Kasey Michaels - The Taming of the Rake

At least she would be spared that!

She could only hope the man realized how grateful he should be to her for thinking of him and this particular revenge in the first place.

But she very much doubted that he did.

“Men can be so annoyingly obtuse,” she muttered, holding up a palm full of bubbles and blowing at them.

“My lady? Was there something you wanted?”

Chelsea smiled at the maid, who had been adding another log to the fireplace that was also situated in this lovely bathing chamber. “No, thank you, Prudence. I was only reminding myself that women are supremely superior to men in intellect and understanding. Haven’t you always found that to be true?”

“If that means that my brother Henry is thick as a plank, then yes, my lady, that’s true. He once tried to milk a cow from behind, our Henry did, which is why he’s only got the two teeth and why we brought ourselves to London to find work when Mr. Beau offered, as far from cows as we could get. Poor Henry, they aren’t even his front teeth. I’ll leave you to your bath, my lady,” Prudence said and then curtsied and quit the room, hopefully never noticing that Chelsea’s shoulders were shaking with suppressed mirth.

Maybe she was tired. Perhaps the strain of the day had been more than she’d realized. The argument with Thomas, the moments of horrible panic, the mad dash to Grosvenor Square. Convincing Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn that he was a lucky man, except, of course, if he dragged his heels enough that Thomas and his gaggle of brawny footmen and grooms showed up and strangled him, at which point he would have been an unlucky and very dead man. Three hours on a horse, riding pell-mell away from London. Three more hours in the saddle, riding back again.

No matter what the reason, Chelsea was suddenly giggling at the thought of poor Henry and his two teeth. Laughing. Chortling so hard she sniffed some bubbles up her nose and then laughing even more.

“And here I assured Puck that you weren’t a fugitive from Bedlam. Or is it that the bubbles tickle? Interesting thought, that second possibility. Precisely where would they tickle?”

Chelsea sucked in a breath midgiggle and turned her head to see Beau standing not five feet away from the tub. The quick action, when combined with the slipperiness of the tub bottom, caused her to slide helplessly beneath the surface of the water. Throwing up her arms and wildly grabbing for purchase on the rim of the tub, she resurfaced gasping, choking, blinking soap out of her eyes and caught between an urge to kill the man and a heartfelt desire to sink below the bubbles once more.

“Monster! Take yourself off, Mr. Blackthorn. I’m in my bath.”

“Actually, you’re in my bath,” Beau pointed out, which is when she noticed that he was clad in a burgundy banyan, his bare chest visible, along with his bare legs and feet.

She’d seen Thomas dressed—or undressed—in much the same way a time or two, when he’d been convalescing from his bout with the mumps. Thomas had looked silly, all skinny white legs and paunch. Beau looked nothing like Thomas. His legs were tanned—she’d have to ask him how he’d managed that particular feat—and his calves bulged with muscle. There was a dusting of golden-blond hair on his chest, and his waist, marked by the tied sash, was remarkable in that fact that it was so small, his belly so very flat.

She didn’t know if any of this should affect her in any way, but it did. She just wasn’t sure quite how . She looked away quickly.

“I ordered you put in my father’s wife’s chamber, which adjoins his. As neither my father nor his wife has been to town in a decade, I’ve taken over his chamber, mostly because of this tub. Or did you think we have one of these contraptions in every chamber? Are you planning to spend the entire evening in there?”

She hadn’t thought at all, which she wasn’t going to tell him. Prudence had led, and she had followed, half asleep on her feet and longing for a lengthy soak. “I’ll be in here as long as you’re out there, if that answers your question. Go away!”

Instead of doing as she’d asked—ordered—the miserable man pulled a chair away from the wall and sat himself down, just as if he planned to take up residence.

“No. I think, as the saying goes, I have you just where I want you, Chelsea.”

“Well, you’re not where I want you,” she said, surreptitiously fishing around the bottom of the tub with one hand, attempting to locate the washing sponge that had sunk to the bottom. Except that, when she moved, bubbles popped. When she breathed, bubbles popped. Unless she remained very, very still, bubbles popped.

She would have cried, except that would have given him satisfaction. She would have pled, except he was probably expecting that, as well. If it killed her, utterly destroyed her, she would not let him know how mortified she was, how frightened she was, how vulnerable she felt at this moment.

He had thrown down the gauntlet, that’s what he’d done. Insufferable lout. She would confound him by refusing to pick it up. Just as if she was entirely accustomed to having a man in the room as she bathed.

Or better, as if she could not care at all that he was here because, even though they were going to marry, she was totally indifferent to him. He was openly a means to an end, nothing more. That should give him pause!

“I did not give you permission to address me so informally, Mr. Blackthorn.”

“You didn’t invite me into your bath, either. And yet, here I am. I didn’t invite you into my home, my life and my business. And yet, here you are. My headache is gone, by the way. I might actually be beginning to enjoy myself, difficult as that is for me to believe. Water getting cold? You can simply sit forward and depress the lever on the left, unless you’ve used up all the available hot water, which you probably have. It isn’t magic, Chelsea, there are mechanics involved. There are detailed explanations and drawings somewhere in the house. As I recall the thing, you enjoy reading. I can find them for you if you like.”

Chelsea was so far submerged in the bath that water and bubbles were sloshing in her ears, making it difficult for her to understand him, which was probably a good thing, because the way he was smiling—no, grinning—she was certain he wasn’t saying anything very nice. Especially that business about sitting forward to call up more hot water. As if she could do any such thing. And if part of what she’d missed was an offer by him to do it for her, well, she would have ignored that anyway.

“Let me know when you’re finished being an ass,” she told him, the tickling bubbles forcing her into the unladylike gesture of sticking a finger in her ear and wiggling it to stop the itch. “I don’t frighten easily, you know. If you had attempted any such idiocy with another female, she would have swooned straightaway and drowned. I, however, am made of sterner stuff, Oliver .”

She turned her head slightly, just in time to see him wince.

“Beau, please. Or even Mr. Blackthorn. No one calls me Oliver.”

“I will call you a lot worse if you don’t leave this room,” she warned. “Oliver.”

“You were an insufferable brat at fourteen. Now you’re rather amusing. And, as I believe I’ve already mentioned, I seem to have you where I want you at the moment.”

“In your tub?” Chelsea glanced down at the bubbles, blowing out her breath in exasperation. Pop. Pop. Pop . She took in a breath, but slowly, so as not to move her chest up and down too much. “You are no gentleman, Oliver.”

“Yes, I think we established that rather forcefully seven years ago. If I were, I’d be your brother-in-law now, wouldn’t I? But we need to talk, and since you aren’t in a position to run away if you don’t like the direction our conversation will be traveling, I repeat, I have you where I want you. Which is rather novel for our short and unpleasant acquaintance, you’ll admit.”