“But you can’t…I mean…you shouldn’t…You aren’t really going to get into that tub, are you?”
She shouldn’t be so nervous. It must be an act. Even if Pennington was an unexciting bedfellow, she’d entertained enough other men, according to MacNeill, not to be alarmed at seeing him naked.
“I did just arrive. The water is here, and I don’t care to present myself to Motton’s guests in all my dirt.”
She looked around the room. “Aren’t you going to wait for your man?”
Did she think he’d hidden his valet in his bag? He shrugged—and noticed how her eyes widened slightly at the movement. “Crandall wasn’t feeling quite the thing, so I left him home. I can do fine by myself.”
Damned if her eyes didn’t keep coming back to his shoulders and chest.
He stepped a little closer to the tub and her tongue actually slipped out to moisten her bottom lip.
Her attention was definitely titillating. Part of him was exceedingly stimulated. If he opened his fall now, she would get quite the eyeful.
Could he…was it possible…Should he try to seduce her? Likely he’d just be opening himself to more rejection, but it might be worth the risk. He was ten years older; his heart was now carefully guarded.
If he could get Nell into bed, perhaps he’d finally realize she was no different than any other woman. He’d be cured of her.
He smiled slightly. It was worth a try. As Nell pointed out, Caro wasn’t here. And they were stuck in this small room with its small bed. “Crandall may not be here, but you are. You can help me.”
“Oh, no, I—” She clutched her comb in her hands and backed toward the fire.
“Careful. You don’t want to set that lovely dressing gown aflame.”
“Ack.” She jumped away from the hearth.
He sat in the chair and stuck out his legs. She was still darting glances at his chest. “Come help me get my boots off.”
“Your boots?”
“Yes.” He lifted a leg. “These leather things on my feet.”
She frowned. “I know what boots are.”
“I thought you did, but I was beginning to wonder.” He tried to assume his most pitiful expression. “Please? I could get them off myself if I struggled, but it would be so much easier if you helped.”
She glanced at the door. “Annie should be here any moment.”
“I doubt it. I believe Mrs. Gilbert decided we needed our privacy.”
“Privacy? Since when do servants affect one’s privacy?”
“Since one has been estranged from one’s wife for ten years,” he said softly. “I can act as your maid. I did so enough times when we were first married.”
Nell flushed. “That was different. And we won’t be doing anything that requires privacy.”
The details of the action which most required privacy popped into her mind. She closed her eyes briefly. She had not considered that…activity in years. She did not want to think of it now, but it was as if a carefully built dam had burst. Memories flooded her, swamping rational thought. She could almost feel his fingers on her skin, his mouth on her breasts…
The fire must have caught a fresh log; the temperature had risen precipitously.
She glanced at his chest—and shoulders and arms—again. Had he had such sharply defined muscles when he was younger? Surely not. She would have remembered such sculpted curves.
But she did remember the feel of his arms holding her tight, keeping her safe. She remembered the comfort they’d given her when the midwife had told her she’d miscarried.
How could she have forgotten that? Ian had held her while she’d sobbed, her dreams—her trust in the world—gone with her child.
She blinked back tears. She didn’t want to remember. Remembering hurt too much.
“No? We won’t be needing privacy?” Ian half smiled at her, his eyes gleaming ever so slightly. “What a shame.”
And that smile. It turned the hard, stern laird into a sly, beguiling man. It made him look years younger—too much like the lad she’d fallen in love with.
Ridiculous. That lad—and the lass she’d been—were long gone. If she were going to entertain memories, she should consider all the mistresses he’d had. She pulled her dressing gown’s belt tighter and glared at him.
“Dinna frown so at me, Nell.” His eyes seemed to invite her to share some secret with him.
“Then don’t…” Don’t what? Tease her? Mock her?
Seduce her?
That was what she feared, wasn’t it? But why? She could not be seduced; she had put all that behind her when her babe died. She closed her eyes, waiting for the familiar, terrible sadness to well up.
It didn’t.
She was just tired and upset. Distracted. She’d not expected to see Ian.
She glanced at his chest again…and then forced her gaze down to his boots.
It would be childish not to help him. She would assist him now, and then go sit on the bed…well, perhaps not the bed. She would move the chair as far away as possible from the tub and read until he had bathed, dressed, and left, giving her the privacy to get dressed herself.
“Oh, very well.” She stepped closer, grasped his boot, and jerked. It stuck for a moment and then slipped off more easily than she’d expected.
“Ack!” She toppled backward, sitting down hard on the floor.
“Are you all right?” Ian was obviously struggling not to laugh. He’d best not—if he did, she’d break his head with this blasted boot.
“I’m fine.” She scrambled upright and grabbed the other boot, tugging it off more carefully. “There. Done.”
“Thank you.” He stood, not giving her a moment to retreat to a safer distance. She leaned back quickly and lost her balance again. He caught her, his grip strong but gentle.
His skin was so close now. She was tall, but he was taller. If she leaned forward ever so slightly her lips would brush his chest. If she stretched just a little she could kiss his collarbone. If she—
She stepped back and he let her go, but there was a light in his eyes that did unsettling things to her stomach.
“You’re welcome.” She spun away. Her disquiet was completely understandable. Seeing Ian—being in the same small room with him—was a shock. Once she adjusted to the situation, she would be fine.
Right. And she’d be just as fine sharing that very, very small bed with him. He’d used to spread out, taking over all the space. Did he still?
She was not about to find out. Mrs. Gilbert must be mistaken. There must be some other solution—some other room that he—or she—could move to. Perhaps she could share with one of the other women.
She would ask him to move the chair to the other side of the room now and then later, when she was dressed, she would seek out Mrs. Gilbert.
“Ian—” She turned without thinking and found herself staring at his naked back while he searched through his valise. At his narrow, muscled arse.
“What?” He shifted to face her and now she was staring at something else, something that blossomed under her gaze, growing thick and long and…
She wrenched her eyes to his face. His expression was stark and…hot. His lips curved into a half smile.
“Lass, ye can look as much as ye like.”
She whirled back to the fire. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Ian had always been so comfortable in his body. He’d used to think nothing of walking naked around their room—
He’d best not be thinking he could do that here.
She had to get other accommodations. Being here with Ian—she felt unwell. Achy. Needy.
She didn’t want this. She didn’t want to feel anything. Feeling hurt too much.
She heard water splash against the sides of the tub.
“Can you hand me the soap, Nell?”
“Get it yourself.” She was not going to look at him again. She should just walk out right now—but she wasn’t dressed and she certainly wasn’t going to get dressed with Ian in
the room.
“I can’t reach it. Please, Nell?”
Oh, for God’s sake. “Where is it?”
“On the floor under the chair. It probably went flying when you did.”
She felt herself flush. Could anything be more embarrassing than to go flopping naked toward the floor when seen by one’s estranged husband for the first time in a decade? “Are you certain you can’t get it yourself?”
“Aye. It’s out of reach—and if you turned around, you’d see I’m already in the tub.”
“I know you’re in the tub. Can’t you get out and get it?”
“I’d drip all over Motton’s floor. It’s not like I’m asking you to go to Glasgow, Nell.”
“Oh, very well.” She carefully averted her gaze, moved to pick up the soap, and thrust it in his direction. He chuckled.
“What, Nell, are ye shy? Ye dinna used to be. Ye used to look quite eagerly.”
“Stop it!” She did look then. She was angry enough that she had no trouble focusing only on his face. “You can’t walk back into my life—by accident—and act as if the last ten years never happened.”
His face grew still, his eyes hard. “You’re the one who walked out, Nell. I tried to see you; I wrote you letter after letter. You refused me at every turn.”
She pressed her lips together. She had been mad that first year—angry and crazy. But it didn’t matter. Ian hadn’t understood, would never understand why she’d mourned such a wee speck of a thing, a baby that had died before her belly had even begun to swell.
She could not talk about it now.
“I—” She shook her head. “It’s…there’s just too much time gone. The wound’s too deep to heal, certainly by something as frivolous as this chance meeting—this accident of hospitality.”
“Perhaps this accident is an opportunity.”
He was not going to cut up her peace like this. She had worked too hard for too long to attain it.
“Could it be you are just looking for someone to warm your bed while Lady Remington is unavailable? Is that what this is about?”
Ian flushed. Ah, so she had hit the mark. She ignored the hollow feeling that thought provoked. Anger was what she wanted. Anger had always saved her in the past. “Where is Lady Remington, by the way? Did she have a prior commitment? I would have thought she’d break it to come here with you.”
Ian’s eyes narrowed. “Lady Remington was not invited.”
“Oh? I’m surprised.” She fanned the flames of her anger higher. She had perfected the art of sarcasm over the years. It was an excellent way to repel unwanted advances. “Does Lord Motton not read the society pages? Doesn’t he know the identities of Lord K. and Lady R.?”
Ian’s face grew stiffer and his voice sounded more English, precise and cold. “I have no idea what Lord Motton does and does not know. I didn’t know you read that twaddle.”
“Well, I do. I like to be au courant. It’s so entertaining to keep up with your escapades.” The anger felt good—and she could see she was infuriating him as well. “I would have thought you could have got her an invitation.”
“Perhaps I could have, had I tried.”
“Oh, so you didn’t wish to be encumbered by your mistress? Did you hope to find her replacement at this house party, then—someone younger, more entertaining? Poor Lady Remington.”
Ian’s face was red with anger. It was a wonder he wasn’t causing the bathwater to turn to steam.
She glanced down at the thought—and jerked her attention back to his face. The water was exceptionally clear. She could see…everything. At least that part of him had calmed down—unlike the rest of him. His jaw was tense—he must be gritting his teeth. His words certainly came out as though he were.
“Perhaps I shall look around. I don’t usually have difficulty finding bed partners—and I suppose that would help our rather cramped situation here, wouldn’t it? If you are certain you aren’t interested? Though I suppose a wife can’t be a mistress, can she?”
She wanted to slap him. “You conceited, arrogant—”
“Consider carefully. It would make sharing that bed so much more comfortable. As you point out, I am without Caro—and you are without Pennington—”
“Pennington?” She might be able to generate some steam herself. How dare he throw that disgusting, slimy…octopus in her face?
“MacNeill said the man was embracing you in the library.”
“Exactly. He was embracing me—I was not embracing him. You are the one who sent the man to Pentforth. What were you thinking?”
“I certainly wasn’t thinking to send my wife a paramour!”
“You really think…Pennington and I…you actually thought we…”
Ian shrugged. “You used to be a lusty girl. I’m not naive—I know women have needs. It’s been ten years since we…” His voice softened. “I assume you’ve had lovers over the years, Nell—you’ve just managed to be discreet—and you’ve not presented me with another man’s brat, for which I’m thankful, by the bye.”
Her jaw was hanging open. She wanted to cry and scream at the same time. She wanted to drown the despicable, obnoxious, ignorant cur. Did he understand nothing?
She would hit him. She would strangle him. She would—
She was still holding the cake of soap in her hand. She wanted to throw it at his head; instead she flung it into the bath, sending water splashing.
She sincerely hoped she’d hit her target.
CHAPTER 3
He’d certainly bungled that.
Ian opened the bedroom door and let Nell precede him into the corridor. She’d wanted him to leave as soon as he’d got his clothes on, but he’d pointed out she needed help dressing. That had been an uncomfortable exercise, akin to clothing a statue. They’d not exchanged a single unnecessary word since she’d tried to emasculate him with the soap cake. He winced. Thank God the water had slowed that missile. Her aim had been uncomfortably good.
“Will you take my arm?”
She spared him one cold look and started down the corridor alone. Wonderful. He lengthened his stride. He was not going to chase her all the way to Motton’s drawing room. “Don’t you think you are being a little childish?”
She glared at him again, eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring.
“If you clench your teeth any tighter, you’ll break your jaw.”
She made a short noise—a cross between a hiss and a growl—and moved faster.
Blast it. It wasn’t his fault they’d been tossed into that wee room together. He was as much a victim of Miss Smyth’s twisted sense of humor as she was.
He offered her his arm when they reached the stairs. She grabbed the banister.
Zeus! So he’d flirted with her. He was a man. Damn it, he was still legally her husband. He could have insisted she climb into that bed and fulfill her wifely duties. Not that he would have, of course. He had no need for an unwilling bed partner….
But she hadn’t been unwilling. Hell, she’d hardly been able to keep her eyes off him. He’d been holding his breath, waiting for her to touch him, to run her fingers over his naked—
He could have seduced her. She must know that—she’d never been a cabbage head. And she had no cause to get on her high horse. If he’d had mistresses, she’d had many male “friends.”
He glanced at her. Her face could have been carved from stone. She still would not look at him.
He should divorce her. Caro had been teasing him to do so almost from the moment he’d first climbed into her bed. Her motivation was obvious, of course—she wanted to be his next countess. Hell would freeze over before that happened.
Truthfully, he’d used his married status as protection, to stave off husband-hunting mamas and their daughters. Any female choosing to dally with him knew from the outset a wedding ring was not in the cards. That suited him perfectly. He had absolutely no desire to step into the parson’s mousetrap again.
But now he was thirty. He could no longer ignore
the reality of his position—he needed an heir. He had no brothers or male cousins waiting in the wings. And to get an heir he needed a wife—a real wife. A woman who would—if not welcome, at least allow—him into her bed and into her body. Obviously Nell would do neither.
He would have Motton fix this infernal room situation and then he would avoid her for the rest of the house party. When he got back to London, he would see about ending his marriage.
Bloody hell, his stomach felt like lead. He’d love to hit something. Someone. Perhaps Motton—he couldn’t very well hit Miss Smyth.
The footman took one look at them and flung open the door, almost jumping out of their way.
There was Motton, by the hearth, talking to two young women—twins. They could be trained monkeys for all he cared.
“Motton.”
The man raised an eyebrow. The women actually stopped their bibble-babble to gape. He had not sounded particularly polite. Well, he did not feel polite.
“If I might have a moment of your time? We”—he gestured toward Nell—“have something of an urgent nature to discuss.”
“Ah.” Motton’s smile remained in place, but his eyes turned watchful. He’d always been a downy one. “What—”
“Lord Kilgorn, Lady Kilgorn, how lovely to see you.”
Ian was certain there was nothing lovely about him at the moment. He turned to see who had spoken. A short, gray-haired woman smiled up at him.
His frown deepened; her smile widened. Her blue eyes were actually twinkling.
“May I present my aunt, Miss Winifred Smyth?” Motton said. He treated the woman to a very pointed look. She patted him on the arm.
“Have a touch of indigestion, do you, Edmund? Never fear. I have just the elixir for that. I’ll give you some later, if you like.”
“No, thank you.” Motton smiled slightly. “The last time I tried one of your quack remedies, Aunt Winifred, I had to see a physician to be cured of your cure.”
“Fiddle-faddle. You probably took too much—or not enough.”
Miss Smyth turned back to Ian and smiled even more brightly, if that were possible. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to welcome you when you arrived. I trust you found everything in order?”
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