She took his hand in hers and ran the cloth over the veins that roped the back. His fingers were long and strong, and they dwarfed hers, the nails square and pale. She carefully washed each one and then cupped his hand in hers to wash his palm. It was an intimate act. A … caring act. One a mother might perform for a child.
Or a woman might perform for her lover.
Iris caught her breath and straightened to rinse the cloth.
When she turned back her gaze caught his.
He was watching her, his crystal eyes half-lidded, his twisted lips parted.
She felt something inside her clench.
She looked away, hastily wiping his hand and arm free of the soap.
The bedroom door opened and Nicoletta entered, bringing fresh water.
Iris concentrated on her cloth as she soaped it again.
She nudged his arm to wash under it, where his dark hair grew in a swirl.
Where the scent of his masculinity was the strongest.
She shouldn’t find this erotic. A lady shouldn’t find this erotic.
And yet she did.
His lifted arm made the muscles over his ribs stand out in intriguing ridges, and she wanted—rather badly, in fact—to lean down and inhale his scent.
She bit her lip.
Nicoletta poured the dirty water out of the basin, the sound bringing Iris out of her reverie. She glanced up to see that the maidservant wasn’t even looking in her direction.
Evidently Nicoletta hadn’t noticed anything amiss.
Thank God for that.
Iris couldn’t meet Dyemore’s eyes again. Her awareness was too volatile. If she caught his gaze she might combust.
For the first time the thought of sharing a marriage bed with this man seemed not only possible, but also something she could look forward to.
Nicoletta began washing the duke’s wounded arm and shoulder as Iris turned to his chest.
She gulped as she looked down.
He had nipples.
Naturally.
All men—and women and children and even babies—had nipples. It was just that normally ladies didn’t see a gentleman’s nipples, and before, when he’d been wounded, she hadn’t had the time to stare.
Iris cleared her throat and rubbed in small circles on his upper chest, moving downward, toward one of those nipples. They were just little bits of flesh, weren’t they? A deeper color, certainly, than the surrounding skin, and creped, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Her breath caught as she swept over his nipple with the cloth. Did he feel that? Did it feel any different from the rest of his skin? Did he feel as she did when cloth brushed over her bare nipples?
She dared to peek from under her lowered eyelashes.
His nostrils were flared, his eyes mere slits.
And his nipple was erect now, a sharp little peak on his chest.
It might’ve been from the cold of the water and the air.
Perhaps.
She washed down his side and to his waist where the coverlet lay, watching as he sucked his stomach in at her touch. There was a whorl of black hair about his navel that trailed into the depths of the sheets.
She swallowed.
He was covered, of course, but she knew what lay beneath the sheets—she’d seen him entirely nude at the Lords’ revels. She had the image burned into her memory: a proud, thick penis, heavy sac, and curling midnight hair. If the coverlet slipped just a little bit downward, she would see the upper edge of that nest of black hair.
The thought made her press her thighs together under her dress.
Did he know how his body affected her?
Hastily she forced her hand to move—away from that dangerous coverlet. She worked her way back up, over that flat plain, over ribs, to his chest. She washed the hair in the center of his chest and then gently circled his right nipple, feeling her insides heat and melt even as the bit of flesh grew hard and dark.
Suddenly her wrist was caught. “Enough.”
She straightened guiltily.
His cold eyes met hers. “Are you done?”
She tugged her wrist, but even weakened by illness, his grip was firm. “Your back and the rest of your—”
“I think you are done for now, my duchess,” he rasped, his voice deep and hard.
Had he noticed her too-intent attention? Had she offended him? She searched his face, looking for anger or condemnation, but could find neither. In fact it was almost impossible to read any expression there. He didn’t reveal anything of himself, she suddenly realized. He kept all his emotions, all his thoughts hidden behind crystal eyes and a scarred face.
He simply watched her.
It was maddening.
She licked her lips. “I think you’d rest better if your bath were finished.”
“No doubt.” He let her wrist go. “Ubertino can help me with the remainder.”
“And Nicoletta?” She glanced at the maidservant. Nicoletta was carefully washing around the bandages. She had her head down, but Iris wasn’t so silly as to think that the maidservant wasn’t paying sharp attention to her master and mistress.
“I’ll send her to you when she is done.” He looked at her, his eyes cold as the North Sea. “I have no further need of you. Go.”
She fought to keep herself from flinching. That was a dismissal. A rude dismissal.
They were married. Surely it was permissible for a wife to help with a husband’s bath? But one look at his forbidding expression put paid to that idea. He acted as if he could no longer stand her touch.
As if he might be repelled by her touch.
Iris raised her chin, trying not to let her hurt show.
She met his eyes and said, “Nicoletta, please go to the dressing room. I would like a word with my husband.”
The maidservant froze, her hands hovering over the duke’s chest. She looked between Iris and Dyemore.
Dyemore nodded.
Nicoletta dropped her washrag into the bowl of water and hastily left the room.
Iris waited until the dressing room door shut and then turned to the duke. “I’m your wife, sir, not your dog. I will not be sent away as if I’d soiled the rug.”
Raphael watched Iris. She held herself stiffly—proudly.
He admired her daring even as he felt his ire rise at her questioning him. He didn’t wish to be tempted by her anymore. Arguing with her would hardly help the matter.
“I beg your pardon if you think I addressed you as if you were a bitch,” he said with gritted teeth. “But my protest remains the same. You needn’t wash me.”
“And if I want to?” The color was rising in her cheeks, and he couldn’t help but think how lovely it made her. She looked like a woman in passion.
That was not a productive thought. “This discussion is—”
“Why don’t you want me to touch you?” she demanded.
“Why should you wish to?” he asked bluntly. His patience was wearing thin. “My face is disgusting. I saw how you flinched—please do not deny it, madam.”
“I’m sorry if I flinched,” she whispered. “I don’t find your scar disgusting. I don’t find you disgusting. And since that is the case, it seems to me that I should be able to touch you if it pleases me.”
He sneered. “I don’t know why touching me would please you.”
“Don’t you?” Her blush had grown rosy. She was obviously embarrassed by this discussion, but she still held his gaze. “I’d think you’d be happy your wife was interested in your body. After all”—her voice lowered—“we will share a bed as man and wife.”
His stomach plummeted and he looked away from her.
“We will be sharing a bed, won’t we?” she demanded, and her voice was closer.
She’d stepped nearer to him.
He raised his eyes, pinning her with his gaze. She had a hand half-raised, reaching to touch him again.
He caught her hand in his just in time.
“Of course we’ll share a be
d,” he replied, his voice hard. He couldn’t afford to show weakness here. “But we will do nothing else.”
She blinked, looking confused. “You mean—”
“I mean you’ll not be bothered by me,” he gritted out. Did she have no idea how tenuous his hold on his control was? He held himself in check only by the merest thread. Had he not been weakened by the fever, he might grab her and pull her into his bed, into his lap. Lick across her lips and down her tender neck. Pull the fichu from her bodice and trail his teeth across the pretty swells of her breasts. And then …
No.
No.
He’d vowed that he wouldn’t corrupt her, and he’d keep that vow no matter what it cost him.
“I … I don’t understand.” She sounded hurt, as if he’d insinuated that the problem lay with her. “You married me. Why would you do that if I disgust you so much you won’t even bed me?”
He should correct her. Tell her that she had it completely—comically—wrong. But to do so would result in her asking more questions.
Questions he most definitely did not want to answer—now or ever.
Perhaps it was better this way.
“I married you to save your life,” he lied, his voice flat, and even as he did so he could feel the ice forming over his skin, chilling him to the bone. Making his heart still. “Nothing else.”
She staggered as if he’d run a sword through her belly. “But … but you kissed me. Surely—”
“I was feverish,” he drawled. Blackness shrouded his soul. “Not in my right mind.”
She stared at him a moment, her blue-gray eyes devastated, and then she drew herself up, proud and strong. “I see. If you’ll excuse me, then, I’ll go fetch Ubertino.”
She turned and swept from the room.
Taking all light with her.
Iris blinked back tears as she left the bedroom, which was, frankly, pure foolishness. She hardly knew Dyemore—had been married to him only a matter of days. There was no reason for her to take his rejection of her so much to heart. He’d married her to protect her. She’d married him because she’d had no choice.
It was all quite logical, really, and had nothing whatsoever to do with sexual desire—or lack thereof.
She fought down an impulse to kick a side table as she passed by.
The problem was that she had thought, when she and Dyemore had discussed Polybius, that they might find some common thread of friendship. That this marriage, however hastily and badly begun, might have a chance of becoming palatable.
A marriage she could be content with.
Now she was thrown back into uncertainty. If he didn’t desire her—if he was actively repulsed by her—what chance that their marriage would be a happy one?
How could she live with a man who had rejected her so curtly?
How could she live without the children she so longed for?
Damn him!
Iris paused before the kitchen door, taking a moment to settle herself. Then she walked into the kitchen and discovered Ubertino picking up two steaming pitchers of water.
“The duke is ready for you to finish his bath and to shave him,” she said.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Ubertino hurried out of the room.
Two servants remained in the kitchen—Bardo and the one with the bushy eyebrows, whose name she still didn’t know. They’d been sitting at the kitchen table, evidently finishing their supper, and had risen when she’d entered.
She nodded at them and turned to go.
“Donna,” Bardo said.
Of course. He picked up the candelabrum from the table and waved her on. The manservants had taken to trailing her about the castle—obviously on the duke’s orders. Evidently he felt she needed bodyguards even inside the abbey.
She shivered at the notion, then shook herself and set her mind firmly on the task of changing the duke’s filthy bed linens.
She squared her shoulders and looked at the two men, summoning a smile. She pointed at Bardo and said, “Bardo.”
He looked puzzled, but he bowed and said, “Donna.”
She moved her finger to Bushy Eyebrows and raised her own eyebrows.
“Ah!” the manservant said, smiling broadly. He was homely, but the grin made what would otherwise be an intimidating face quite likable. “Luigi.”
She nodded. “Luigi.” She looked at both men. “Do you know where the linens are kept?”
Luigi and Bardo exchanged a puzzled glance.
“Linens?” For a moment Iris contemplated how to mime linen, and then simply gave up.
She was tired, it had been a long day, and linens were generally the purview of women.
She sighed and turned around in the kitchens. If there was some sort of cupboard used for linens it would probably be in the housekeeper’s room. And the housekeeper’s room was oftentimes off the kitchen.
Iris started for an arched doorway across from where she’d entered.
She stopped, making both Bardo and Luigi look at her in confusion. It was odd to think of all the people who had been living in this house until Dyemore came. The housekeeper, the butler, the maids, the footmen, and all the many, many servants needed to keep a great house like this one running even when the master was not in residence.
No wonder the abbey seemed dead—it had been gutted of people.
Iris shivered at the thought, remembering a rather vicious nurse telling her the gory story of Bluebeard. She’d been seven and had nightmares for months afterward.
Good Lord! She suddenly realized that like Bluebeard’s poor wife, she’d been given the keys to the abbey and had stolen into a locked room. Except these locked rooms contained only dusty furniture and strange paintings, not bodies.
Iris took a breath and shook her head at her own silliness. Dyemore had let the servants go; nothing sinister had happened. He’d said he didn’t trust the local people. Just because he’d recently rejected her was no reason to look for more ominous actions from him. Ridiculous to stand here making up stories to scare herself without evidence. She wasn’t a ninny just out of the schoolroom. She was a grown woman, a widow of eight and twenty years, and far too sensible for this nonsense.
With that thought she continued through the low doorway. Beyond was a short hall and then steps leading down into a wide cellar. She peered down. It looked to be a larder or wine cellar or both. In either case, linens would hardly be kept there—they’d become moldy.
She retraced her steps with the manservants trotting behind and went back out into the hallway that led into the kitchen. Ah! Here were several other doors. She tried the first and found it locked.
Fortunately she’d tied the key ring to her waist with a bit of string. Several minutes later she pushed the door open, just as the sound of Nicoletta’s heels came along the corridor. The maidservant joined the little party.
Iris looked inside.
The room contained several cupboards, chests, and shelves, and they held what was probably everything that the housekeeper would keep under lock and key. Spices, sugar, medicines, beeswax, nuts and dried fruit, the silver, and the good linens.
Iris crossed to the largest cupboard and opened the door, revealing stacks of snowy white linens. She couldn’t help an exclamation of satisfaction as she inhaled the scent of cedarwood.
She had started to gather some of the linens when Nicoletta said, “No.”
Startled, Iris turned to look at her.
The maidservant shook her head emphatically and went to one of the chests to open it, then rummaged among what looked like older linens. She grunted finally and straightened with two sheets that, while clean, were frayed at the edges.
Iris stared. The sheets Nicoletta held looked as if they had been kept only to be used as rags. But the older woman was moving to the door with her burden. Perhaps she had a use for them other than for the duke’s bed?
“No, wait,” Iris called.
Nicoletta turned, frowning.
Iris quickly took several
of the clean white sheets from the standing cupboard. “We’ll need these for the duke’s bed.”
But Nicoletta shook her head again, holding out the old sheets in her hand. She said something—very vehemently—in Corsican.
Iris couldn’t understand what the problem could possibly be, but she was tired. “I’m sorry, but I’m using these sheets.”
She swept by the maidservant and the men and continued, ignoring Nicoletta’s cries behind her.
By the time her procession had reached the upper floors and the duke’s bedroom Nicoletta had grown silent, but Iris could practically feel the woman seething behind her.
Iris sighed. She felt sad for the loss of whatever goodwill she’d gained with Nicoletta in the last few days, but she couldn’t let the older woman think she could rule her. Iris was the mistress of this house, and if she had to make that point clear, it was best done early in their relationship.
So she didn’t bother with any conciliatory smile toward the servants when she paused to knock on the door to the bedroom.
Besides, she was more nervous about her reception from her new husband.
“Come,” Dyemore’s voice called from within.
Iris entered with Nicoletta as the two manservants bowed and turned away.
Dyemore was out of the bed, sitting in one of the chairs before the fireplace in a clean black banyan. The duke’s inky black hair fell to his shoulders, drying with a slight wave. With his scar and his hair worn loose he looked like a brigand. Well, an ill brigand—his cheeks were still more flushed than usual.
“You’ve finished with your bath?” Iris asked briskly. She was determined not to let him know how distressed she’d been by his rejection.
Ubertino was busy doing something with the duke’s chest of drawers.
Dyemore raised an eyebrow sardonically. “As you see.”
Damn him. She cleared her throat and said a bit stiltedly, “Yes, well. I’ll just change the sheets, shall I?”
She went to the bed and began stripping the richly embroidered coverlet off with Nicoletta’s help. Fortunately, the coverlet hadn’t been stained at all. The sheets, however, might never recover.
She frowned as she threw them to the floor.
“I thought …” She glanced quickly at the servants.
“Yes?” he asked from behind her.
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