Leslie Lafoy (8 page)

She forced herself to open her eyes, breathe, and focus on what was going on around her. He was talking to the man at the door, the low rumble of his voice sending another warm shudder through her body. Caroline swallowed and lifted her chin, determined to control herself. Lord knew she’d make enough missteps in the days and weeks ahead that she didn’t need to compound the embarrassment by doing something so utterly unladylike as go weak kneed and pliant at the merest touch of a man.

Her resolve firmly in place, she smiled down at Fiona and winked. “Let’s go see our rooms, shall we?”

Fiona nodded in her tentative way and allowed herself to be led across the black-and-white marble floor and up
the carpeted stairs to the second floor. A long hallway stretched out on either side of the landing, doors opening onto them from both right and left. Caroline paused to find the numbers and determine that they should go to their right. As they turned, a movement from the foyer below caught her eye. She looked back to see Lord Ry-land standing there alone, his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets, his gaze following them.

She offered him a smile and mouthed “thank you” in appreciation for all the consideration he’d shown her and Fiona in the past few moments. He rocked slightly back on his heels before he managed to summon a smile in return—a smile that looked more strained than anything else—and then promptly turned and walked out the front door.

She had no idea what she’d done that so obviously bothered him, but since there wasn’t anything she could do about fixing it or apologizing for it at the moment, she set the issue aside and focused on finding room number 5. It was midway down the hall and on her left. And its door was standing wide open.

There were two big beds in it, a large draperied window and a table between them. Simone was standing on one of the beds, in the center of a down coverlet on what was apparently a down mattress. The whole thing had puffed up and around to hide the lower half of her legs and make her look decidedly sawed off. Fiona wasn’t the only one the sight brought up short.

“Hello,” Simone said, jumping off the bed to land neatly in front of them.

Caroline gently squeezed Fiona’s hand in assurance, saying, “This is your other sister. Her name is Simone and she’s not as wild as she looks.”

Simone laughed and bounded off toward an open door
on the far side of the room, saying, “You have to see this, Carrie. C’mon in here.” And then disappeared from sight.

She glanced down at Fiona and was relieved to see that the child didn’t seem to be at all distressed by Simone’s exuberance. In fact, if she had to guess what the tilted angle of the little blond head meant, it would be that she was intrigued and wanted to see what wonders Simone had discovered. Not that she was going to let go of Caroline’s hand and scamper off on her own to do it.

Still, Caroline considered her open interest a sign of remarkable progress and gladly took Fiona across the room and through the tall doorway. Again they both stopped short. “What in the world?” Caroline muttered, staring in awe at the giant copper tub sitting lengthwise in the room. A lacy curtained window flanked it on either side, and on the wall in between them, two smallish, banded wooden pipes ran down, each with a shorter pipe sticking out at a right angle over the tub and with what looked like a copper doorknob sitting atop each one.

“Watch,” Simone instructed, turning one of the knobs. Water instantly gushed from the end of the pipe and splashed into the tub. Fiona gasped and bounced on her toes in excitement as the steam rose and Simone exclaimed, “It’s hot! And if it’s too hot, you turn this handle, too,” she added, cranking the other knob and sending water gushing out of the second pipe. “And it cools right down. Come feel!”

And Fiona did, releasing Caroline’s hand and darting forward.

“Not in the stream,” Simone said, catching her younger sister’s hands. “The hot’ll burn you. Down inside is perfect,” she added, turning Fiona to face the tub.

Both of them leaned over the edge to place their hands in the rapidly deepening water and flat against the copper
bottom. Fiona’s feet came up off the floor and she giggled in delight. “Ain’t it just magic?” Simone said over her shoulder, grinning from ear to ear.

Yes, it was. In so many ways. “I’ve heard of such things, but I’ve certainly never seen . . . ” Words failed her and all she could do was smile at the contraption and shake her head in awed appreciation of the genius who’d created it.

Simone pushed herself upright and then, chuckling, reached over to pull a struggling Fiona back onto her feet. “See that plug there?” Simone said to them both, pointing to somewhere under the frothing water beneath the pipe ends. “You pull it and all the water drains right out the bottom. I know ’cause I’ve already done it. Twice.”

She’d take her word that it was there and how it worked. “Oh, how absolutely wonderful. No hauling tubs and buckets. No having to heat water on a stove. No having to bathe in a teacup. I could kiss someone.”

“How ’bout these, too?” Simone offered, snatching up a white sheet from a pile of them on a table beside the tub. “Ever seen anythin’ so white in your life?”

No, she hadn’t. London soot turned the best efforts of the strongest lye to a dull gray within moments. A hot bath, a white bath sheet . . . Oh, dear God, clean water for her after the girls had had their baths! At the turn of a knob! “Have my bags been brought up from the carriage yet?” she asked, her heart racing in giddy anticipation.

Simone shrugged and then pointed to a closed door opposite the open one that led into their room. “Heard some bumping and dumping a minute ago over on that side of the door.”

“I want to get some things from my bags so we can have proper baths,” Caroline announced, turning. Fiona’s panicked little cry stopped her. “I’ll leave the door open
so you can see me the whole time I’m gone,” she promised. “And I won’t be gone long at all.”

“We can play in the water while she’s gone,” Simone cajoled, leaning back over the edge of the tub. “Look how you can see your hand through it, Fiona. Have you ever seen anythin’ that clear before?”

Fiona looked over at Simone, down into the tub, and then back at Caroline. With a tiny, tremulous smile, she turned and leaned back over the edge.

“
OH
,”
CAROLINE BREATHED ON A SIGH OF DELIGHT AS SHE
eased down into the water. “Pure decadence.” Life simply could not get any better than this. Simone was right; it was magic. Leaning her head against the back of the tub, Caroline closed her eyes and slid down until the water came to her chin. If this was typical of the lives of the wealthy, she’d fought way too hard to keep her independence.

Not that she would ever admit that to Lord Ryland, of course. Well, maybe she would if he threatened to deprive her of baths like this one. She’d be willing to swallow a bit of pride to have such a divinely sinful pleasure anytime she wanted it. What else she might be willing to give up if he demanded it, though . . .

He didn’t strike her as the vindictive sort—despite the business of buying the building her shop was in and saying he’d posted a guard at her door when he hadn’t. They’d been strangers then and he’d been coming into the negotiations without knowing how she’d react and needing to have some leverage just in case she proved obstinate. Which she had. In looking back at the day, she had to allow that if she’d been in his position, she’d probably have done the same thing.

It was amazing how a deliciously warm bath in a huge tub could change how the world looked—especially the men in it. Well, it wasn’t just the bath, she amended. She’d begun to see him in a completely different light when he’d squatted down in front of Fiona and so patiently offered her his hand. It had been such a compassionate, understanding gesture. And he’d made it with what had looked like—admittedly from a distance—a natural kind of ease.

Simone insisted that Drayton wasn’t what he appeared to be on the surface, that underneath all the “prigginess”—as Simone put it—he really was a regular man. Caroline grinned. She’d been in the process of trying to get Simone to describe just what being “regular” entailed when the tray of food had arrived and Simone had elevated him straight to sainthood.

It was only logical to assume that the youngest two of his wards would be starving, but that he’d actually thought to do something about it spoke volumes about his basic decency and sense of kindness. All in all, he certainly was shaping up to be a bit more human than she’d first thought possible.

Whether that was a good thing or not . . . Monsters breathing against your ear didn’t turn your insides to delightfully warm jelly. And you most certainly didn’t remember the moment with any sort of wistful sigh and then wonder what the chances were of it happening again. On purpose the next time. And perhaps with an actual slow, deliberate brush of the lips. It would feel so very good. It would be absolutely divine.

And absolutely, unforgivably scandalous.

Caroline fanned her cheeks with her hands, sat up and reached for her bar of sandalwood soap. French milled and
exotically scented, it had cost a small fortune. It had been a luxury she’d regretted not ten feet from the merchant’s shop, but she hadn’t been willing to take it back to plead the belated common sense of poverty. Instead, she’d tucked it away for a special occasion. In the two years since, nothing had met her criteria of “special” until tonight.

If Drayton Mackenzie, the Duke of Ryland, was willing, she’d meet him halfway and declare a truce. She’d agree to do whatever it took to be considered the proper daughter of a peer. She’d do whatever was necessary to see that Simone and Fiona were brought up respectably and had everything that they would ever need or could possibly want. She would swallow her pride and put fulfilling her mother’s plans for her future on the shelf. She would, if required to do so, even agree to sincerely consider any offers of marriage that might come her way.

If that didn’t make the evening a special occasion, there was no such thing. Hopefully, Lord Ryland would appreciate just how much she was offering him and accept it all with some grace.

She rinsed and rose from the tub, wrapped herself in a bath sheet that smelled of sunshine and lavender, then laughingly called to Fiona, reminding her that it was her turn to have the honor of pulling the plug.

There was silence in response. Caroline’s heart went to her throat. She’d given them each a worn but clean chemise to wear after their baths, with the promise of fashioning something makeshift from her wardrobe for them to wear down to dinner once she’d had her bath. If they’d taken off on their own dressed as she’d left them . . .

Clutching the wet sheet around herself, she stepped to the door of their room. They were both still there. Thank God. Both on the same bed with the cheese and bread
plate between them, just as she’d left them not fifteen minutes ago . . . But now the plate was empty and they were sprawled out, not just sound asleep, but snoring like little puppies.

They were both such beautiful girls, Caroline thought, her heart going from pounding to swollen with appreciation. So different from each other and yet so much alike in their ability to seize the wonder of their suddenly changed circumstances. Fiona still hadn’t uttered a single word, but she’d smiled as her hair had been washed, only winced once as it was combed out for the first time in heaven only knew how long, and then skipped around the room in the chemise as though she’d been dropped into a diamond- and pearl-studded evening gown.

And Simone . . . The girl who could swing a fist with bloody accuracy and make sailors blush with her frankness had taken up the game with her little sister, holding out the thin lawn of her borrowed chemise at the sides and dropping into exaggerated curtsies.

And there the two of them were now, fast asleep. Full and warm and clean. Bless Lord Ryland for having plucked them from the hells their lives had been. She’d make sure that he never once regretted it.

DRAYTON CHECKED HIS WATCH AND THEN RETURNED IT
to its pocket with a sigh.

“More wine, your grace?”

“Is the bottle empty?” he asked, picking up his glass and looking at the firelight through the ruby red liquid.

“Yes, your grace.”

Well, either it had evaporated or he’d been waiting even longer than he thought. Odd that he didn’t feel the effects of a full bottle of wine, but then, the day had been
one of the oddest of his life so it wasn’t all that surprising. “Another one, then,” he said. “In the event that my eldest ward might want a glass with her meal.”

The sommelier uncorked the bottle in his hand, replaced the empty bottle with it and then departed the room, leaving Drayton alone with his thoughts. Or, more accurately, with his battle to control them. Which hadn’t been going all that well for the better part of the day, but had gotten infinitely more difficult as he waited for Caroline and her sisters to join him.

Hopefully the woman didn’t own a proper evening gown. It would be absolutely impossible to sit here and carry on something approximating a civil and circumspect dinner conversation if she arrived in a low-cut, sleeveless, waist- and hip-hugging dress. And God help him if she actually wore a necklace with a drop that fell into her cleavage.

Cursed. That’s what he was, cursed. He’d been living the perfect life—no commitments or obligations to fulfill except those he made himself. No grand expectations to meet except those he set for himself. And then, through no fault of his own, the bloody world had been upended.

But he’d been a true Englishman and shouldered his duty and trudged on, making the best of the disaster and doing a fairly competent job of it all. Until Caroline.

His sense of mastery—marginal though it was—had begun to unravel the second he’d walked into her shop. Ever since then, good judgment and healthy male desire had been bludgeoning each other senseless. Because it was a rather evenly matched battle, it hadn’t overly preoccupied him until his damn imagination had joined the fray and taken the bit firmly between its teeth by the smokehouse steps.