The Girl With the Make-Believe Husband

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The Girl With the Make-Believe Husband Page 8

by Julia Quinn


  “Are you still here?” Edward asked. Cecilia belatedly realized that he could not see her. His back was mostly to the door, and the tub was far too small for him to comfortably twist around.

  “Er, yes?” It came out like a question. She had no idea why.

  There was a short pause, during which he was probably pondering how to best reply to such a ridiculous response. In the end, however, he just asked, “Do you think you might hand me the towel?”

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.” Fastidiously keeping her back to the tub, she edged over to the bed and grabbed the towel. From there she only had to reach her arm back to hand it to him.

  He took it, then said, “I do not say this to embarrass you—”

  Which meant she was going to be mortified.

  “—and I do appreciate your efforts to preserve my modesty, but did you not see, ah, me when you were caring for me earlier this week?”

  “Not like this,” she mumbled.

  Again, a little pause, and this time she could picture his brow coming together in a furrow as he considered her answer.

  “I kept you covered with the sheet,” she finally said.

  “At all times?”

  “I was highly motivated.”

  He let out a chuckle at that.

  “I think I’ll go back downstairs,” she said, edging her way back to the door. “I had only wanted to make sure you weren’t catching a chill.”

  “In June?”

  “You’ve been ill,” she said primly.

  He sighed. “I still am.”

  Cecilia pressed her lips together, summoning her courage. He was right, and his health was more important than her tender sensibilities. She took a breath. “Do you need assistance getting out of the tub?”

  “No,” he said quietly. “At least I hope not.”

  “Perhaps I should stay.” She moved a little closer to the door. “Just while you get out. In case you need me.”

  She hoped he didn’t. It was not a large towel.

  A moment later she heard a heave of exertion, followed by the sound of water sloshing against the side of the tub.

  “Are you—”

  “I’m fine,” he bit off.

  “I’m sorry.” She shouldn’t have asked. He was proud. But she had been nursing him for days; it was difficult to stop, even if she was desperately trying to keep her eyes to herself.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  She nodded, even though she had no idea if he was looking at her.

  “You can turn around now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m covered,” he said, sounding perhaps just a bit fed up with her prudishness.

  “Thank you.” She turned around. Slowly, though. She wasn’t sure how he defined covered.

  He was on the bed, propped up against the pillows with the blankets pulled over his lap. His chest was bare. It was no more than she’d seen when she’d sponged down his fever in hospital, but it seemed very different when his eyes were open and alert.

  “You look better,” she said. It was true. He’d washed his hair, and his skin had a healthier glow.

  He gave a tired smile, and touched his beard. “I did not shave.”

  “That’s all right,” she assured him. “There is no rush.”

  “I don’t think I’ll feel properly clean until I do.”

  “Oh. Well . . .” Cecilia knew she should offer to shave him. It was clearly the one task she could perform for him that would make the greatest difference to his comfort, but it was such an intimate gesture. The only man she had ever shaved was her father. He’d not had a valet, and when his hands had grown arthritic she had taken over the task.

  “You don’t have to,” Edward said.

  “No, no, I can do it.” She was being silly and missish. She’d crossed the Atlantic Ocean by herself. She’d stood toe-to-toe with Colonel Zachary Stubbs of His Majesty’s Army and lied to his face in order to save a man’s life. Surely she could shave that man’s beard.

  “I should probably inquire if you have ever shaved a man before,” Edward murmured.

  She stifled a smile as she glanced around the room for the razor and brush. “It does seem like a prudent question before allowing me to take a knife to your throat.”

  He chuckled. “There is a small leather box in my trunk. You will find what you need there.”

  Right. His trunk. Edward’s belongings had been kept safe for him while he was missing; Colonel Stubbs had arranged to have them sent over to the Devil’s Head earlier that day.

  Cecilia peered into the trunk, at the neatly folded clothing, the books, the papers. It seemed terribly intimate to be going through his belongings. What did a man bring with him to a strange land? She supposed it should not seem such an odd question to her. After all, she had also packed for a voyage across the ocean. But unlike Edward, she had never intended to stay long. She had brought only the barest of essentials; memories of home had not been a priority. In fact, the sole memento she had packed was a miniature of her brother, and that was only because she thought it might help to locate him once she reached North America.

  She huffed to herself. She had thought she might need help finding Thomas within a hospital. Little did she know she’d be searching an entire colony.

  “Do you see it?” Edward asked.

  “Ehrm, no,” she murmured, setting aside a soft white linen shirt. It was well-worn and had clearly been washed many times, but she knew enough of stitchery to see that it had been exceedingly well-made. Thomas had not had such fine shirts. Had his held up as well as Edward’s? She tried to picture her brother mending his clothes and failed miserably. She had always done such things for him. She’d complained, but she’d done it.

  What she wouldn’t give to do such things again.

  “Cecilia?”

  “I’m sorry.” She spied the corner of a leather box and wrapped her hand around it. “My mind was wandering.”

  “Somewhere interesting, I hope.”

  She turned to face him. “I was thinking of my brother.”

  Edward’s face grew solemn. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

  “I should have liked to have helped him pack his trunk,” she said. She glanced over her shoulder at Edward. He did not reply, but he gave a little nod, the sort that said he understood.

  “He did not come home before he left for North America,” Cecilia continued. “I don’t know that he had anyone to help him.” She looked up. “Did you?”

  “My mother,” Edward confirmed. “She insisted. But I was able to make a visit home before I sailed. Crake House is not far from the coast. The journey is under two hours on a swift mount.”

  Cecilia nodded sadly. Edward and Thomas’s regiment had departed for the New World from the bustling port of Chatham, in Kent. It had been much too far from Derbyshire for Thomas to consider a trip home.

  “Thomas came home with me a few times,” Edward said.

  “He did?” Cecilia was surprised by how happy this made her. Thomas’s accounts of his barracks were somewhat grim. She was glad that he’d had the chance to spend some time in a proper home, with a proper family. She glanced over at Edward and with a little smile and a shake of her head said, “He never mentioned it.”

  “And here I thought the two of you told each other everything.”

  “Not everything,” Cecilia said, mostly to herself. She certainly had not written to Thomas about how much she enjoyed hearing from Edward in his letters to her. If she had had the chance to sit with her brother, to talk with him face-to-face, would she have told him that she was a little bit in love with his best friend?

  She thought not. Some things were private, even from one’s favorite brother.

  She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. Thomas always liked to say that he was her favorite brother, to which she always replied that he was her only brother. And then their father, who’d never really had much of a sense of humor, would grumble that he’d heard this before, and h
onestly, couldn’t the two of them work this out?

  “What are you thinking about?” Edward asked.

  “Sorry. Thomas again.” She scrunched up one side of her mouth. “Did I look sad?”

  “No. Rather happy, actually.”

  “Oh.” She blinked a few times. “I suppose I was.”

  Edward nodded toward the open trunk. “You said you would have liked to help him pack?”

  She thought for a moment, her eyes growing wistful. “I think so. It would have been nice to have been able to picture him with his things.”

  Edward nodded.

  “Not necessary, of course,” she said briskly, turning so that he would not see her blinking back her tears. “But it would have been nice.”

  “I didn’t really need my mother’s help,” Edward said quietly.

  Cecilia turned slowly to look at him, staring at the face that had become so dear to her in such a short time. She did not know what his mother looked like, but somehow she could still picture the scene: Edward, tall and strong and capable, feigning a touch of incompetence so that his mother could fuss over him.

  She met his eyes with solemn respect. “You are a good man, Edward Rokesby.”

  For a moment he looked almost surprised by the compliment, and then he blushed, although it was mostly obscured by his beard. She dipped her chin to hide her smile. He’d not be able to hide behind his whiskers for long.

  “She’s my mother,” Edward mumbled.

  Cecilia flipped open one of the buckles on the shaving kit. “Like I said, a good man.”

  He blushed again. She couldn’t see it—she’d already turned away—but she would have sworn that she could feel it, rippling through the still air of the room.

  She loved that he blushed.

  She loved that she’d caused it.

  Still smiling to herself, she looked back down at the trunk, trailing her fingers along its edge. Like all his things, it was well-made, of fine wood and iron, with Edward’s initials formed by a pattern of nails at the top. “What is the G for?”

  “G?”

  “Your initials. EGR.”

  “Ah. George.”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  “Why do you say of course?”

  She glanced over at him. “What else would it be?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Gregory. Geoffrey.”

  “No,” she said with the beginnings of a sly smile.

  “Gawain.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Please. You’re a George.”

  “My brother is a George,” he corrected.

  “So are you, apparently.”

  He shrugged. “It’s a family name.” He watched as she opened the leather bag and took out his straight razor. “What is yours?”

  “My middle name? Esmerelda.”

  His eyes widened. “Really?”

  She laughed. “No. Not really. I’m hardly so exotic. It’s Anne. After my mother.”

  “Cecilia Anne. It’s lovely.”

  Her cheeks grew warm, which struck her as bizarre, given how many other, far more blush-worthy things had happened to her that day.

  “How did you shave while you were in Connecticut?” she asked. His straight razor had obviously been packed away with the rest of his belongings. He had not had it with him when he’d reappeared in Kip’s Bay.

  He blinked a few times. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” What an idiot she was. Of course he did not know.

  “But,” he said, in a clear attempt to put a halt to her embarrassment, “I do own two razors. The one in your hand is from my grandfather. The other was purchased right before I left. I generally take that one when I am traveling rough.” He frowned. “I wonder what happened to it.”

  “I don’t recall seeing it with your things at the hospital.”

  “Did I have things at the hospital?”

  She frowned. “Now that you ask, no. Just the clothes on your back, I’m told. And whatever was in your pockets. I wasn’t there when you were brought in.”

  “Well.” He scratched his chin. “I suppose that is why I don’t take my good razor.”

  “It’s very fine,” Cecilia murmured. The handle was ivory, beautifully carved and warm in her hand. The blade, the finest Sheffield steel.

  “I’m named for him,” Edward said. “My grandfather. His initials are in the handle. It’s why he gave it to me.”

  Cecilia looked down. Sure enough, EGR had been etched delicately at the tip of the ivory. “My father’s razor was similar,” she said, moving over to the washbasin. It was empty, so she dipped it in the tub. “The handle isn’t as fine, but the steel is the same.”

  “You are a connoisseur of steel blades?”

  She gave him an arch look. “Are you afraid?”

  “I think I should be.”

  She chuckled. “Anyone living so close to Sheffield knows their steel. Several of the men in the village have left in the last few years to go work at the crucible furnaces.”

  “Not a pleasant occupation, I should think.”

  “No.” Cecilia thought of her neighbors—her former neighbors, she supposed. They were all young men, mostly the sons of tenant farmers. But none of them looked young after a year or two at the furnaces. “I’m told the pay is considerably better than working in the fields,” she said. “I certainly hope that’s true.”

  He nodded as she added a little soap to a dish and worked it into a lather with the brush she’d found alongside the razor. She brought it over to his bedside and frowned.

  “What?”

  “Your beard is quite long.”

  “I’m not as scruffy as that.”

  “It’s longer than my father’s ever was.”

  “Is that where you honed your skills?”

  “Every day for the last few years of his life.” She tilted her head to the side, like an artist examining her canvas. “It would be best if we could trim it first.”

  “Alas, I have no shears.”

  Cecilia had a sudden vision of the gardener going after his face with the hedge trimmers and had to stifle a snort of laughter.

  “What?” Edward demanded.

  “Oh, you don’t want to know.” She picked up the brush. “Let’s give this a go.”

  Edward lifted his chin, allowing her to coat the left side of his face with the soapy lather. It wasn’t as thick as she’d want, but it would do. She worked carefully, using one hand to stretch his skin while the other scraped the blade down from cheek to chin. With each pass she rinsed the blade in the washtub, watching as the water grew thick with his whiskers.

  “You have quite a lot of red in your beard,” she observed. “Does one of your parents have red hair?”

  He started to shake his head.

  “Don’t move!”

  He looked at her sideways. “Don’t ask me questions.”

  “Touché.”

  “My mother’s hair is blond,” Edward said the next time she rinsed the razor. “My father’s is brown. Same as mine. Or rather, it used to be. He’s going gray. Or silver, as he prefers to call it.” He frowned, and his eyes clouded with something that looked an awful lot like regret. “I imagine he’ll have quite a bit more when I see him again.”

  “Gray hair?” she asked, keeping her voice carefully light.

  “Indeed.” He tipped his chin up as she went to work on his throat. “Thank you again for writing to them.”

  “Of course. I only wish there was some way to get word to them faster.” She’d managed to get the letter to the Rokesbys out on the very next ship, but still, it would be at least three weeks before it reached England. And then another five before they might expect a response.

  They fell into silence as Cecilia continued her work. She was finding it much more difficult to do a proper job than when she’d shaved her father. Edward’s whiskers had to be at least a half inch long—much different than the single day’s growth she was used to.

  To say nothing
of the fact that this was Edward. And he had just kissed her.

  And she’d liked it. Very much.

  When she leaned toward him, the air seemed to change around her, swirling with awareness. It was almost electric, stealing her breath and prickling at her skin. And then when she finally did draw air, it was as if she was breathing in him. He smelled delicious, which made no sense, since he smelled like soap. And man.

  And heat.

  Dear God, she was going mad. You couldn’t smell heat. And soap wasn’t delicious. But nothing seemed to make sense when she was standing this close to Edward Rokesby. He addled her brain, and her lungs felt tight . . . or light . . . or something.

  Honestly, it was a miracle she was able to keep her hand steady.

  “Can you turn your head just a bit?” she asked. “I need to get that spot by your ear.”

  He complied, and she leaned even closer. She needed to angle the razor just so to avoid nicking him. She was so close now she could see her breath ruffling his hair. It would be so easy just to sigh, to let herself melt into him, to feel her body against his.

  “Cecilia?”

  She heard his voice, but she couldn’t seem to do anything about it. She felt almost suspended, as if the air was thick enough to hold her in place. And then, as if her brain had needed an extra moment to get through to the rest of her body, she pulled herself back, blinking away what she could only assume was the fog of desire.

  “Sorry,” she said, the word seeming to come more from her throat than her lips. “Lost in my thoughts.”

  It wasn’t a lie.

  “It need not be perfect,” he said, his voice strained. “As long as you get the bulk of it off, I can do a closer shave tomorrow.”

  “Of course,” she answered, taking an unsteady step back. “I . . . ah . . . that will take much less time. And you’re tired.”

  “Right,” he agreed.

  “You’ll want . . . ehrm . . .” She blinked a few times. His bare torso was most distracting. “Do you want to don a shirt?”

  “Perhaps after we finish. So it doesn’t get wet.”

  “Of course,” she said. Again. She looked down at his chest. A small blob of lather clung to the light sprinkling of hair, just above his nipple. She reached out to wipe it away, but the moment she touched his skin, his hand wrapped around her wrist.

 

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