Page 41 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

Her eyes dropped to the curved edge of the tub, and then the floor. To her credit, she didn’t run. Or faint. She stood in silence, the only sign of her distress the way her arms curled tighter around the linens.

“Seen enough?” In the quiet, the question sounded harsher than he’d intended.

Her chin came up, and her gaze settled once more on his face. “What I see is a survivor.” She stepped closer. “But what concerns me more are the scars I can’t see.”

Although the fire had warmed the room to the point of stuffiness, a shudder passed through him, making the water around his knees ripple. “What did you find in that trunk?”

“Dry yourself,” she ordered, holding out the linens. “You’ll waste all the benefit of that hot bath, standing there like that. And besides, you’re dripping on my floor.”

Strangely enough, the sheer normalcy of her words made his heart lift. He had long since passed the point of coddling, hadn’t ever wanted her pity. Grabbing a towel from the top of the stack, he dried his arms and chest, then dropped it onto the floor to soak up both the little puddles he’d already made and the larger one he caused by stepping out of the tub.

Caro might have deposited the rest of the linens nearby and left the room, but she didn’t. Neither did she stare or scrutinize, though she was close enough now to see with perfect clarity what before might have been blessedly indistinct. She behaved as if seeing her husband in the altogether was an ordinary, everyday occurrence.

As it might have been if they’d spent the last six years together.

He didn’t know if he believed it, didn’t know if he could bear it—her utter calm, both in the face of the visible scars and in her awareness of the existence of invisible ones. He certainly didn’t deserve her compassion, wasn’t even sure if compassion was the word for what she seemed prepared now to extend to him.

As he reached for the dressing gown Leclerc had laid over a nearby chair, she spoke two quiet words. “Don’t go.”

Swiftly, he turned toward her, the silk sliding from his grasp enough to knock over the cordial glass, which shattered and spattered its contents over the floor. “A dose of laudanum,” he explained, surprised by the almost regretful tone he heard in his own voice. “Leclerc brought it.”

She lifted her frown from the mess to his face. “Are you in a great deal of pain?”

He was not sure how to answer that question. He was sore—his muscles, his throat, his various scrapes and bruises. But pain was relative. He’d certainly hurt worse.

“Just tired,” he answered with a shake of his head as he slipped his arms into the sleeves of the dressing gown.

“Then lie down,” she insisted. “Rest.”

“You said…”

Her hand came around his elbow, her touch light and cool through the silk. With gentle pressure she urged him toward his bed. “You said you would tell Leclerc to pack your things so you could be gone in the morning. If I wished it.” He looked down at her, but she was busying herself with turning back the coverlet. “But I wish you to stay.” She’d said just that on their wedding night. Why hadn’t he listened then? “There are things for us to discuss, I think, after you have had some time to recover from this misadventure.”

He didn’t dread the notion of such a conversation as much as he thought he should. Instead, he let her settle him into the bed like a child. “Stay with me,” he murmured, his eyelids drifting shut of their own volition as he sank into the pillows.

“I suppose that’s only fair,” she conceded, and he heard the sound of her dragging a chair across the floor. “If I had the voice for it, I would offer to read to you.”

Was she…teasing him? Flirting with him? “No. Just sit. Just…you.”

“Very well. I’ll stay until you fall asleep.”

Already, slumber beckoned, its waves considerably warmer and gentler than the ones he’d battled earlier that day. This time, he didn’t try to resist.

The gentle brush of Caro’s fingertips across his brow was surely nothing but a dream.…

Chapter 14

Fanny arrived at German Place before she realized she’d left her pelisse, gloves, and bonnet at Royal Crescent. In her bewildered state, she’d hardly felt the chill. Now, however, her numb fingers fumbled to insert the key into the keyhole so she could enter her rooms. Before she could manage it, the door opened from within, and Fitz stood before her, frowning.

“Th-the Duke of Hartwell’s boat c-capsized,” she stammered. “He nearly drowned.”

“I know it,” he said. “I’m the one who helped him home.” When he stepped back so she could enter, she saw that his coat was streaked with silt and damp in patches. “While you were visiting with the duchess, I happened to see Hartwell drag himself out of the water and onto the beach. It took some doing to rouse him, but I managed—no way I could’ve carried him without help, otherwise.”

“Y-you saved his life,” she managed, her jaw still clenched to prevent her teeth from chattering.

“This time,” he acknowledged cryptically. “But I thought it was imperative to alert General Scott to what had happened as soon as possible.” He nodded toward the small table where she took her meals, at present pressed into service as a writing desk, with sheets of letter paper, quill trimmings, and an uncorked bottle of ink spread across its top. “I’ve just sent word by a messenger. I’m sorry—I thought I’d be done in time to return to Royal Crescent and escort you back here. Where on earth are your gloves?” Evidently forgetting that he was still meant to be her footman, he reached for her bare hand and began to chafe it between his palms.

“Things were…chaotic,” she replied, once she was able to make herself to focus on something other than the heat of his touch, which spread through her whole body with remarkable quickness. “Servants scurrying everywhere. Hartwell refused a physician. W-will he be all right, do you think?”