Hell and fire, she’d absconded with them again. He eyed the bathing room door.
You can make it, old boy. He stood and braced his weight on the bedpost, then waited for the stinging sensation to ease.
A soft tap sounded on the bedroom door and it swung inward. Sophia entered the dim room, her body illuminated by the subtle shaft of light dancing across the threshold from the corridor. She cast the bed a glance, took one more step, and froze. As if her eyes deceived her, she stared at the empty bed. Her piercing gaze shifted to him and her delicate hands fisted into tight little knots. She closed the distance between them.
Sophia was tall for a woman, a good five foot six, but he towered over her by at least seven inches. Both his height and the breadth of his shoulders intimidated many, and more than once, he’d used them to his advantage. He shifted forward. So close, his nightshirt and legs touched her skirts. She tipped her head back and squared her shoulders.
He should have realized she’d not cower to him, not his Sophia.
His Sophia? How odd to think of her that way.
“Why you foolish, foolish man. You are intent on sabotaging your recovery. I want you in that bed. Now.”
Even though he tried not to smile, the corners of his lips inched upward.
As though realizing how the words might be misconstrued, her eyes widened. She opened her mouth.
He leaned down.
Her mouth snapped shut.
“Do you, Sophia?” he whispered in her ear. “Want me in bed? How forward you are when we are alone.” The scent of her skin and the memory of their kiss caused an unwanted reaction. With a grimace, he straightened. He played a dangerous game with her, and neither of them would be the victor if he took it too far.
“You know I was not propositioning you, my lord. Now please return to your bed before you do irreparable damage to your leg.”
He glanced at the bathroom and contemplated defying her.
“I wouldn’t suggest you try it,” she said, as if reading his thoughts.
“Do you think you could stop me?”
She bit her lower lip. Hayden’s body tensed as he waited for the inevitable flick of her tongue over her bottom lip.
“Don’t,” he said, his voice low, nearly ominous to his own ears.
Her delicate eyebrows lifted. “Don’t try to stop you?”
No, don’t lick your . . .
As if on cue, her tongue darted out to glisten the plump surface. His bollocks tightened. Didn’t she realize there were women who invited salacious behavior with that movement?
“Out of my way, Sophia.” His voice sounded angry. He was angry. Angry she held the power to turn him into a green lad. Angry that upon awakening the first thing he’d wanted to see was her face. And furious that at this moment, he wanted nothing more than to pick her up, toss her on his bed, and tutor her with his lips, his hands, and his cock. He was a reprobate, and it disgusted him.
He let go of the bedpost to step around her.
She quickly shifted, blocking his path.
“Damnation, woman, move out of my way!”
Her chin notched up another inch. “I will not.”
“Sophia, I’m warning you.”
“Someone, my lord, must save you from your foolish—owf.” The air swooshed out of her lungs as he bent down, wrapped his hands around her thighs, and tossed her over his shoulder.
“Put me down!”
“I’m going to use the bathing room, and it appears you are to accompany me.”
“Damn you, Westfield.”
“Such language, my dear,” he chastised. A sharp pain raced down his injured leg, and he stumbled as he walked.
Sophia gave a small shriek and knotted her hands in his nightshirt. Her fingers digging into his skin distracted him from the throbbing in his thigh. He set his palm on her lovely bum to steady her. “Don’t worry, I won’t drop you.”
Sophia slapped his back. “I insist you put me down.”
“If you insist.” He swung her upright and deposited her into the massive tub. She grabbed the edge of the vessel and begun to lift herself up.
“I wouldn’t advise that,” he warned, moving to stand before the sink.
From the corner of his eye, he watched her toss her tumbling hair out of her face and sit up. He began to hike his nightshirt up.
“Oh, goodness!” She slid back down. “You are beyond reproach.”
He tossed his nightshirt atop her head.
She gasped. “Are you naked?”
“No, not quite,” he replied, wrapping a towel around his waist. With his back to her, he brushed his teeth and watched her reflection in the mirror.
Sophia brazenly lifted the edge of the garment and peeked at him. She appeared to take great interest in his backside. He flexed his muscles. She angled her head first to the left, then the right.
He chuckled.
Her gaze shot up to meet his in the mirror. Her cheeks turned bright red. She wrapped her fingers around the edge of the tub and began to rise.
As if the devil prodded him, Hayden placed his hands on the towel as though about to remove it.
“Oh my.” Biting her bottom lip, she pinched her eyes closed and slid back down in the tub. “You horrid man. Are you naked?”
He wasn’t but he didn’t wish to reveal that. He wanted her to stay in the room and converse with him. He wanted to find out more about her. “Look and you will see.”
“I will not.” She made an exasperated noise.
“Tell me, Sophia, how old are you?”
She huffed out a breath. “Twenty-four.” Her words resonated against the walls of the tub.
“And what has brought you so low you must attend a man such as me?”
“A moment of madness.”
He grinned. “It’s obvious you were raised by a family of means. I would say your speech indicates here in London, though occasionally you inject a word or two which confirms you lived in the North Country. Does your family still reside there?”
“I do not wish to converse with you, my lord.”
Laughing, he sharpened his razor against a leather strop.
“Are you shaving?”
“Hmm,” he replied.
After several minutes she said, “Your leg must be throbbing.”
He splashed water onto his face. “No, I’m doing miraculously well.”
She gave a disbelieving snort.
He soaped up a facecloth and washed his upper arms. He was tired of sponge bathing. He’d give nearly everything he owned to take a bath, especially if he could convince Sophia to wash his back. After tossing the cloth into the sink, he walked over to Sophia lying in the tub. A droplet of water dripped off his chest to land on her face.
Without opening her eyes, she rubbed the back of her fingers over her cheek. “Are you dressed now?”
“As I said, you only have to look to find out.”
“Wicked man.”
Ignoring the pain in his thigh, he squatted by the edge, folded his arms over the tub’s rim, and stared down at her. How lovely she looked. Dark wisps of her silky hair had sailed free of their rigid constraints to stand in stark relief against the tub’s copper lining. A vision of her lying naked in the tub, warm crystalline water glistening upon her skin, caressing the tips of her breasts—
“Without the crutches, standing for any length of time is not wise,” she said, disrupting his lurid thoughts. She jabbed a loose tendril back into her chignon.
He reached down. His fingers itched to unpin the rest of her shiny dark hair and remove the abominable cap that clung to it. He pulled his hand back and stood. “Sophia, I wish to bathe.”
“No, I must be adamant. You cannot wet your wound.”
“I could sling my leg over the edge of the tub. You could assist me as you did that tot you took care of. What was his name? Ah, yes, little Edward Shore.”
She sighed. “Edward is a child.”
“But if my memory serves me correctl
y you claimed him my contemporary.”
“Oh, you confounded man. You know he is a far cry from your contemporary.” She slowly opened one eye, then the other. A breath eased out from between her pretty lips as her gaze settled on the towel wrapped about his waist.
He placed a hand to his chest. “You have restored my wounded vanity.” He reached for her hand to assist her up.
She smacked it away. “May I assume you’re done with this tomfoolery and will return to your bed?”
“Yes.” He reached for her hand again.
“I do not wish for your assistance.”
He stepped back, leaned against the wall, and folded his arms across his chest.
Sophia had nearly righted herself when her right shoe caught on his nightshirt. Her foot slipped, and she toppled backward with a heavy thud.
Chapter Nine
A sound reminiscent of an approaching train filled Sophia’s ears. The noise grew louder, culminating in a roar. It receded, leaving a voice floating above, muffled as if captured in a bottle. As though someone tipped the bottle, several words spilled forth. Lord. Benevolent. Father.
A prayer? Was that Westfield’s voice? Westfield praying seemed as unlikely as snow in summer.
“Sophia?” The voice, though gentle, grew more insistent. So did the hand tapping at her face. “Sophia?”
She opened her eyes, and Westfield’s face slowly came into focus.
“Thank God.” He set his forehead to hers, pulled back, and stared at her.
She was dreaming again. This one appeared more depraved than the last, for she was lying in Westfield’s bed, and he sat on its edge leaning over her, nearly naked. She reached out, touched his sensual mouth. The warmth of his breath heated her cold fingers.
He folded her hand in his and pressed his lips to her knuckles. “You mustn’t move.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Mathews!” He turned back. Deep lines furrowed his brow. “Do you know who I am?”
Of course she did. This was her dream, but he was so high-handed, he was taking over.
“You’ve taken a tumble. Do you remember?”
Tumble? She cupped the back of her head and winced. It throbbed as if a blacksmith with an arm of steel had mistaken her skull for his anvil. She glanced around the bedchamber, then at the towel wrapped precariously about Westfield’s lean waist.
This was not a dream!
“Sophia, you should have let me assist you out of the tub.”
By thunder, the tub! She remembered now. She pulled her hand from his, fisted her fingers, and hit his naked chest.
“I deserve that and more. Now”—he lightly touched the back of her head—“you’re in need of some ice for that goose egg.” He glanced over his shoulder again. “God knows where Mathews is.” He cupped her face and stroked her cheeks with his thumbs.
His intimate touch and near nakedness caused a warmth all over her body. Frightened by her reaction, she braced herself on her elbow. “I must get up.”
He forced her shoulders back into the mattress. “No, you must—”
A gasp from the doorway cut Westfield’s words short. “My lord,” Mathews said breathlessly. “What do you think you are doing undressed? You know Miss Camden will not attend you in such a state of dishabille.”
Mathews stepped fully into the room. His eyes widened upon seeing her, and he rushed to the bed. “Oh, my. Oh, my!” He cast his employer a belligerent look. “Have you struck her?”
Westfield rolled his eyes heavenward. “Miss Camden is injured. I’ve not beaten her. Now take several deep breaths and go get some ice and send for Dr. Thomas Trimble.”
Mathews spun on his heel and dashed from the room.
Sophia pushed herself up again.
“Lie still, love.” Westfield pressed her back down, then turned up the gas lamp on the bedside table. The sudden brightness caused her to squint and a tear spilled from her eye. Westfield’s gaze seemed to follow the drop as it progressed down her cheek. He swallowed, and she realized he was not as callous as he wished her to believe.
He ran the pad of his thumb lightly over the moisture. “Sophia,” he said softly, his blue eyes intense. “If you wish to gather your belongings and leave, I will consider our dare and subsequent wager null and void.”
He was giving her an out. She could go and not owe him a forfeit. The thought of curling up in her own bed tempted her, but she didn’t wish to leave. She needed to prove her competence and mettle and win Westfield’s support for reforming medical licensure.
What rot! She knew her reluctance to leave had more to do with the complex man before her—the man whose proximity caused her lungs to tighten.
“I’m going to complete the ten days and win,” she said. “Do you wish to concede?”
The pad of his thumb slid down her cheek to touch her lower lip. “No.”
He was toying with her. Her heart raced in her chest. “I really must get up.”
“I shall carry you to your room.” His hand fell away, and his body shifted closer.
“No.” She placed her palm over his chest to push him away. His skin was warm. Her hands flexed against firm muscle.
“Sophia, you’re not capable of standing. And I doubt Dr. Trimble would be enamored with the idea of tending to both of us in the same bed, though if you insist I will oblige you.”
She opened her mouth, intent on saying something, anything that would make him move away from her. His hand eased beneath her shoulders and the hard pectoral muscles contracted under her palm. She closed her eyes, searched her mind for a distraction, but even the thump, thump, thump still beating against her skull appeared unable to sway her wayward thoughts.
“Are you about to swoon?” he asked, pulling her tighter to him.
She opened her eyes. He was so close his breath caressed her face. She couldn’t pull her gaze away from his sensual mouth. “No,” she finally replied.
“Sophia, I fear I might need to distract you once more.” His fingers stroked her neck.
Distract her? Did he mean kiss her? That idea frightened her more than the relentless throbbing in her head, yet she closed her eyes.
Westfield’s lips touched hers. He coaxed her mouth open and deepened the kiss.
Molten heat pooled in her belly. She lifted her other hand to his chest and ran her fingers over the coarse hair, each wisp a reminder of his maleness—of the differences between their bodies. She slipped her hands to his back, pressed her breasts closer, desiring, needing the contact.
His hand shifted to her collar, and his nimble fingers undid the first few buttons lining the front of her dress. He ran his thumb over her throat and the indentation above her collarbone while his tongue continued to tangle with hers.
He stilled and pulled back. “Mathews is coming.”
A second later, the valet barreled into the room, and Westfield lifted his deft fingers to refasten her buttons.
“No, no, no, my lord,” Mathews exclaimed. “She is a gently bred woman. Not some strumpet.”
“Do not get your peacock feathers in a twist,” Westfield replied, his voice so cool it sent a shiver down her back. “Miss Camden felt faint. I thought some air upon her skin would alleviate her need to swoon. Have you sent for Dr. Trimble?”
“Yes, someone was dispatched to fetch him, a maid is coming with ice, and that strapping footman, Peter, is on his way up to carry Miss Camden to her bedchamber. He shall be here any minute.” He darted into the dressing room.
The urgency in Mathews’s voice lifted the fog clouding Sophia’s mind, and she pushed Westfield’s hands away from her buttons so she could complete the task. Mathews returned with a green velvet and damask robe clutched in his hand.
Westfield stood and slipped the garment on.
Peter entered the bedchamber. The young footman’s mouth dropped open when his gaze settled on her lying in the bed.
“Don’t stand about gawking, Peter,” Westfield snapped. “My leg is bloody well killing me. And Mathews has g
reatly inconvenienced me by placing Miss Camden in my bed after she took a tumble. Please take her to her room. My breakfast has been detained long enough.”
My heavens, he was good! The conviction in his voice had her almost believing Mathews had placed her in the bed, but her lips still tingled from Westfield’s kiss, and she was sure his hands had left indelible marks on her skin.
A pale-faced Peter rushed forward.
“I can walk,” she hastily said.
“No,” Westfield replied firmly. “You will allow Peter to carry you. No, never mind. I’ll do it.”
Mathews and Peter stared at each other before returning their gazes to her.
Heat singed her cheeks. “No, you mustn’t . . . your leg.”
Ignoring her warning, he lifted her, and cradled her against his chest as he carried her. The warmth of his body filtered through her clothes, heating her skin.
“I’ll open Miss Camden’s bedchamber door,” Mathews said, rushing before them as they entered the corridor.
In her room, Westfield set her down on the bed. For several heartbeats, their gazes locked. He lifted her hand and held her fingers for a moment. She had the strangest feeling he wished to say something, but he turned and strode from the room, limping ever so slightly.
A half hour later, Thomas entered the room.
Sophia shifted uncomfortably in the large bed.
Her dear friend’s jaw visibly clenched as he placed his black medical bag on a chair. “What in God’s name did he do to you?”
He’d be livid if he knew the truth.
“I slipped while in Westfield’s bathing room.”
He arched a dark eyebrow. “Sophia, both of us know you are not prone to clumsiness, and I can tell when you are being purposely vague.”
When she didn’t respond, he let out a weighted breath and took her right hand in his. “I very much regret you coming here.”
“I’m fine, Thomas.”
He released her hand. “Yes, I can see that,” he quipped, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger and angling her head toward the light. “After I examine you, we can leave. Lady Prescott can bloody well find someone else to tend to her brother.”
Never Dare a Wicked Earl Page 9
