It had been a long time since Sesily had dressed for anyone but herself, but now, here, she wished she had a looking glass, to see herself through his eyes.
Did she want that, really?
She pushed the thought aside. “What is it?”
The question seemed to pull him from his thoughts. He shook his head. “You should wash.”
And with that, he left the room.
It was a mistake, of course. Nothing good would come of having Sesily at his home in the dead of night.
Caleb knew about bad decisions. He’d made more than a few in his lifetime—decisions that risked his life and rewrote his future. He knew that they came from unchecked emotions. And he made it his goal to keep emotion in check.
But Sesily was pure emotion. She was joy and anger and delight and sadness and frustration and a dozen others at any given moment, and that made her equal parts tempting and terrifying, like an inferno. Which was why Caleb had made himself a promise two years ago, when he’d first been singed by her fire, that he’d stay as far from her as possible. He was a man of sense, and he knew the score.
But as he’d watched Sesily go limp in the arms of a thug in The Place, as rage and panic raced through him without outlet, sense had disappeared. And Caleb, too, had been pure emotion. He couldn’t remember the time between his coming to on the sticky tavern floor and carrying Sesily out of the fray, and that worried him more than a little. Without sense, fury had led. Followed by fear. And that combination, he knew from experience, was dangerous.
When sense had returned in the carriage, he should have returned it to the fore. But she’d opened her eyes and fear had been chased away by relief, and then, as she became enraged with what had happened and his plans for her, by guilt … which somehow, impossibly, made him more unhinged.
At least, he told himself it was emotion that unhinged him. The other possibility was not worth considering. That it was Sesily herself.
So. Whether it was guilt or relief or fury or fear … they’d careened toward his refuge, where he did not welcome guests. Where he certainly never intended to welcome her.
And then he’d led her to his bedchamber.
To his bed.
Telling himself that he was ignoring the rustling of her lush silk skirts, loud like gunshot. That he could not hear her soft breath barely-there and somehow all around him. That he did not detect the scent of her, wild and beautiful and making him think of warm sunshine and almonds.
That she wasn’t soft and curved and warm and lush as a treat in a shop window, drawing him tighter and tighter on a string as he’d busied himself with light in the dark room, telling himself that it would chase away all the dark, sinful things he wished to do to her.
And then he’d turned and looked at her, and he realized the light had been a mistake, because it was suddenly easy to see the dark smudge at her cheek from the tavern floor and the one that matched it on the golden skin at the low neckline of her chest. And in between, the bruises on her neck—a reminder of how close she’d come to danger. To worse.
The rage had returned, and Caleb had left, not trusting himself to speak, let alone to stay.
Not trusting himself to remain distant and unmoved by this woman who always seemed too close. Too moving.
But leaving had been a mistake, too, because somehow, in the handful of minutes she’d been in the house, she’d filled it up, and there was nowhere to escape. Caleb had busied himself in the kitchens, making her warm milk—telling himself that if he treated her as he would a child, she’d leave his thoughts, and ignoring the fact that his housekeeper would almost certainly take him to task for using the wrong saucepan.
Perhaps she’d take him to task for all the sinful thoughts he could not put out of his head, as well.
The milk was another mistake, as when it was done, he had no choice but to return to her. Which he did, even as he told himself he didn’t wish to. Even as he told himself that he should find his way to a comfortable chair on the ground floor and doze until morning, when he would return her to her home. Safe.
It would not be the least comfortable place he had spent an evening.
But what if she needed him?
What if she had trouble breathing in the night?
What if the men who’d attacked in Covent Garden found her here?
What if they’d been followed? Caleb hadn’t been in his right mind; he should have paid closer attention. He could have put her in danger. Again.
So he returned, warm milk in hand, up the stairs. Telling himself that he was acting with nobility. Protecting the lady. Fucking gentlemanlike.
He knocked on the bedchamber door and she called out for him to enter. He did, immediately grateful that she’d extinguished a good half of the candles, making it easier to avoid looking at her.
Excellent. He’d simply set the milk on the bedside table and take his leave. The hallway beyond was perfectly comfortable for one night’s sleep. It wasn’t as though he was going to sleep, anyway.
As soon as he made sure she was breathing, he would leave.
As soon as he was certain she was comfortable.
Caleb was not a monster, and he was perfectly capable of avoiding this woman. He’d done it before. It had been from across an ocean, but it was fine.
He would barely notice her in his bed.
In fact, he could not notice her in his bed, as she wasn’t in his bed.
She was behind the bathing screen.
Bathing.
And then all gentlemanliness was out the damned window.
Her dress—the color of temptation—was draped over a chair near the screen, which meant it wasn’t on her body. Not that Caleb required superior powers of reasoning to discern that, as he could see her behind the screen. She’d brought a light with her, and so she was cast in shadow against the screen, a perfectly ordinary sailcloth that Caleb had never imagined was so revealing.
But with Sesily bent over the washbasin, it might as well have been a clear windowpane, her silhouette lush and fucking perfect as she straightened and ran a cloth lazily up her arm and behind her neck.
“You’re washing,” he said, because it was something to say. He should turn away.
It was Sesily who turned, the pretty swells of her curves stealing what was left of his breath. “You told me to,” she said, continuing her lazy movements, as though it were all perfectly ordinary.
Christ. He had, hadn’t he? And he’d meant it. He’d wanted her to erase the evening from her body. From her memory, just as he’d wanted to erase it from his own.
Except now, as he watched her, he couldn’t imagine ever forgetting this evening.
“Caleb?” The word, curious and soft, returned him to sense.
Shit. He was still watching her. He coughed, his face suddenly burning at the idea that he’d been caught staring, and turned his back on her, setting the milk on the nearest surface. “Aye.”
A smile in her voice. “Careful, American, you almost sounded like a Brit there.”
He stilled at the words before grasping at them. “Never.”
“It’s not so bad here, is it?” she said, as though everything was perfectly aboveboard and he wasn’t staring at his boots or the carpet or the molding on the ceiling or at anything but her shadow, flickering like pure temptation.
Was she nude back there?
“If you were in Boston less,” she added, “you might enjoy it here more.”
“I have to be in Boston,” he said, the words low and forbidding, as though even his voice knew what was good for him. It was the truth. He had businesses in Boston. A home. A handful of decent friends. A life.
And every time he set foot in London, he risked it all.
He pretended not to notice as she continued her ablutions, not to hear the water swishing in the washbasin—it had to be cold if she’d used the clean water that had been left in the pitcher, but he wasn’t about to offer to warm it, nor to wonder if she was using his soap, and what
it would smell like on her.
“And yet here you are,” she replied. “Why?”
“Your sister is having a baby.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but it wasn’t a complete lie, either.
There was no mistaking the humor in the tone when she said, “I was not aware that you were a midwife.”
He scowled and turned away, to the window where he stared out across the Marylebone rooftops. “Someone needs to keep the Sparrow in order while she … continues broodmaking.”
“Broodmaking!”
Sesily’s laugh warmed him from behind the screen, and he moved closer, knowing he shouldn’t. Unable to stop himself. “Would you call it something else?”
“As I am one of five, Sera and Haven haven’t quite hit the brood mark for me. Two seems a perfectly reasonable number of children if you like that sort of thing.”
“Mmm,” he said. “And do you? Like that sort of thing?”
“Children?”
“Mmm.” Why on earth was he asking? Sesily Talbot’s interest in children had no bearing on his life.
“I shall have you know, I am a superior aunt.”
“Are you?”
“There are nine of them. Sera and Mal’s newest will be number ten.”
“Good God.”
“I could not agree more,” she said. “But I am excellent at the climbing of trees, the making of mud, and the annoying of parents … three things that are absolute requirements for decent aunts.”
He couldn’t help the half smile that came at the reply. “I thought aunts were supposed to be better behaved than children.”
“As it is the children that define the role, I think it’s only fair to let the children set the expectations for it.”
He did laugh at that, a surprised bark that he bit back as soon as it released. “And you meet them.”
“How insulting,” she said. “I exceed them.”
Of course she did. Sesily Talbot made a life by exceeding expectations.
Not that he was going to admit that.
“Well,” she said after a while. “You are a good friend, coming when Sera asked. This time … and the last.”
He was a terrible friend, lusting after Sera’s sister in his bedchamber in the dead of night. “She made me godfather to her son. It’s difficult to refuse to come for the christening.”
He regretted the words the moment they were out of his mouth. The memory of the last time he’d been in London. The last time he’d seen Sesily, at little Oliver’s christening, surrounded by her family, happy and beautiful.
Except when she looked at him.
Which hadn’t been often. He’d noticed, because he’d found it impossible not to look at her.
He cleared his throat, knowing he ought to leave. Sesily was safe despite her trial, and his presence was not required. There was no reason for him to be there, in the chamber, while the woman washed. Not even with his back to her, not even studiously avoiding the mottled reflection of the privacy screen in the dark window.
“I don’t suppose you have a dressing gown?”
He turned toward the question to find her peeking her head around the side of the screen, her dark hair coming loose from its moorings, her cheeks pink from the cold water, her blue eyes wide with the question.
The question … which was …
Did he have a dressing gown?
“A dressing gown,” he said.
“My dress is quite filthy, and I’d rather not sleep in it.”
“Of course not,” he said. So, she wanted a piece of his clothing. Again, perfectly ordinary.
Clearly, he was being punished.
“I don’t think you would like it if I popped out in my chemise,” she added happily.
On the contrary, Caleb imagined he’d like that very much, but instead he clenched his teeth and said, “Right.”
The whole fucking night was a mistake.
He went to the wardrobe and rustled around inside, looking for something suitable to give to the unmarried sister of his business partner whom he’d studiously avoided from across an ocean for the last two years before returning just in time to kiss her in a garden and see her attacked by ruffians in Covent Garden.
Something appropriate for a woman after whom he absolutely did not lust.
Sadly, the wardrobe lacked a suit of armor.
Grabbing the nearest thing he could find, he turned and shoved it around the edge of the screen, barely hesitating to make sure that she had received it before returning to the safety of the window.
A pause, and then, “So you do not have a dressing gown.”
“I don’t require one.” When she did not reply, he felt compelled to elaborate—though he had no idea why. “I have three servants and no valet, and no one enters the room when I am abed or undressed.”
“No one?”
He turned at the question. How could he not? The woman was asking him about lovers.
And yet, before he could answer, she was speaking, quick and clearly nervous. “I’m sorry. That was not …” She stepped out from behind the screen. “Appropriate.”
Dear God, he was being tested.
She should have looked ridiculous. She was wearing one of his topcoats over her chemise, and everything about it was out of proportion. The whole thing was too long, the shoulders too broad, and the line of the lapels did nothing to hide the thin lawn beneath and, beneath that, the swell of her breasts.
And the chemise was so impossibly thin, he could see her. The curve of her midsection, her thighs, and between them—
Don’t look. A gentleman wouldn’t look.
A dark shadow that made his mouth water.
She shrugged. “I hope you’re right.”
What was she talking about?
“Hmm?” he replied, the sound like wheels on rough cobblestones.
Pull yourself together, man.
“That no one will enter,” she replied, approaching. “I’m sure I look absurd.”
She looked like land after a month at sea.
He resisted the urge to retreat. Not that retreat was an option with his back pressed to the window. He supposed leaping to the street below was an unreasonable course of action.
Though it was not the worst idea he’d ever heard as she drew nearer. “You really should have a dressing gown on hand.”
“In case I find myself with another woman who refuses to go home?”
A light flashed in her eyes. “I expect you are no stranger to women who do not wish to go home.”
“I am sorry to disappoint you.”
She laughed, close enough for the sound to feel like a secret, and he liked it too much. He couldn’t like her laugh. That way lay danger. That way, and all the other ways, it seemed. Her eyes, a rich, beautiful blue, ringed in black. Her heart-shaped face and her pink cheeks and her wide mouth and full lips that were all the more dangerous now that he knew the taste of them.
“How do you feel?” he asked, willing normalcy into this entirely abnormal moment.
She stopped her approach, setting a hand to the smooth skin of her neck, already shadowed with a blossoming bruise. “Not bad.”
But not good, either. He gritted his teeth. He should have killed the man who’d touched her.
He’d wanted to kill him.
But even more, he’d wanted Sesily safe.
“Tomorrow it shall be sore,” he said.
She smiled. “More importantly, tomorrow, it shall be an eyesore.”
“No one will care about that.” It would take more than a bruised neck to make Sesily Talbot an eyesore.
Before the words were even out, her brow was furrowing, her gaze focusing on him. She was reaching for him. “You’re still bleeding.”
He didn’t think he could stand her touching him. Not like this. Here.
He turned his head. “It’s nothing.”
She frowned. “It’s not nothing.” She spun away from him, slipping behind the screen before reappearing with a strip
of linen in her hand. “Let me—”
He ducked away from her touch. “No.”
“Caleb—”
“No. I am fine. You should rest. Or do you need reminding that you were unconscious not an hour ago?”
“You were also unconscious.”
“It was nothing.”
“It was not nothing. You’ve taken a blow to the head, and you are bleeding.”
“Leave it,” he growled, catching her wrist in his grasp. “Sesily. Leave it.”
She went still, her gaze hot on his, and he knew she had no intention of leaving it. But he did not imagine that she would say, “You have cared well for me; my sister will be grateful.”
And he did not imagine how irritated he would be by the reference to Seraphina. “She is a good friend.”
“And you have done right by your friend, caring for her sister.” She paused. “Now, let me do right by my sister and care for her friend.”
He put a hand to his brow, touching the place that stung. “It’s not bleeding. Not any longer.”
“It should be cleaned.”
“I will do it when you sleep.”
“Why not let me do it now, and we shall both sleep?”
As though he would sleep with her there.
Another impasse. Another silence, full of strong will.
He sighed, releasing her. “You’re incredibly stubborn.”
“And you, so biddable,” she retorted before smiling. “Anyway, it is part of my charm.”
“Is that what it is? Charm?”
“You haven’t noticed my charms?” He flinched at the sting of the cloth at his forehead, and she stilled, looking into his eyes. “You wound me.”
“It’s impossible not to notice you.” Shit. He hadn’t meant to say it.
Her lips curved in a barely-there smile and she returned her attention to her work. “Careful now, Mr. Calhoun … you’ll turn my head.”
Knowing he shouldn’t, he watched her focused attention on his wound—her narrowed gaze and her furrowed brow, a tiny bit of her bottom lip caught between her teeth. He wanted to stroke his thumb over that furrow. Smooth that lip. Kiss it.
But she wasn’t for stroking. Or kissing.
Bombshell Page 10
