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And yet, he’d scarce slept at the club the night before, too much noise, until finally he’d roused his driver and returned home, in spite of the ungodly hour, given that it was not even dawn when he vacated the rooms he’d been lent.
And now this, this entirely inappropriate fantasy about his model. He hadn’t had such dreams since he’d been a callow youth. Since before he took to the battlefield.
He frowned, then dropped his arm to look at the ceiling, only just being painted with the rosy lights of dawn. To dream in such a manner was beyond embarrassing, but it was far more pleasant than his usual nightmares.
Not once in the night had he dreamed of the dying, of the blood and heat and muck of battle, and the terrors that abounded in the field of combat. For the first time in months, if not years, he did not wake with screams echoing in his ears, nor cannon fire. No phantom pains from a wound inflicted, no grief on behalf of comrades that had been struck down.
How long had he prayed for the nightmares to end? How often had he begged, in the innermost corners of his mind, for some respite? When had he last slept this peacefully, without resorting to poppy, which he despised because of its side effects? For how easily men could be addicted to it?
A long time. Since before his return to England.
Daniel heaved himself out of bed, staggering toward the dressing table and the pitcher of water there, along with a basin. Thoughts of war had reduced some of the tension in his nether regions, but by no means all of it. He would need to tame himself before Hetty arrived.
There was a large mirror set above the table, and he studied himself in it as he poured out the cool water into the basin.
A lean man stared back at him, hair tangled and mussed from uneasy sleep, a shadow of a beard gracing his jaw. He was not as drawn and gaunt as he had been when first he had come home, and that was an improvement. Even so, he was far from a vision that many women would admire.
Scars crisscrossed his shoulders and torso, his arms, and his back, in an irregular fashion. Wounds made in the heat of battle and not always tended to well, or even at all, when supplies were tight. Though not visible in the mirror, he could feel the knotted scar on his left calf, where shrapnel had struck him. He’d been lucky it hadn’t been an inch higher, or it might have shattered his knee.
Then there was the stab wound just below his ribcage, and a long, diagonal line from another fight, where he’d barely come out alive and not intact. Three different spots where he’d had to have musket shot cut out of him, though luckily none of them had gone too deep. Defensive wounds traced up and down his arms, and there was a two-inch scar on his lower back, where a man had got behind him and tried to put a knife through his gut. He’d almost succeeded too—he might have if Jackson hadn’t been watching out for him, if he had failed to strike the man from the side.
So many scars. His mood soured, and he splashed water on his face to clear it of lingering sleep, then wiped his face on a towel.
Toomany scars. They were usually concealed by his clothing, but if he did engage in intimacy with a woman, she would see them. And she would, no doubt, be unwilling to proceed any further. True, Jackson had managed to secure a lady to love, even with the scar across his face for all to see, but how much different would it be, for a lady to think she was getting a man who was whole, only to see he was far from it?
He wondered what Hetty would think of the scars. With a renewed scowl, he shook his head to banish the thought firmly from his mind. Wayward dreams or no, Hetty Smith would not see his scars. She would see no more of him than she had seen already. His fantasies would remain just that. Fantasies.
He gave the mirror a final look, then rang for Danvers to begin his day.
* * *
There was something different about the Marquess today. She wasn’t sure what had changed, however.
It wasn’t her impending absence. He had accepted her request and her excuse of needing to do errands in town without argument, only commenting that he had a prior engagement as well and would have canceled their session himself.
This was their third session, and she was gradually becoming more comfortable with her role. It was becoming less and less embarrassing to stand before the window with only a sheet protecting her modesty. Now she was comfortable enough to experiment with changing the position of the sheet in small ways, to show off her figure. A small adjustment brought it more snugly around her hips, and she’d lowered the hand that held the top half until it was just barely concealing her bosom and definitely revealing more cleavage than any dress she owned.
She had no idea what the Marquess thought about the adjustments. He made no comment one way or the other. He seemed to be wholly focused on the marble, which was slowly taking recognizable shape by his hands.
She wondered if he would consider a question on her part impertinent. Not that he had refused her any other answers, but what she had in mind was somewhat more personal than she had yet dared to ask.
She watched him work for a while, his expression solemn and still as the marble itself. The Marquess appeared to be incredibly focused, and she was somewhat hesitant to disturb his work, though he had never shown any sign of disliking her interruptions before.
But he had been distant today. He had not answered her playful greeting with his usual humor, only a terse command to take her pose. And he seemed to be ignoring her except for quick glances to compare some detail of her stance with the marble he was shaping.
She watched him a few moments more and decided that it was better to take the risk. “Lord Salisbury, have I done something in error?”
Moss-green eyes, darker than usual, flickered her way. “You have not.”
“Have I done something to displease you, then?”
“Nothing of the sort. Your pose has greatly improved from your initial efforts.”
“Have my attempts at conversation disturbed you, my lord?”
“No.” His jaw clenched, then his expression smoothed back out into its customary sternness. “It is nothing to do with you, Miss Smith.”
“And yet, you seem most displeased. If it is not something I have done, then pray tell why I am so much the focus of your apparent ill-humor.”
