Diane Gaston - The Vanishing Viscountess

She cleared her throat. “Are there towels folded nearby? And the soap?”

He walked around the tub to see them. “I’ve found them.”

Bracing himself, he put one leg in the water, which was as cold as he expected. He forced himself to put the other leg in and began lowering the rest of him, making the water splash loudly in the room.

“Ye gods!” He shot up again when the water hit the part of him most sensitive to temperature. “Ah!” he cried again as he lowered himself a second time, but now it was because his ribs hurt from jumping up so fast.

“It is too cold,” Miss Brown said. “I knew I ought to have sought hot water.”

“It is tolerable,” he managed through the pain and the chill.

He picked up the soap and lathered himself as quickly as he could, grateful for having had the foresight to do a fairly decent job of washing his hair that morning. In his rush, the soap slipped out of his hand and fell into the water. He fished around for it, making a lot of noise doing so. When he finally caught it and lifted it out of the water, it slipped from his hand again, this time clattering to the floor and sliding too far away to reach.

“Deuce,” he muttered.

“You’ve dropped the soap?” she asked from her seat facing the fireplace.

“Yes.” This was a damned odd conversation to have when naked with a woman. “It is of no consequence. I believe I am clean enough.”

She stood. “I will fetch it for you.”

“It is not necessary, I assure you.” he told her.

“I do not mind.”

Before he could stop her, she turned to face him. Their gazes caught, but she lowered her lashes and searched for the soap, picking it up and bringing it to him. He quickly glanced down to see how much of himself he was revealing at this moment. The water was too cloudy to see anything.

“There you are.” She placed the bar of soap in his hand as calmly as if she’d been handing him his hat and gloves. After wiping her hand on a nearby towel, she returned to her chair and resumed combing her hair.

Tanner guessed he was as claret-faced as she’d been unflappable. “You are not missish, are you, Miss Brown?”

“Mrs Lear,” she corrected. “And you are correct. I am too old to be missish.”

“Old,” he repeated. “How old are you exactly?”

She chose another lock of hair to work the comb through. “Now that is a question no woman wishes to answer.”

He shot back. “As old as all that, then?”

She turned her head to him and smiled. “I am twenty-five.”

“Good God,” he cried in an exaggerated voice. “You are in your dotage!”

She laughed. “And you, sir, are teasing.”

He liked the sound of her laughter. He also liked that she was not prone to blushes and foolishness like that. He never could abide the young misses who flocked to London during the Season, looking for husbands when they’d barely been let off leading strings. Miss Brown was ever so much more interesting.

He turned back to his bathing, frowning at what it might mean that she was not missish. What was her experience of men, then?

He realised he was merely sitting in the water, which was turning him into gooseflesh.

“I warn you, I am about to rise from this bath and stand up in all my glory.” He started to rise, but stopped. “You may wish to look, seeing as you are not missish.”

He tried to make it sound like a jest, although he wanted her to look at him with a desire matching his own of her.

Because of the cold water, however, a part of him was not showing to its greatest advantage. In fact, it had no glory at all.

“I’ll look away,” She kept her back to him while he dried himself and donned his shirt and trousers.

“It feels glorious to be clean, does it not?” she said.

“Indeed,” he agreed, pressing his hand to his ribs. “But I would be happier if I had a clean shirt.” He picked up one of the packages and walked over to the bureau upon which sat a mirror, a pitcher and a bowl.

She switched to the hairbrush and turned around again. “It must be wretched wearing the same shirt.”

He smiled at her. “It is not that bad. It merely smells like the devil.” He rubbed his chin. “I suppose I shall have to shave myself. Now that is a wretched prospect.”

He unwrapped the package and took out a shaving cup, brush and razor. She picked up the soap and brought it to him, her long dark hair falling about her shoulders in soft waves. He wanted to touch it again. In fact, he wanted to grab a fistful of it.

Their gazes caught for a second when she handed him the soap. She lowered her eyes and walked back to her chair.

He took a deep breath and started to lather his face. “It is a fortunate thing my valet developed a toothache on the day we were to leave for Dublin.”

“I meant to ask you if anyone accompanied you,” she said in a sober voice.

“No one.” Thank God, because he did not wish to have more lives on his conscience. Chin and cheeks lathered, he turned away from the mirror to look at her.

“I am glad of it,” she murmured.

“I am as well,” he responded.

He turned back to the mirror and scraped at his beard. “Pomroy and I once went two weeks without shaving.” He made another stroke with the razor. “We went to one of my hunting lodges, but it rained like the devil. There was nothing to do so we drank great quantities of brandy and grew beards.”

She giggled. “I wonder you had the energy for it.”

“We wagered to see who could grow the longest beard in two weeks.” He smiled. “I won it.”

“Who was charged with measuring?”

“Our poor valets.” He laughed. “We made them switch.” He twirled his finger for emphasis. “Pomroy’s valet measured my beard and my valet measured Pomroy’s. It made the two men very nervous.”

He scraped at his cheek some more until his face was nearly clean of soap, except for tiny lines here and there. He rinsed off with the clean water and dried his face.

He presented himself to her. “How did I do?”

To his surprise, she reached up to stroke his face. “You did well,” she murmured.

The part of him that had retreated during his bath retreated no more. He leaned closer to her, so close he saw the lines of light and dark blue in her eyes. Her hand stilled, but her fingers still touched his cheek.

He wanted to breathe her name into the decreasing space between them, if only he knew it.

There was a loud knock on the door.

“Deuce,” he murmured instead.

He walked to the door. “Who is it?”

“It is Mrs Gwynne, lamb. If you are finished with your bathing, we’ve come to fetch the tub.”

He glanced over to Miss Brown. She nodded.

“You may fetch the tub.” He opened the door.

Removing the bath was almost as laborious as filling it had been. The maids had to make several trips. The towels were gathered up for laundering and, when all this was accomplished, Mr Gwynne appeared to carry the copper tub out of the room. Mrs Gwynne remained the whole time, chatting in her friendly way, pleased, Tanner suspected, that she had made her guests so happy.

“Now,” the innkeeper’s wife went on. “If you would care to come to the taproom, we have a nice supper. We also could give you a private parlour for dining. Or, if you prefer, we’ll bring the food to you here.”

“It shall be as my wife desires.” He turned to Miss Brown.

As his wife desires, Marlena repeated to herself, her heart pounding at the way his voice dipped low when he spoke the word wife. He spoke the word softly, intimately, as if he had indeed kissed her as he had been about to do. Her whole body tingled with excitement.

“I should like to stay here,” Marlena responded.