erotic, at least in the estimation of certain parts of Nick’s anatomy. He gave himself about two seconds to envision kissing her nape, and in those two seconds he caught the floral scent of her.
He’d never unhooked a gown quite so quickly. While he was in the neighborhood, he made short work of her stays then stepped away.
“There’s a vanity behind the privacy screen,” he said, “and you can change there while the water is brought in. You’ll find some things of Della’s hanging on the hooks, and the maids will leave you towels and soap.” He regarded her closely, fisting his hands to keep from touching her. “You’ll be all right?”
She nodded, looking to him forlorn, bruised, and much in need of tenderness rather than solitude.
“Then I’ll leave you for now,” he said. “Soak until you pickle, and I’ll come back later for further discussion.”
***
Nick left, and Leah felt his absence keenly. Nicholas Haddonfield, she realized as she finished undressing, was a toucher. He gathered information with his hands, with the embrace of his body, with his skin and his nose and his senses. He conveyed it too, conveyed caring and competence, and without his presence, Leah felt every raw edge on every nerve and emotion.
Climbing into the steaming, fragrant water helped settle her though, at least enough that she could consider her situation. Nick was coming back to her room to finish the discussion Darius and Trent had interrupted in the library. She had yet to accept Nick’s proposal, and watchdog that he was, he would not rest until she had.
She scrubbed herself from head to foot, then scrubbed herself again. The day’s memories would not wash away, but bathing helped put them at a slight distance. Then too, Nick’s tub was nigh large enough to swim in and shaped to encourage a lady to repose at her bath, and even to close her eyes.
“Lovey.” Leah heard a sound like a chair scraping. “Leah? Sweetheart? Lamb?”
She opened her eyes to find Nicholas Haddonfield looking large and concerned from his perch on a stool by the tub. His sleeves were rolled up, suggesting he’d been sitting there for more than a moment. Gracious.
“I fell asleep,” she murmured—inane comment. She had sense enough not to sit up, but realized the water and the fading bubbles provided her only so much camouflage.
Nick smiled at her with only a hint of innuendo in his expression. “As long as I’m here, shall we wash your hair? I promise not to peek, and your bubbles hide the best parts anyway.”
He sounded as if he were inviting her to stroll his back gardens or take tea on the terrace. Such was the savoir faire of the man who’d proposed to her.
“For now,” Leah muttered. It wasn’t right, however tempting it felt to be with him under such circumstances. It should feel shocking, upsetting, wrong… not reassuring, not comforting. Sitting in the warm water, seeing the concern in Nick’s blue eyes, Leah realized something else: She was going to marry him.
“You’ll have to take down my hair.”
He shifted his stool to sit behind her, giving Leah a measure of privacy in which to grapple with the truth of her realization. Downstairs, she’d told herself marrying Nick was the sensible, safe course. A good match, a friendly match, one she could accommodate if she dwelled on the things Lady Warne and Ethan Grey had suggested about propinquity and happenstance.
Here in Nick’s house, with him so casually at ease with a significant intimacy, accepting the notion took on bodily ramifications. They would occasionally share a bed, or at least a bedroom. She would see him in casual dishabille. He’d know when her monthly plagued her with cramps.
Nick’s fingers in her hair were deft. He stacked her pins neatly on the vanity and tugged her hair down over her shoulders in long, unfettered skeins. He’d undone many a lady’s coiffure. The knowledge left Leah more sad than angry.
“Down you go, lovey. All the way.”
She submerged completely, a baptism of sorts into a marital reality she had yet to inform Nick she’d accepted.
“Now close your eyes,” Nick instructed, “and lean back.” He used both hands to lather her wet hair, taking the weight of her head in one broad palm and massaging soap into her scalp with the other. The sensations were novel, both soothing—to be cared for—and arousing—to entrust her welfare literally into his hands.
The arousing part, she’d have to learn to deal with.