Chapter 18 #2
“I had to remove my gloves to climb up. Then the rope slackened and I lost my foothold. So I grabbed the nearest thing, which turned out to be a rather thorny bush.”
Her expression was pinched. He could not tell whether she was actually concerned for him or merely going through the motions.
She tilted his still-cold hand toward the light, looking for any splinters that might be stuck under the skin.
“I removed them all. They put me on the wagonette for the return trip—with a hot-water bottle in my lap, no less. There was a lantern nearby and I had plenty of time to pluck out the thorns.”
She straightened. “Wait.”
It was a request that required no response from him, but he answered all the same. “I will,” he told her. “I will keep waiting.”
* * *
Outside the bath, Louisa leaned against the wall for a moment.
Ever since he left the house, her stomach had churned with anxiety. Hour after hour passed. Even after a messenger came and relayed the news that Mr. Weston had been found and everyone was headed back, she remained on tenterhooks, pacing in the entry hall, rushing outside at the slightest noise.
Only to miss him completely when he actually did come back, looking like a chimney sweep who had been caught in the rain.
As soon as she’d seen Mr. Weston settled, surrounded by the surgeon, the physician, two nurses, and Mrs. Pratt, the housekeeper, she’d left to see to her husband.
She’d expected to encounter the chimney sweep again, but the man in her bathtub was as beautiful as ever, if somewhat bruised and battered.
I will keep waiting.
She made herself push away from the wall and retrieve the items she needed.
On the way she encountered a gaggle of ladies, all anxious to learn of their host’s condition.
News of his intrepid rescue of Mr. Weston had spread throughout the house—tomorrow it would be carried in dozens of letters to all corners of the empire.
Steam rushed out when she opened the door of the bath. It was only as she approached the tub that she could see him clearly: the breadth of his shoulder, the column of his neck, the muscularity of his arms, stretched out along the rims of the tub.
His eyes were closed, his eyelashes spiked with moisture. But as she neared, he opened his eyes and regarded her with so much gladness that she could not hold his gaze. Nor did she know where else to look—glistening skin and strapping build seemed to be everywhere in her vision.
She sat down on a footstool, lifted his hand, and dabbed it with an alcohol-soaked handkerchief. He gritted his teeth but made no complaints.
“You will be given a hero’s welcome tomorrow,” she said as she unrolled a length of white gauze. “That is, unless you decide to go down to dinner tonight, ravishingly bandaged.”
“And that does not sit well with you?” he asked, ever perceptive. “An unscrupulous man like me becoming ever more celebrated?”
“You did save Mr. Weston today.”
She was more proud than she wanted to let on. But it was not an unalloyed pride. Mixed into it was a queer envy: an envy of those who knew him only as The Ideal Gentleman and did not ever question his glittering perfection.
She would have been happy to feel nothing but pure admiration. To not be constantly torn between the gravitational pull of his person and the restraint of her well-justified caution.
As she finished bandaging his hand, he rubbed his thumb along the edge of her palm, sending a shock of sensation up her entire arm. She pulled her hand away and busied herself dousing a fresh handkerchief in alcohol.
But now she had to clean the cuts on his face. She patted around one scratch on his cheek, taking care not to look into his eyes.
“When I slipped and it seemed Weston’s weight might plunge both of us back down the ravine, my mind went blank,” he said. “The moment it became clear that we would be all right, I thought of you.”
She cleaned another scratch and remained silent.
“If nothing else, I’ve almost half a term’s worth of lecture notes ready to go,” he went on. “It would be a shame to waste all that preparation.”
She turned his face, looking for untended cuts. “The Ideal Gentleman always gets what he wants, doesn’t he? And now he wants my heart.”
He waited until she’d finished disinfecting a welt at his temple to take her chin in his hand, to make sure she was looking into his eyes.
“The Ideal Gentleman might have always had what he wanted, but I have not. I know perfectly well what it is like to wish for affection and receive none in return.”
His gaze was sincere, transparent almost. She remembered what he’d told her earlier, the poisonous estrangement among all members of his family.
“I won’t deny that if I were to have your heart, it would make me the happiest man in the world,” he continued. “But in the meanwhile, what I really want is for you to profit from our association.”
“By any definition, I have already profited handsomely from our association.”
“That’s for your family. I want you to have everything you have always wanted in life, everything you have ever dreamed about.”
“And you will be content to just give and take nothing in return?”
He raised himself and kissed her at the corner of her mouth. “I won’t be just content. I will consider it a privilege.”