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His skin began to prickle. His fists began to clench. “Which ones?”
“It’s not important.”
It was. He couldn’t punish them if he didn’t have their names. But first things first. “What did they say to you?”
She raised her chin to a challenging tilt. “Various things. Mostly that I’d be better off in their… employ.” A wry smile tugged. “Moreappreciatedas a woman.”
His stomach churned. He scraped a hand over his mouth. “These men offered to make you their mistress, then.”
“Hmm. One supposes they meant it as a compliment.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because it didn’t matter. It still doesn’t.” The kettle began singing, and she turned to reach for it. Inches before she burnt her hand, he clasped her wrist and offered her a towel. She nodded her thanks. “What others think of me has never mattered more than my position with you.” She filled the teapot and set the kettle on a trivet. “They thought they were being charitable, offering me houses and affection over bluestocking drudgery.”
Fury gripped him hard. He tightened every muscle, willing it to subside. “So, they assumed you’d make a fine mistress, just not mine. What would give them such a notion?”
At first, he didn’t think she’d answer. She gazed up at him with those soft, gray-green eyes he often compared to celadon. A crinkle formed between pale brows. Her lower lip trembled then firmed. “A safe assumption,” she whispered tightly. “Everyone knows I’m not your sort.”
For a moment, he couldn’t speak. She might as well have kicked him in the nether bits with her fabled half-boots.
She carried the tea tray into the front room.
He followed, still trying to swallow the baffling pain in his chest. The men who’d propositioned her on “several occasions” would be dealt with later. But right now, he needed to take care of her. Feed her. Hold her.
The desire was an ache. And the ache was growing.
“Before tea, let’s get you warm and dry,” he said.
She nodded and started for the bedchamber. He followed. She tossed his coat on the bed and removed her pelisse before facing him with an exasperated frown. “I believe I can manage from here, Mr. Farrington.”
“Call me Andrew. Under the circumstances, formality is absurd.”
Blushing, she adjusted her spectacles and arched a brow. “Very well. You may wait in the other room, Andrew.”
“Won’t you need help with your gown and such?”
“No.”
He examined the gown she’d worn beneath her pelisse, a green twill frock with long sleeves. The high-necked bodice fastened in the back. His gaze lingered a bit longer. While she often hid beneath plain, modest clothing, she had a trim, compact frame with a small waist and slight bosom suited to a petite woman.
Her dress was soaked from shoulders to hem. He’d wager the layers beneath were wet, too. Wet linen clinging to sweet, small breasts. She’d have to strip away everything—petticoats, shift, stockings. Everything. Suddenly, his skin felt a bit tight. A bit hot. “No doubt you’ll have trouble reaching all the fastenings. And perhaps your… stays.” He swallowed against a dry throat. “Are you certain you wouldn’t like me to—”
“Yes,” came the tart reply. “I don’t need my employer to help me undress.”
“Husband. I’m your husband, not your employer.”
“For now.”
He frowned. “For good.”
“Don’t be silly. We can’t remain married.”
Obviously, the cold was affecting her judgment. And heat was affecting his. “We’ll discuss this when you’re more comfortable.” He exited the room, calling over his shoulder, “My offer stands.”
“I’ll be fine. Drink your tea.” The door closed with a click.
Desperately needing to cool off, he went outside to retrieve water from the well. They’d need it for washing and perhaps more tea. Wind and snow blasted through his shirt. He cursed as he realized he’d forgotten to reclaim his coat from Euphemia. Still, the cold worked as he’d intended, easing his discomfort enough to return inside.
