by Julia Quinn
“Sir,” the young lady said with a quick curtsy, “your bath is ready.”
“You need it even more now,” Cecilia said, motioning to his ink-smudged fingers. It went without saying that no one at the Devil’s Head had the time or inclination to seal the ink with a hot iron.
“It does make one long for the comforts of home,” he murmured, glancing idly at his fingertips.
She arched a brow. “Really? This is what you miss most? A well-ironed newspaper?”
He shot her a bit of a look, but she rather thought he liked when she teased him. He was not the sort of man who would wish to be treated like an invalid, with people tiptoeing around him and watching their words. Still, when he set down the newspaper and glanced toward the exit, Cecilia stopped herself from asking if he would like assistance up the stairs and instead stood and silently held out her arm. She had seen what it cost him to ask for her help back in the hospital.
Some things were best done without words.
She was grateful, actually, that he’d ignored her in favor of the Gazette throughout their meal. She was still unnerved by his offer to release her from their marriage. She had never—never—expected him to do that. In retrospect, she counted herself fortunate that her knees hadn’t buckled beneath her. She had been just standing there with a pile of Dutch biscuits and all of a sudden he offered to set her free.
As if he had been the one to trap her.
She should have done it. She tried to lie to herself and say that she would have done it except . . .
The expression on his face.
He’d not moved a muscle. But it wasn’t as if he’d frozen. He was just . . . still.
She’d thought he might have been holding his breath.
She’d thought he might not even have realized he was holding his breath.
He did not want her to go.
Cecilia did not know why she was so certain of this; there was no reason for her to know his expressions, to be able to interpret the emotions held deep and tight behind his sapphire eyes. She’d only truly known him—face-to-face—for one day.
She couldn’t imagine why he wanted her to stay, save for the fact that he needed a nursemaid and she was convenient, but he seemed to want to remain married to her.
The irony just grew and grew.
But, she reminded herself, she could not risk revealing the truth before their meeting with Major Wilkins. She had a feeling that Captain Edward Rokesby was a paragon of honesty, and she did not know if he would, or even could, bring himself to lie to his military superior. He might feel honor bound to inform him that while he did wish to aid Miss Cecilia Harcourt in her search for her brother, he was not, as a point of fact, her husband.
Cecilia could not even imagine the outcome of that conversation.
No, if she confessed her duplicity to Edward, it would have to be after they saw the major.
She told herself this was acceptable.
She told herself lots of things.
And then she tried not to think about it.
“The treads on the stairs are narrow,” she said to Edward as they approached the stairs, “and the risers are steep.”
He grunted his thanks for the warning, and with her hand supporting his arm, they made their way up. She could not imagine what this did to him, to be so dependent on others. She had never seen him in full health, but he was tall, probably almost a full six feet, and his shoulders looked as if they would be broad and strong when he had a bit more muscle on his bones.
This was not a man used to needing help up a flight of stairs.
“We’re just down the hall,” she said, tipping her head to the left when they reached their floor. “Number twelve.”
He nodded, and when they approached their door, she let go of his arm and handed him the key. It was not much, but it was something he could do for her, and she knew it would make him feel a little better, even if he did not realize why.
But then, in the last second before he slid the key into place, he said, “This is your last chance.”
“I—I beg your pardon?”
The key turned in the lock, the click echoing loudly in the hall.
“If you wish to annul our union,” he said in a voice that did not waver, “you must tell me now.”
Cecilia tried to say something, truly she did, but her heart was slamming toward her throat, and her fingers and toes almost felt as if they were fizzing with nerves. She did not think she had ever been so startled. Or panicked.
“I will say this only once,” Edward said, his steadiness a clear contrast to the pandemonium erupting inside her. “Once you enter the room, our marriage is final.”
Nervous laughter bubbled through her throat. “Don’t be silly. You’re hardly going to ravish me this afternoon.” Then it occurred to her that she might have just insulted his manhood. “Er, at least not before your bath.”
“You know as well as I that it does not matter when I take you to bed,” he said, his eyes burning down on hers. “Once we enter that room together, as a married couple, you will be compromised.”
“You can’t compromise your wife,” she tried to joke.
He swore, the single word emerging in a low, frustrated growl. The blasphemy was utterly out of character, and enough to startle Cecilia into taking a step back.
“This is nothing to make light of,” he said. Again, he seemed to be holding himself scrupulously still, but this time he was betrayed by the pulse beating furiously in his throat. “I am offering you the opportunity to leave.”
She felt her head shaking. “But why?”
He looked up and down the hall before hissing, “Because I’m bloody well damaged.”
It would have been a shout if they were not in so public a place, of that Cecilia was sure. The intensity of his voice would be seared on her mind for an eternity.
And it broke her heart.
“No, Edward,” she tried to reassure him. “You must not think that way. You are—”
“I am missing a piece of my mind,” he cut in.
“No. No.” It was all she could seem to say.
He grabbed her shoulders, his fingers biting her skin. “You need to understand this, Cecilia. I am not whole.”
She shook her head. She wanted to tell him that he was perfect, and that she was a fraud. And that she was so so sorry for taking advantage of his condition.
She would never be able to make this up to him.
He let go of her abruptly. “I am not the man you married.”
“I’m probably not the woman you married either,” she mumbled.
He stared at her. He stared at her for so long that her skin began to tingle. “But I think . . .” she whispered, only just figuring it out as the words left her lips. “I think you might need me.”
“Jesus God, Cecilia, you have no idea.”
And then, right in the middle of the corridor, he hauled her into his arms and kissed her.
He hadn’t planned to do it. For Christ’s sake, he’d been trying to do the right thing. But she’d been staring up at him with those seafoam eyes, and when she’d whispered that he needed her . . .
The only thing that could have made him harder was if she’d said she needed him.
He had no strength. He’d lost at least a stone and could not even make it up the stairs on his own, but by God he could kiss his wife.
“Edward,” she gasped.
He tugged her through the door. “We’re staying married.”
“Oh God.”
He had no idea what she meant by that, but he didn’t think he cared.
The room was small, with a bed that took up nearly half the floor, so it wasn’t difficult for him to find his way to the edge of the mattress and sit, pulling her along with him.
“Edward, I—”
“Shhh,” he commanded, taking her face in his hands. “I want to look at you.”
“Why?”
He smiled. “Because you’re mine.”
&
nbsp; Her lips parted into a delectable oval, and he took that as a sign from above and kissed her again. She did not respond at first, but she did not push him away. Rather, he had the sense that she was holding herself very still, holding her very breath, waiting to see if the moment was real.
And then, just when he thought he must pull himself away, he felt it—a tiny movement of her lips, the sound of her voice through his skin as she made a small moan.
“Cecilia,” he whispered. He did not know what he had done these last few months, but he had a feeling it had not been something to be proud of. It had not been pure, and lovely, and everything he saw when he looked in her eyes.
When he kissed her, he tasted the promise of redemption.
He brushed his mouth over hers, softly, like a whisper. But it wasn’t quite enough, and when she let out a little mewl of desire, he nipped her, his teeth scraping gently along the soft skin of her inner lip.
He wanted to do this all afternoon. Just lie next to her on the bed and worship her like the goddess she was. It would be just a kiss; he was hardly capable of anything more. But it would be an endless kiss—soft, slow, and deep, each caress melting into the next.
It was so strange—desire without urgency. He decided he liked it—for now. When he was strong, when he once again felt like himself, he would make love to her with every piece of his soul, and he knew enough of himself—and of her—that the experience would take him to the edge.
And then push him right over.
“You are beautiful,” he murmured, and then, because it seemed so important that she knew he saw the beauty she held within, he said, “and so good.”
She stiffened. It was the tiniest motion, but his every sense was so attuned to her he would have known it if she had breathed differently.
“We must stop,” she said, and although he heard regret in her voice, he did not hear a lack of resolve.
He sighed. He wanted her. He felt it inside like a growing plume, but he could not make love to her in this state—unwashed, exhausted. She deserved far more, and frankly, so did he.
“Your water will grow cold,” she said.
He glanced over at the tub. It was not large, but it would do, and he knew that the steam rising from the surface would not last long.
“I should go downstairs,” she said, awkwardly coming to her feet. The dress she was wearing was a soft, dusty pink, and her hand seemed to melt into it as she clutched at the skirts, twisting the material between her fingers.
She looked utterly mortified, and he could not help but find it adorable.
“You should not feel embarrassed,” he reminded her. “I am your husband.”
“Not yet,” she mumbled. “Not that way.”
He felt a smile rising inside.
“I really should go,” she said without actually taking a step.
The smile spread into a fully fledged grin. “Do not leave on my account. I believe in medieval times, bathing one’s husband was considered an important wifely duty.”
At that she rolled her eyes, and a warm happiness began to roll out within him. She was amusing when she was embarrassed, but he liked it better when she was holding her own against him.
“I could drown, you know,” he said.
“Oh please.”
“I could. I’m very tired. What if I fell asleep in the tub?”
She paused, and for a few seconds he thought she might actually believe him. “You’re not going to fall asleep in the tub,” she finally said.
He gave a dramatic sigh, as if to say—You never know, but he took pity on her and said, “Come back in ten minutes.”
“Only ten?”
“Is that a comment on my general level of filth?”
“Yes,” she said quite plainly.
He laughed aloud. “You are very entertaining, did you know that, Cecilia Rokesby?”
She rolled her eyes again, handing him the towel that had been left folded neatly at the end of the bed.
He feigned a sigh. “I would say it was why I married you, but we both know that isn’t true.”
She turned to look at him, her face oddly without expression. “What did you say?”
He shrugged as he pulled off his coat. “I obviously don’t remember why I married you.”
“Oh. I thought you meant . . .”
He regarded her with raised brows.
“Never mind.”
“No, tell me.”
But her face had already gone quite red. “I thought perhaps you were referring to . . .”
He waited. She didn’t finish. “The kiss?” he supplied.
He had not thought her skin could reach an even deeper hue, but it did. He took the two steps that lay between them and touched her chin with just enough pressure to raise her gaze to his.
“If I had kissed you before our wedding,” he said softly, “there would be no doubt right now as to the permanence of our marriage.”
Her brow wrinkled in adorable confusion.
He brushed his lips against hers and then said against her cheek, “If I had known what it meant to kiss you, I should not have allowed the army to send me away.”
“You’re just saying that,” she said, her words a mumble near his ear.
He drew back with an amused smile.
“You would not refuse a direct order,” she said.
“From you? Never.”
“Stop,” she said, batting him playfully away. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
He took her hand and dropped a courtly kiss on her knuckles. Damn if he wasn’t feeling ridiculously romantic. “I assure you, Mrs. Rokesby, I would have found time for a wedding night.”
“You need to take your bath.”
“Ouch.”
“Unless you like cold water.”
He was beginning to think he might need cold water. “Point taken. But if I might add one more thing to the conversation . . .”
“Why do I think I will be blushing like a fiend a few seconds from now?”
“You’re already blushing,” he took great joy in telling her, “and I was merely going to say—”
“I’ll be downstairs!” she called, making a dash for the door.
Edward smiled from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, even when all that was left for him to look at was the inside of his bedroom door.
“I was merely going to say,” he said aloud, his happiness coloring each word warm and pink, “that it would have been spectacular.”
It will be spectacular, he thought as he stripped off the rest of his clothing and lowered himself into the tub.
Soon, if he had anything to do with it.
Chapter 6
What the devil are you talking about? You don’t have a freakishly large nose.
—from Thomas Harcourt to his sister Cecilia
Edward had said he needed ten minutes, but Cecilia waited a solid twenty-five before venturing back to room twelve. She had been planning to remain downstairs for half an hour, but then she started thinking—he was still terribly weak. What if he was having difficulty getting out of the tub?
The water would be cold by now. He could be catching a chill. He deserved his privacy, and she certainly wanted to give it to him, but not at the expense of his health.
It was true that she had seen him in a most improper state when she was caring for him back in hospital, but she’d not seen all of him. She’d learned to be very creative with the bedsheet. She’d draped it this way and that, always managing to preserve his dignity.
And her modesty.
All of New York might think her a married woman, but she was still very much an innocent, even if one kiss from Captain Edward Rokesby had left her breathless.
Breathless?
Brainless.
It really ought to be illegal for a man to have eyes that color. Somewhere between aquamarine and sapphire, they could mesmerize a girl with a glance. And yes, her eyes had been closed when he was kissing her, but that matter
ed little when all she could picture was that last moment before his lips touched hers, when she’d thought she might drown in the deep blue of his gaze.
Cecilia had always liked her own eyes, taking pride in the pale green color that set her apart from the crowd. But Edward . . .
He was a beautiful man, there was no getting around that.
But he also might be freezing to death, she thought. Or rather, freezing until he was chilled, and heaven knew that could kill him.
She headed up the stairs.
“Edward?” she called out, knocking softly on the door. Then she thought—why was she being quiet?
She knocked harder. “Edward?”
No response.
A little frisson of apprehension skidded up her arm, and she grabbed the door handle and turned.
She said his name again as the door swung open, and she stepped in, eyes averted. When he did not reply to that, she finally turned toward the tub.
“You did fall asleep!” The words popped right out of her mouth before it could occur to her that she might not wish to wake him up in such a vigorous manner.
“Gah!” Edward came awake with a yelp and a splash, water flying through the air as Cecilia dashed across the room for no reason she could figure.
But she couldn’t just stand there in front of him. He was naked.
“You said you wouldn’t fall asleep,” she accused, her back firmly to the bathtub.
“No, you said I wouldn’t fall asleep,” he countered.
He was right, drat it all.
“Well,” she said, in that tone that clearly said she hadn’t a clue how to conduct herself. “I expect your water has gone cold.”
There was a beat of silence, followed by “It’s tolerable.”
She shifted her weight from foot to foot, then gave up and crossed her arms tightly over her chest. She wasn’t angry; rather, she didn’t seem to know what to do with her body. “I shouldn’t want you to catch a chill,” she said to her feet.
“No.”
No? That was all he was going to say? No?
“Er, Cecilia?”
She made a little sound of acknowledgment.
“Do you think you might close the door?”
“OhmygoodnessI’msorry.” She ran back across the room—which was not a terribly graceful endeavor given the close confines—and slammed the door shut with considerably more effort than was warranted.