by Alice Gaines
“Good, then,” Wesley said. “We’ll make you comfortable with the others.”
Eve clung to Hubert’s fingers quite beyond any rational need to keep him with her. He really didn’t have anything to fear below stairs. No one would molest him as she’d been molested while in service. But still, she’d need him near her if Wesley took it into his head to take advantage of her presence in the house.
Lord Wesley placed his palm at the small of Eve’s back. The gesture shouldn’t have comforted her, but it did. “Hubert will be fine, Eve. We don’t mistreat our staff.”
She really ought to object to his use of her first name, but something in the quiet of his voice, something in the softness of his eyes, kept her from mustering any outrage. “All right,” she said finally. “But I want to see you every day to make sure they’re all being good to you.”
“Bless you, child.” Hubert kissed her on the forehead and then turned to Wesley. “And thank you, sir.”
Wesley nodded, and Hubert turned and headed toward the stairs that would take him to the servant’s day quarters. She straightened her shoulders and looked at Wesley. For a moment, he studied her, his aspect gentle. Then he gave her his usual, wicked smile.
“Allow me to show you to your rooms, Your Highness,” he said.
“Merci, your lordship,” she said.
He gestured toward the grand staircase, and she allowed him to lead her up it to the floor above. Plush oriental carpets muted their footsteps as they walked along the portrait-lined hallway. Some of the paintings appeared quite old, and some were new. The newer ones bore a distinct resemblance to Lord Wesley and his parents.
“Your family?” she asked.
“Various and assorted earls of Farnham and their ladies.”
“A handsome group.”
“The women are, anyway,” he said. “Somehow the men in my family always end up with beautiful women, no matter their own deficiencies in that regard.”
“Deficiencies?” she repeated.
“Most of the former earls of Farnham looked like my father. Squat and bald.”
“You must take after your mother, then.”
He stopped walking and gazed down at her, his eyes full of heat and mischief. “Are you saying you find my looks appealing, Miss Stanhope?”
She looked into his face, at the sandy-colored hair that brushed the edges of his collar in a most disreputable manner. At the golden flecks of his brown eyes. At the luscious curve of his lips. “You must know that you’re a handsome man, Lord Wesley.”
“That’s the first compliment you’ve ever given me,” he said, bending toward her. “I intend to remind you of it frequently.”
“No doubt you will.”
He leaned even closer, bringing his face almost to hers. She placed a hand against his chest and stopped his progress. “My rooms?”
He cleared his throat and straightened. “This way.”
He led her a bit farther and then stopped to open a door. He gestured inside. “I hope you’ll be comfortable here.”
She crossed the threshold and found herself in a sitting room—a proper lady’s boudoir. An open door to one side led to a bedroom where she could make out the foot end of a canopied bed. It was all lovely. Entirely too lovely.
He stepped inside but left the door to the hallway open. Thank heaven. Just being alone with him like this seemed intimate. He was too large for the room somehow. Too imposing. Too broad-shouldered.
“Make yourself at home,” he said. “I’ll have your things sent up and have a maid attend you.”
“A maid?”
“Yes, a maid.”
“But I don’t need a maid.”
“You know that, and I know that. But my mother would be horrified if a princess were to stay under her roof and not be cared for properly.”
“But I don’t want a maid.” Oh, dear. How was she going to explain to him that the mere idea of having a servant gave her a queer feeling in the pit of her stomach?
“Miss Stanhope,” he said, approaching her and taking her hands in his much larger ones. “Eve. I don’t know why this upsets you so. I only want you to be safe and at your ease.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Why shouldn’t you?” he said. “I won’t hurt you, Eve. Someone clearly has, and some day I hope you’ll tell me about it. But I won’t hurt you.”
What could she say to that sort of silliness? He wouldn’t hurt her because she wouldn’t allow herself to be hurt.
“I mean it.” He slid his fingers under her chin and tipped her face up. This time she found no mischief in his eyes, just warmth. For heaven’s sake, he looked as if he were about to kiss her on the forehead as Hubert had done. The mere thought was so ridiculous, so laughable that it brought a smile to her lips despite herself.
“That’s better,” he said. “I’ll leave you to get settled. Tea is at three.”
“Thank you,” she said, and discovered to her surprise that she actually meant it. This arrangement would work. She could make it work.
He turned and left her alone, closing the door softly behind himself. She set her reticule on a table, removed her gloves and set them aside, as well. This suite of rooms really was quite sumptuous, with more oriental carpets setting off the mahogany furniture and brocade upholstery. In the corner sat a secretary that appeared to be made out of inlaid cherrywood. That piece itself was probably worth more than everything she owned, including the very expensive dresses Wesley had bought for her.
She walked into the bedroom and found more luxury awaiting her there—a large bed piled so high with pillows that she’d have to climb onto it at night. The canopy of eyelet lace appeared to float over the velvet bed curtains of robin’s-egg-blue. A large chest of drawers, a wardrobe and dressing table flanked by mirrors proclaimed that the lady herein owned a great deal of clothes and took close care with her appearance. For heaven’s sake, she was to have a maid. She wouldn’t even be allowed to comb her own hair.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed a detail that had escaped her. A small table stood by the window, half-obscured by the lace curtains that hung all the way to the floor. On the table stood a vase with flowers in it. She walked closer and found several sprays of orchids. White and brilliant purple—the bouquet held dozens of small flowers. Lord Wesley’s flowers, no doubt, from his own orchid collection. Had he picked them himself and set them here?
Kindness from a nobleman? Or another attempt at seduction? Friendship or disgrace? She’d survived enough misery at the hands of her “betters.” She’d take no more abuse from any of them. Lord Wesley could do his utmost to have his way with her. She’d remain unmoved.
She walked to the bed and ran her fingers over the coverlet. Luxurious, just like everything else in the room. She could make herself comfortable here if she kept her wits about her. She only had to keep her eyes open for a safe or some sort of clue to where Wesley had hidden the diamond. She’d do some exploration on her own, as well. She’d live in opulence until she found the Wonder, with Wesley’s seductive smile the only threat to her equilibrium. She could keep herself out of his arms and out of his bed while she used his hospitality for her own ends.
Hospitality she could begin enjoying with a long, hot bath.
Chapter Nine
Eve closed her eyes and sank slowly into the water until it lapped over her breasts and halfway up her neck. Moving into the house with Lord Wesley and his family did have its benefits—besides access to the jewel they’d stolen. She could bathe like this anytime she wanted. With the earl’s full staff, she wouldn’t even have to worry that some little parlor maid would have to carry the water from the dumbwaiter all by herself, as poor Sarah had at the Cathcarts’. She could simply allow herself to enjoy the luxury. And such luxury it was.
She reached to the tray full of soaps and oils her own maid had placed on a low table by the tub, and selected a particularly attractive soap carved in the shape of a dove. When she moist
ened it and brought it to her nose, the scent of herbs greeted her—warm and sweet. She found the sponge at the bottom of the tub, rubbed it over the soap and worked it into a lather. How perfectly delightful.
She smoothed the sponge over her arms and neck, stopping from time to time to make more bubbles with the soap. The entire surface of the water became coated with froth as she washed herself far more than mere cleanliness required. Behind her, the bedroom door opened and then closed softly.
“Thank you, Marie,” Eve said. “As I said, I don’t need help.”
“Oh, but I think you do,” came the answer. Not Marie, but Lord Wesley.
“What are you doing here?” she called back.
“I thought I’d see how you’re settling in.”
“You what?” She glanced over her shoulder to find him standing by the door. He’d removed his jacket and waistcoat and rolled up his shirtsleeves. His shirt itself hung open, showing a finely muscled chest with a smattering of light brown hairs. He’d draped a towel over his shoulder as if he’d been headed to his own bath but decided to join her in hers, instead. For a moment, her mind’s eye pictured him doing just that—removing his shirt, then his shoes and then unbuttoning his pants.
Oh, dear God. She closed her eyes tightly to free herself of the vision. When she opened them again, he stood there still. Looking at her. At her face, which must have grown a bright red, judging from the heat of her cheeks. At her throat, which was no doubt just as livid. At her chest. Good Lord, at her naked chest. She turned quickly and lowered herself into the water until the bubbles hid her breasts.
“Go away,” she ordered.
“A proper lady should be helped with her bath,” he said. “You sent your maid away, so I thought I’d oblige.”
“I prefer to bathe in private. An old Valdastokian custom.”
His only answer to that was a chuckle, but she didn’t hear him move from where he stood. She waited for a moment and then peeked over her shoulder to see if he still stood at the door. He did. “I said I prefer to bathe in private.”
He smiled pleasantly, curse the man. “I heard you.”
“If you don’t leave, I’ll shout for help.”
“Will you really?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“So much for privacy,” he said. “Shouting would bring your maid, certainly. And perhaps a footman or two. Maybe even Mobley, although he’s not as spry as he used to be.”
She turned to glare at him, and the cool air against her skin reminded her she hadn’t a stitch on. She quickly settled back into the tub.
“You wouldn’t let yourself be caught in here,” she said. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“To the contrary, I’d be more than happy to disgrace myself for you, Your Highness.”
She did gape at him then. Was the man insane? “Why?”
He shrugged. “For amusement.”
“Damn you.”
He laughed again, so she threw the sponge at him. It hit squarely against his chest with a satisfying squish. He caught it with one hand and gave her a wicked grin. The idiotic man seemed to think this was some kind of game. Well, they’d see who won it.
She turned back around and slid down into the water. She’d just take her bath and enjoy it, despite him. He could stay or leave as he pleased. If he happened to catch a glimpse of her flesh here and there—that was his disgrace for having forced his presence on her. He certainly wouldn’t run and tell his parents that he’d been ogling their guest in her bath.
She selected another bar of soap from the dish beside her and lathered it between her palms. Then she slowly washed her arms up to her shoulders. A barely audible sigh issued from where Lord Wesley stood watching her. He might be nobility, but under all those pretty clothes, he was still a man. Men had no control over their baser natures. Didn’t she know that well enough? Some pretended refinement, but those fools lusted just as much as their more honest brothers. With any luck, this fool would pay dearly for intruding on her privacy.
She lathered her hands again, and this time she lifted a foot from the tub and made a big to-do of washing it and then her ankle. When that got no response from him, she moved her leg higher so that she could wash her calf—all for his scrutiny, of course.
He cleared his throat—a sure sign of discomfort. Good. He could stay or go now for all she cared. Teasing him was fun, really, and she could protect herself if he should become overly enthusiastic. She’d learned a few tricks about the male anatomy from her mother. Not the kind of tricks most mothers knew, but quite handy in any case. She wouldn’t need rescue from any footman if Wesley took it into his head to become frisky with her. No, she could handle him herself.
A pleasant, fluttering sort of feeling settled into her belly at the thought of Philip Rosemont, Viscount Wesley, heir apparent to the earldom of Farnham, working himself into a frenzy while watching her in her bath. She raised her hands over her head and stretched. The action brought the tips of her breasts nearly out of the water for his view. The resulting currents felt hot and slick against her nipples and between her thighs. She allowed herself a groan of pleasure. Surely that would send him over the edge.
But instead of running from the room or rushing to attempt some assault on her person, he merely walked to the back of the tub and dropped to his knees. “Here, let me wash your back.”
“What?” She turned and stared at him, her face mere inches from his.
He didn’t look like a slathering, drooling male beast. In fact, his composure didn’t appear shaken at all. He just smiled that implacable, irritating smile at her. “You seem to be having some trouble understanding me. Did you get bubbles in your ears?”
“You’re going to wash my back?”
“You can’t reach it yourself, can you?”
“But I’m naked,” she said.
“Well, yes, rather,” he said.
“Naked,” she repeated. Didn’t the man understand the meaning of the word?
“I’ve seen naked women before,” he said. “Now, be a good sort and turn around so that I can reach your back.”
“Oh, for the love of heaven,” she mumbled. But she did turn around and waited.
The sponge was on her back almost immediately. Slippery with bubbles and scented from the bath water, it moved in circles first over her left shoulder blade and then over the right. He had a good touch, she’d give him that. Firm but not rough, just the right pressure to soothe tense muscles.
“You’ve bathed many women before, Lord Wesley?” she asked.
“A few.”
“And have women bathed you?”
“A few,” he said. “Does that upset you, Miss Stanhope?”
“Not at all.”
“Good. Jealousy’s such a waste of energy, don’t you agree?”
“I’m not jealous,” she said.
“No, of course you’re not.”
She turned around to face him. “I’m not.”
“I said you weren’t,” he said. “Now, will you please cooperate, or would you prefer I wash your front?”
Dear God, the very idea. She turned around and allowed him to continue washing her back. He dropped the sponge into the water and instead used his fingers to rub at her shoulders. She tilted her head forward. It felt so good to have his hands on her in this way—not demanding anything from her but just giving pleasure.
“If I wanted you to wash my front, would you do that, too?” she asked.
“Happily. But I don’t think you’re ready for that, do you?”
“No.”
His fingers left her shoulders and moved down her back—his thumbs pressing into the center while his fingers splayed over her ribs. She stretched and moved to guide him to a particularly knotted spot, and he kneaded it until she could scarcely breathe for all the pleasure.
“The English are so stupid about their bodies, really,” he said. “Other cultures aren’t ashamed of nakedness.”
“Really?” she managed to breat
he.
“In Asia whole families bathe together.”
“Have you seen that?” she asked.
“I didn’t get that far,” he said and sighed wistfully. “Perhaps I never will now.”
His hands moved up her spine, rubbing and kneading until her very backbone felt pliant and melting. His fingers went to the back of her neck, and he manipulated that between his fingers, moving her head gently this way and that. Such a pity that a man who could deliver such delight should be deprived of anything. Even worse that no woman in Asia should enjoy his touch. It felt so very, very good.
“I did get to India,” he said. “And I can tell you the Indians aren’t afraid of their own nature the way an Englishman is.”
“How nice,” she whispered. “For the Indians, I mean. How very nice.”
He laughed gently. “Nice isn’t the word a proper lady would use to describe the eroticism of India.”
“No, I suppose not.” She sighed.
“Sensuality is everywhere in India. Even some temple walls are covered with sculpture of the most scandalous kind.”
“Scandalous,” she repeated just because the word sounded good.
He leaned over until his mouth was only inches from her ear. “Shocking. Depraved. Positively obscene.”
“Mmm.”
“Men and women. Enjoying their bodies in groups. Depictions of the male member in all its erect glory. Women experiencing the most lascivious forms of rapture imaginable.”
“Oh, my.” She sighed again.
“Yes, Miss Stanhope, the Indians celebrate sex. I wish I could show you how.”
“Yesss.” No. What had she just said? She sat up in the tub and took a few deep breaths. She exposed her breasts by doing so, and she noted how they rose and fell with her labored breathing. Wesley couldn’t help but notice, either, with his face so close to hers. Nor could he miss the fact that her nipples had hardened to tight points.
“Well,” he said and cleared his throat. “Let’s wash your hair, shall we?”
“You’d do that?” She turned, and her lips almost met his. He made no move toward her or away. He simply stayed where he was, but a glow in the depths of his eyes spoke volumes of his own inner turmoil. He’d been just as affected by his stories of India and the erotic images on the temple walls as she had. And yet he didn’t try to touch her.