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He scowled as if he couldn’t believe what he saw, but then he started to chuckle. “Ah, even here you thwart me.”
“My lord?”
“I deserved the beating for being so arrogant. You are a credit to womankind, Rachel—bright and refreshing.”
She moved the pieces back into their starting places. “Perhaps you would like me to beat you again, since it obviously pleases you?”
She was teasing. She could tell he understood that, and yet he grew serious.
“There is one thing that would please me more.”
Unable to tear her eyes away from his, she curled her nails into her already tender palms. “And that is… ?”
“Did you know it was me, Rachel?”
He was talking about that night in his bed. She could tell by the level of his intensity. No doubt it would ease his conscience to hear the truth, but she couldn’t reveal that she’d recognized him without also revealing that she’d wanted him as badly as he’d thought.
“I was… drugged or something,” she mumbled.
His gaze remained steady on hers. “That isn’t what I asked you. You wanted me to remove my glove. You wanted to feel both my hands on you with nothing in between. No one else would wear a glove while making love to a woman. I only left it on because—”
At last she managed to look away and wished she could hide her face too. “I know why you left it on. But I don’t find your hand nearly so repulsive as you seem to think I will.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.”
“I didn’t know it was you.”
“Despite the glove.”
“Despite the glove. I had no idea where I was.”
“Then I take full responsibility.” He stood. “It’s late. We are done for the night. Enjoy your new sleeping quarters.”
That he had accepted her words as the truth reminded her of what he’d said in the bookshop the night he appeared out of nowhere, and that stung her conscience. His opinion had been far more accurate when he mocked her: You would never willingly give yourself to me, not for money, not for anything.… I am your nemesis.
She’d believed he was her nemesis. Even now, she had the feeling he could all too easily destroy her if she wasn’t smart. The yearning she felt whenever he drew near—it wasn’t safe, which was why she left the subject as it stood and headed for the door.
But after only a few steps, she turned back. She couldn’t lie to him any longer, even if such honesty left her vulnerable. From the beginning, he’d acknowledged his part in what had occurred; maybe it was time she did the same.
“I knew it was you the moment you touched me,” she admitted and left.
Truman was drinking too much. He hoped it would dull his mind and slow the racing of his heart to the point that he would be able to sleep. But that seemed unlikely, given Rachel’s parting words.
Linley was right. He should find her another position, with a master who would be kind. He could check on her periodically, make it possible for Geordie to see her now and then. Keeping her here where she was perfectly accessible to him threatened everything he’d just achieved in London. If he couldn’t find the missing Bruegel paintings, he had to accept the Duke of Pembroke’s offer. Without the duke’s support, the Abbotts would triumph, and he would be tried for murder.
So why was he tempting fate?
Because he couldn’t bring himself to do otherwise. Maybe Rachel was stubborn, opinionated and steeped in the philosophies of her class, but she soothed his beleaguered soul like no one else.
I knew it was you the moment you touched me. That potent admission made his body ache with desire—desire that had to go unfulfilled. He would not cost Rachel any more of her self-respect.
At least he had the small revenge of knowing that Katherine had to be turning over in her grave. She’d always wanted to drive him to distraction, hated that she couldn’t enslave him as she did her other men. That he was consumed with desire for someone else, someone she would consider far inferior, would have driven her mad, if she were around to see it.
He offered her portrait a taunting smile. “Our newest servant is taking your rooms, love. She is asleep in your bed this very instant.” He held the last of his drink high. “And heaven help me if I wouldn’t trade a fortune to join her there.”
Someone was looming over her. Rachel almost screamed before she realized it was Lord Druridge. She was no longer in the utilitarian garret with the other maids. She was asleep in his late wife’s bed, which was far bigger and more comfortable than any place she’d slept before.
“My lord? Is something wrong?” Oddly, she wasn’t frightened. Once she knew who it was, she scooted into a sitting position.
He carried a lamp, which he set on her bedside table. He didn’t seem as steady as usual. She got the impression that maybe he’d had too much to drink. The scent of brandy clung to him, as did the scent of the outdoors, even though he’d come to her room through his own. She could see the light of his fire through the open doorway.
“What good does it do to lock my door if you have the key?” she asked.
He didn’t answer the question. “I found what you need,” he told her.
“What I need?”
“The horse salve. This is what I used after the fire. It helps a great deal. I had to wake William Grude, but he knew right where it was.”
This couldn’t have waited until morning? When did this man sleep? “You went out in the cold for the sake of… of my hands?”
“Let me see them.”
Dutifully, she allowed him to apply the thick salve, which brought instant relief—not from the pain but from the dryness and cracking.
“You’re not wearing your glove,” she said.
“It’s dark.”
“I can feel the difference.”
He instantly withdrew. “You can apply the ointment yourself, I’m sure.”
She knew she shouldn’t, but she reached out to capture that particular hand before he could go. She couldn’t help wanting to feel, once again, the flesh that had been damaged, to soothe any residual pain, to become familiar with such an irregularity. This was a part of him he shared with no one. She liked that aspect, liked the intimacy of touching what he wouldn’t trust just anyone to touch.
She stared up at him, trying to see him more clearly in the darkness as her fingers explored the damage. He seemed unsure, hesitant, as though he was anxious to pull away rather than expose himself where he was most vulnerable. But she’d been telling the truth. His scars didn’t bother her. On the contrary, they brought back memories of their night together, when he removed his glove and touched her with the hand that was unique to him.
