulder blades.
He bowed his head and arched his back.
She took the hint and rubbed the cloth gently over the damp hair at the top of his neck before drawing the cloth down his spine.
He drew in a breath. “I was fourteen when they died.”
She hesitated only a fraction of a second before she smoothed the cloth back up his spine.
“I…” His shoulders moved restlessly. “I didn’t know what to do. How to find their killer. I was angry.”
She thought about a boy deprived of his parents in such a shocking way. “Angry” was probably a great understatement.
“I spent the next two months doing what I had to. I was the duke.” His shoulders bunched and flexed. “But every night I thought about my parents—and what I would do to their murderer when I found him. I was fairly tall for my age—nearly six feet tall—and I thought I could defend myself. I started going into St. Giles at night.”
Artemis shuddered at the thought of any boy—for a fourteen-year-old youth was still a boy to her mind—going into St. Giles after dark, no matter how tall he might be.
“I had a fencing master and I considered myself quite good,” Maximus continued. “Still, it wasn’t enough. I was badly beaten and robbed by a footpad one night. I got two black eyes. Craven was quite angry.”
“You had Craven even then?”
He nodded. “Craven had been my father’s valet. I suspect he made inquiries. The next day as I lay in bed, I had a caller.”
She drew the cloth gently over his shoulders. “Who?”
“His name was Sir Stanley Gilpin. He was a business partner and friend of my father’s—not a particularly close one, actually, as I found out later.”
“Why did he visit?” She’d finished washing his back, but she was loath to stop touching him. Gingerly she stroked a bare finger over the bunched muscle at his neck. It was so hard.
