“You are fussing overme.”
“That is my prerogative as your husband.”
More of that liquid warmth spread through her, only marred a little by the pain in her head. “Oh well, inthatcase, fuss away.”
The corner of his mouth curled into a little smile, and without thinking, she traced the line it made. He tensed slightly under her, his steps faltering. Again, she was reminded of all the ways they had yet to venture past a certain point of intimacy.
“You have a headache,” he said firmly, ascending the stairs. “When did it come on? You ought to have said something.”
She would rather have been cleaved in two by an axe than admit anything that would have dragged Hugh away from the carnival and Mr. and Mrs. Barnaby’s attentions. “It only began hurting when we got home,” she said.
“Liar.” His voice was affectionate, and she only dimly registered that he had carried her into her bedchambers. Carefully—more carefully than she ever could have supposed such a large man capable of—he lowered her against the pillows. He took her hand in both of his. “Thank you for today.”
She closed her eyes, content to be with him like this. All her planning had paid off. “You’re welcome,” she murmured, holding his hand as tightly as she dared. “Did you have a good time?”
“It was better than I had anticipated.”
With her eyes shut, she huffed and gave a small smile. “Is it too much to say you enjoyed it?”
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s not.” He leaned forward, and she felt the warmth of his breath before his lips brushed herforehead, light as a feather. “I enjoyed spending my day with you, Chris. Sleep well.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hugh sank intothe copper tub with a sigh of relief. It had taken a long time to get him to a place where the hot water didn’t irritate his skin, but now he could bear the heat without excessive discomfort, and the warmth loosened his muscles. He rested his arms against the sides of the tub and tilted his head back. Steam engulfed him.
Originally, he’d had some idea of taking Christiana back to her rooms and then perhaps kissing her again.
No, notperhaps. He had been desperate to kiss her ever since she had defended him to Lady Ponsonby, but the second they’d arrived home, he’d taken one look at her face and known what she really needed was rest.
Over the course of the day, he’d been able to see that the carnival had taken a toll on her. He had not minded the noise and the chaos, so long as none of it pertained to him, but she had disliked it. Even so, she had gone there with him and had been determined to stay until the very end.Hehad been the one to finally insist on going home.
With the bar of soap, he washed himself, taking special care around his burns. Although they no longer caused him the samedegree of pain they once had, the skin was still overly sensitive, and he had to be careful not to irritate it.
He had just finished washing himself down and was about to call for his valet when there came a knock at the door. Presuming Rogers had anticipated his needs, he called, “Come in” and stepped out of the tub. Water gushed around him, and it took him a few moments to realize that his valet was not the person standing to one side of the screen.
No. It was Christiana. Dressed not in the gown she had been wearing earlier, but in a frothed white concoction, hanging loosely past her breasts and hips and neatly touching her ankles. A nightgown, but not the same affair as the one he had last seen her in. This, he knew well, was the sort of item a woman wore when she was very much hoping that someone would unwrap her from it. Slowly. Perhaps with his teeth.
As he stared at her, his mind blank, his body utterly still, she raised her chin and dropped her gaze to his chest. The skin there. Ugly, ruined skin he had vowed never to let anyone but his most trusted servants and his physician see. Yet here she was, looking at him with eyes that were wide behind her glasses, taking everything in.
He waited for the horror. The disgust. The skin on his leg looked as though it had melted—and indeed it had. There were twisted scars across his chest where a burning beam had fallen on him. A nail in the beam had left a jagged gash across his right pectoral.
The last lady who had seen him in all his glory had been paid for her services, and even she had been unable to keep the horror from her face. She had not wanted to lie with his ruined body over her, and he could hardly blame her. He had let her go without demur and without any of the things he had paid for; he could not bear her disgust.
“Well?” He tried to keep the anger from his voice. That was a lesson learned long ago—anger felt like a relief, as though it would be easier than pain, but it solved nothing in the end. “What do you think?”
Her gaze flicked back to his face, then down again. She took a step forward, her hands clasped at her front. Despite everything, at the subtle press of her breasts against the sheer fabric, he felt a stab of lust.
“What do I think?” she repeated. “Am I to pass judgment now?”
He snatched a robe from over the back of the screen and shrugged it on, not bothering to dry himself. His skin itched; he felt a wave of impotent anger that had no outlet. It was notherwith whom he was angry, but himself. For wanting her, for not being whole enough to want in return.
But as he went to pass her, she reached out a hand, resting it against his arm. He could easily have pulled away, but he halted. With a single touch, she’d mastered him, and he yielded utterly.
“I think you are a man,” she whispered, looking up into his face. “And I am not afraid of you.”
“I will never be—whole.”
“You do not need to be.” Slowly, she brought her other hand to his chest, resting against the join between whole flesh and mangled. Underneath, he felt his heart pounding at her touch. “You look at me as though you expect me to run from you. But I am tired of waiting for you to realize that I amhere, Hugh.” She tilted her head to him, and a mischievous smile danced in her eyes. “And you, I think, may be more whole than I imagined.”