“How about the wifely duty of hiring a few servants?”
“What need have I—for—servants?” Dear God, this thing is heavy!
“No, I can see you have matters well in hand, all by yourself. Except that you don’t clean, you can’t cook, your house is in the middle of an appalling pigeon crisis—”
His vision began to swim slightly. The outrageous cost of delivery had begun to make more sense.
I am going to drop this thing. I will die beneath it, but at least this brutal climb will be over.
To be truthful, the only reason he did not give up and leave the bloody thing halfway up the stairs was that he would have to tolerate the faintly mocking twitch of one of those perfect eyebrows. For someone who maintained a perfectly placid exterior, she seemed to leak a great many opinions.
“And you are stubborn enough to kill yourself with that tub.”
Morgan reached the landing to the floor with the two bedchambers. For a moment, he swayed on the top step. Then with one last mighty heft, he managed to turn the great copper beast and stagger the final few feet to the single usable bedchamber.
When at last he lowered the tub to rest before the fire, he remained there, leaning on the thing with his hands braced on either side and his legs trembling somewhat. Thank God it was too dim in the room for her to see—
A candle flared to life on the mantel. Then another.
Morgan drew himself upright in a hurry and gave a disdainful grunt to cover his breathlessness. He had no excuse for this charade except that he was a man and she was a pretty woman and that was how things were done. Men pretended to be towers of boundless strength and women pretended to be impressed.
Who was he to break with tradition? It had worked for humankind so far. He turned.
Bliss stood in front of the fire, a steaming pail of water to each side. Her adorable bare feet were planted on the gleaming hardwood, and her hands were folded before her. It appeared that she, too, was slightly out of breath.
Morgan widened his stance and settled his fists upon his hips, hoping he appeared authoritative even while he gulped the air. “As I was saying, this is my house and you are my wife, and I have decided that your role as such shall encompass a myriad of duties.”
“Myriad?”
“Yes, including massaging my shoulders and neck, and perhaps trimming my hair and shaving my face should I so desire.”
Bliss’s eyes widened. “Like . . . a barber?”
“Like a wife. After all, I’ve been a good husband to you, have I not? I paid all the bills you rang up today. I praised your cooking last evening.”
“You wolfed my cooking.”
He suppressed a smile. “Wolfing is a form of praise.”
“And then you belched, sir.”
Morgan unleashed a severe glare in her direction. It was the only way he could combat his desire to laugh. “Further praise. Now.” His legs began to give with exhaustion, so he lowered himself to the edge of the tub. “Have I not kept my word to behave with gentlemanly restraint?”
A single eyebrow arched on Bliss’s forehead. “I suppose, but please allow me to ask for some clarification on that matter.”
He waved his hand in permission.
“You wish me to bathe you whilst you are without . . . accoutrements?”
“Is that a fancy word for drawers?”
Bliss lifted her chin. It was obvious she fought to keep her brow unfurrowed, but Morgan saw that she blushed in earnest now. How did she do that? he wondered. How did one blush at will? Perhaps it was something they taught in the school for manipulative females.
He knew they had reached the moment of truth: Either Bliss Worthington would give in to his ridiculous list of demands, or her veneer of virginal righteousness would crack and she would tell him to go to hell, revealing the shameless gold digger she truly was. Either way, his evening looked to be improving rather soon.
But what Morgan would not admit, not even to himself, was that the very thought of this pretty, blushing woman kneeling beside him, washing his back . . . among other things . . . had abruptly become a forceful private fantasy.
Except that she looked so very . . . vulnerable. He relented just a bit. “I will cover the tub with a sheet, if you like. But—” Perhaps now would be a good moment to go somewhat helpless male. He ran a hand through his overlong, shaggy hair, still stiff with salt from his last sea bath. “I truly could use your help looking more presentable.”
Bliss considered him for a wary moment, then lowered her gaze and gave him a nod so soft that it was barely noticeable. “Shall I bring up your meal before I fill the bath?”
Chapter 14
BLISS stood at the stovetop, trying to remember what she’d been doing. Her task was a simple one: ladle the stewed beets next to the sliced roast. But her mind was a churning storm of complications, her peace shattered.
She had blushed! And for good reason. Bliss had spent several moments directly behind Captain Pryce on the stairs. The view had been stupendous. He was just as good-looking from the back as he was from the front!
She’d still been in awe of his powerful form when he requested that she shave him sans clothing. Her head now spun with imaginings of his naked, glistening manliness.
Oh! He had balanced that tub in midair as if it were papier-mâché. His muscled rear had flexed impressively with every step he climbed. It had been an effort not to stare at the shoulder and torso strength that bulged beneath the captain’s coat. Truly, his vigor was astounding!
The sound of silver crashing to the floorboards roused Bliss to attention. She retrieved the dropped utensil and fetched another, then made her way up the steps once more.
She ought to be thinking of Neville, for it was he who wanted and needed her, not Captain Pryce. The man in her room might be impressive, but he was not the man for her.
What would she see when she entered the bedchamber? Would he already be disrobed? Would he dare dine in such a bacchanalian fashion?
Bliss felt the corner of her mouth lift. Captain Pryce had turned the bargain on her. The man was clever. I like clever. I like it very much.
Alas, he was clothed as he sat on a chair near the hearth. He had already pulled a side table near, ready for his meal. His deep-sea eyes flashed as she appeared in the doorway with his food and drink. He straightened. Bliss could not tell if he was aroused by her, the savories, or both.
It took a great deal of determination to keep her countenance serene, but she could not let him see her smile.
“Will you be dining with me, wife?”
She set the plate, utensils, and wine goblet upon the table with pleasant efficiency. “I shall dine later, after you have had your bath.”
Up and down she went, lugging one pail of hot water after the next and pouring the contents into the tub. All the while, the captain ate and drank without comment in the light of the candles she had lit for his comfort. Despite the silence, the rapid rate at which the food disappeared was proof enough that he relished his meal.
With each trip between floors, Bliss contemplated the matter at hand.
Theirs was an unusual bargain, to be sure. Because the captain had been quite understanding about the little matter of consummation, she found herself in a position where she could not refuse his other requests. Fortunately, none of these additional duties would necessarily negate her options for an annulment . . . as long as no one ever knew about them.
Bliss reminded herself that she was, indeed, a proper young lady. But she was a Worthington, and as she had learned long ago, the rules, when applied to Worthingtons, were rules only in the most general sense.
So that was a promise she could make to herself—she would remain generally proper. She was sure Neville would understand, in the end.
“I am quite ready for my bath, wife.” The captain had devoured eve
ry scrap of food and had pushed the table aside. He lounged in the chair now, his long legs stretched out before him. “Would you be so kind as to remove my boots?”
“Of course.” With an air of cheerful obedience, Bliss knelt before him. She tugged the heel of his black leather boot with one hand and cradled the shaft with the other. Just the leather itself. No true contact whatsoever. She pulled off the other boot in the same manner.
She rose, produced a tranquil smile, then set his boots aside. It seemed the captain took that as his cue to stand and immediately begin to unbutton his breeches. Bliss grabbed the tray of empty dishes and scurried toward the door.
“Where are you rushing off to, wife?”
“I . . . I must retrieve more water.”
His low chuckle rumbled behind her back. She heard the sound of his breeches slipping to the floor.
• • •
“SIR, YOU ARE naked.”
Morgan tried not to smirk, but was not entirely successful. He gestured for her to enter the bedchamber. “It is time for you to fulfill your other wifely duties.”
She blinked at him slowly. Her composure was remarkable—unless she was far more experienced than she professed. For she was correct. He was naked, entirely. Soaking wet and sudsy, too.
The bath sheet draped over the more . . . informative portions of the tub but did nothing to hide his chest and shoulders.
As his flustered bride placed another full water pail by the tub, Morgan leaned back in the vast copper tub and sighed with contentment. The thing was a monster and worth every shilling, though he would never tell her so. When he moved, the sheet shifted and slipped down to touch the water, revealing more of his torso.
His bride’s blue gaze jerked away and fixed upon the fire glowing beyond him. Morgan grinned openly and stretched his long legs in the warm water. “I put my shaving kit on the dressing table, and I have stropped the razor for you.”
She stood absolutely still. By the candlelight, he thought he saw her swallow hard. Her fingers twined before her. Her betraying signs were subtle, but Morgan was accustomed to reading the sea itself by no more than the color of its waves.
No matter how understated her manner, he was beginning to read his bride the same way.
“Wife? I have requested your assistance in the bath. Do you mean to deny me this husbandly right as well?”
She stared at the fire, obviously not looking at him with all her might. “You gave me your word that I shall remain un . . . unfrittered with.”
He laughed out loud. Did she even realize that her cheeks were aglow with the heat rushing through her? Or was it all artifice? Yet again, the question plagued him. Who was this woman? Was she evil or innocent? He had to admit that her mystery fascinated him.
If he hadn’t been feeling the pressure from Lord Oliver to consummate their union, it might have been fun to take his time revealing her game. To peel back each layer of her deception as he peeled back her resistance . . .
As he peeled off her ridiculously demure clothing. He felt himself harden further. His throat tightened.
Was he positively mad? How could he have forgotten that only two days ago this woman had claimed to be madly in love with his brother? How could he have forgotten Lord Oliver’s warnings?
“I have not ‘frittered’ with you whatsoever. What is this, wife? You choose to not hold to our bargain? Fine! Then I am entitled to—”
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” Bliss shook her head in exasperation, and a few more blond tendrils fell loose upon her cheek. “I will shave you if I must.”
“And cut my hair.”
“And cut your hair.”
“You should remove your gown as well. I feel in the mood to splash.”
She finally met his gaze. There was a bright blaze of warning in her wide eyes. It faded instantly, giving way to her usual bland imperturbability. “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “Perhaps I should.”
She turned and left the bedchamber. The moments ticked by. Just when Morgan had decided to start bellowing her name, she reappeared. He stared at her with his jaw practically hanging into the bathwater.
She had indeed removed her gown.
And donned that damned gigantic apron she’d found in his kitchen!
She looked like a mermaid wrapped in a fisherman’s tarp! Hardly an inch of her was visible but for her face, tiny muslin sleeves on the arms holding two pails of water, and the lacy edge of her shift and her bare toes emerging below the crumpled hem. She placed the pails upon the hearth.
Morgan lifted an eye brow. “Off to do a spot of blacksmithing, are we?”
She was utterly adorable. It occurred to him that there seemed to be two Bliss Worthingtons—one innocent and endearing and the other cunning and dangerous. He just wished he could be sure that the engaging one, the one who stood before him at that moment, was the real Bliss.
Suddenly, a fascination for those naked pink toes overtook him. Of course it did. A fellow had to take what he could get.
“You look ridiculous, you know.”
She seemed unperturbed by his opinion. “And yet I feel entirely comfortable, for I am in my own bedchamber, am I not? I may wear what I like in my own room, I should think. Or is that against your arbitrary marital rules as well? If so, you ought to have brought it up in negotiations.”
Damn. He wished he had. He tore his hungry gaze from her toes. One body part at a time, lad.
He indicated the dish of soap once more. “If you please.”
She shuffled forward and knelt by the side of the tub. He could hear the thick canvas crunch with her every movement.
Then, when she leaned over him to reach the soap, he caught a whiff of something sweet and light—it made him hungry. She smelled like . . .
“Vanilla!”
She retreated at once, sitting back on her heels with the soap in her hand. After giving him a reproachful glance, she dipped his shaving brush into the water next to his side and began to create a lather, using it against the soap. Morgan found his attention snagged by the twist of her graceful wrists and the sensual movements of her fingers as they intertwined, sliding, soaping—
He caught himself short and used one arm to sweep her thick cover of suds from the surface of the water onto the floor. When she ducked backward, he laughed. “I told you I was in the mood to splash.”
Not a grumble. Not even a glare. She simply set down the soap and lifted the lathered brush.
Being shaved was much more enjoyable than shaving oneself, usually. Then again, even the gruffest barber actually laid hands on his clients occasionally. Morgan waited in vain for a feminine caress, even an accidental one, but none came. She was very diligent—and entirely removed.
Snick! He opened his eyes to see her with his razor in one hand, her head tilted as she examined it closely. The candlelight shimmered on the six-inch blade as she tilted it to and fro. She reached a finger of her other hand to test the edge.
“Don’t!” Morgan shook his head in warning. “It’s very sharp, trust me.”
She pulled her hand back and fixed him with her unreadable gaze. “Good.”
Ah. “Perhaps I should just take that—”
She rose to her knees by his side and waved the blade before his nose, forcing him back against the back of the tub. “Nonsense. Shropshire shears a great deal of wool. I know precisely what to do.”
This was both reassuring and alarming. He would likely not get his throat cut, but he might emerge looking like a freshly shorn ram!
She bent to her task and began to shave him with sure, adroit strokes. Morgan relaxed somewhat. Again, she did not touch him once.
When she set the razor aside he lifted a hand to stroke over his cheeks. “Well, that’s a fine job of it. Better than I could do for myself.”
She regarded him without expression. “I’m so h
appy you’re pleased.”
He was going to get her hands on him if it was the last thing he ever did. He didn’t stop to question whether his motivation still had anything to do with gaining a ship. “Do you ever shear a sheep and leave a bit of the wool on?”
She merely rose to take his scissors and comb from his kit. “I am entirely capable of cutting your hair. Do you prefer it short or—”
“I do not care for the girlish poet style that is currently in fashion. Quite short, if you please.”
Now standing next to the tub, she looked down at him. Her pretty face was close, for he was tall and she was not. Yet there was nothing in her expression but the coolest assessment. “Girlish, no, but I do believe you could manage the poet charade, now that I can see your face.”
He gave her a slow grin. “Mrs. Pryce, was that a compliment?”
“Heavens no,” she said briskly as she moved to stand behind him. “I cannot bear poets. Too much overwrought theatrics. I see that enough at Worthington House.”
Morgan snorted. “I have met your cousins. They accosted me outside my own front door earlier. Scoundrels and assassins. There is not a poet amongst them.”
She began to comb, pulling quite gently. He noticed that she touched only his hair, not him.
“Oh, they’ve never actually killed anyone. Not even Attie, although there have been a few close calls. Although . . .” She began to snip with the scissors.
“Although?”
“Well, Lysander did go to war. I expect someone might have died at his hands.”
Recalling the silent, lethal-seeming fellow in the carriage, Morgan expected that more than one French soldier had met an early end because of him. Not that Morgan held that against him. Things were different in battle.
“And I was speaking of the incorporeal denizens of Worthington House.”
Morgan blinked. “Ghosts?”
She made an impatient sound. “Worse. Writers. I love a good book as much as anyone, but I would just as soon not run into King Lear in the halls on my way to the privy in the night.”
Wedded Bliss Page 11
