With alternately sharp and gentle tugs, he unlaced her stays and petticoats, and within seconds she was down to her chemise and stockings.
“Go behind the screen,” he murmured. “I will take a basin of water to you…and a blanket.”
She glanced at the pitiful excuse of a screen, appalled at how little privacy the groundsman’s wife would have when she cleaned herself. Was it the way for the lower classes to be freer with their nakedness?
Kitty felt his retreat more than heard him. How did he move so soundlessly when he hurt so? Clutching the towel between her fingers, she hurried behind the small, sheer screen. Turning about, she could easily see him through the material.
And that meant he could see her with similar ease.
A blush engulfed her entire body. How could they bear such intimate familiarity for days?
A basin with water was placed at the edge of the screen. He disappeared in that silent way of his and returned with a second basin of water and a small bar of plain soap.
“Thank you,” she whispered, unsure if he heard.
Bending, she tugged it to her and rested it atop a small wooden table. Glancing up, she observed as he hobbled with an uneven gait to the sole armchair in the small bedroom and lowered himself into it. She couldn’t discern if he returned her stare through the flimsy screen.
Kitty was in an agony of apprehension. How terribly wicked and improper it all was. Her eyes trained on the shadowed form of the duke, she bent slightly and rolled off the ruined stockings. There was no sound in the cottage save for her soft, ragged breathing and the crackle of the fireplace.
Did he stare at the screen, or were his eyes closed?
She straightened and, taking a steadying breath, removed the last protective garment. The chemise dropped to the floor, and then she was naked. Her body felt flushed and unfamiliar. Kitty turned away from the shadowed form of the duke. If his eyes were indeed open, and he could discern her shape through the screen, it would be her backside he would see. For shame! The thought had her body blushing more fiercely.
Taking up the bar of soap and dipping the washcloth into the cold water, she washed herself as thoroughly as possible. Several minutes later she was trembling but blessedly cleaned. She finished drying the heavy mass of her hair to the best of her ability with the small towel before pinning it haphazardly in a loose chignon. Then she wrapped her body into the blanket, forming a bulky toga around her frame. Taking a bracing breath, she peeked around the screen.
The duke’s head was tipped to the cottage’s ceiling, and his fingers were dug into the armrest of the chair.
Kitty strolled over to him with the second basin of water, which she had not used. She placed it by the side of the armchair, and without speaking, she lowered herself to her knees and tugged at his knee-high boots. The fingers clenched into the armrest flexed, but he remained silent, his regard on the ceiling.
She removed his boots one after the other with careful consideration of his discomfort. Placing them neatly by the side, she took the washcloth and dipped it into the basin, then gently lathered it with the soap.
Coming onto her knees, she leaned forward and reached up, wiping the caked mud from his cheek and chin. His eyes snapped open, and he stared at her. Swallowing away the nerves, she cleaned away the mud and twigs as economically as possible. She dipped the washcloth into the basin, so very aware that his brilliant, piercing stare watched her every movement.
This time she lifted the washcloth toward the scarred section of his face. A terrible tension wound itself through his body, leaped from him, and twined itself around her. His skin pulled taut over the sharp edges of his cheekbones. The eyes that stared at her were so cold and watchful, it was a miracle her teeth did not chatter.
Holding his stare, Kitty pressed the washcloth to his scarred skin. His jaw clenched under the tip of her finger. Then she wiped away the mud, her stomach knotting at the ridges of scars felt through the cloth.
One of his hands released the armchair, and a finger slipped beneath her chin and lifted her face to his penetrating stare, searching her upturned face.
“How brave you are, Miss Danvers.”
Unaccountably, the softly spoken words felt like a threat.
He lowered his hand back to the armrest.
It was impulse that guided her to use her fingers to brush locks of hair from where the wet strands touched his forehead. Cynicism and pain were carved in the ruthless lines of his patrician face. Not allowing herself to be drawn into crossing wits, she lowered the cloth to the basin, pleased with the job she had done.
Then she reached up, unknotted his cravat, and tugged the muslin cloth from around his neck. It slid through her fingers, soft and supple, the slowness of her motions feeling sensually intimate. She dropped the scrap of cloth onto the floor. She undid the top buttons of his shirt one by one, revealing the strong column of his throat. There, too, he had twisting scars. Unable to help herself, she dipped the washcloth once more and brought it to his exposed throat. The flesh there was clean, but she carefully wiped along the ridge of his wounds.
There was a perceptible stiffening of his posture. The duke followed each movement with his eyes, his expression carefully inscrutable, but now…now she could see the beat of his pulse at his throat. He was not as serene or unaffected as he presented to her, for his pulse fluttered like a caged bird seeking escape. And the knowledge acted as oil to kindling. A flame of heat, unexpected in its intensity, blossomed through her.
What would he do if I leaned in and kissed his throat? The wildly improper thought burned shame through her. It was as if the situation had encouraged all her good senses to leave her and to draw forth the wild heart she’d always struggled with.
She stood, gripping the edges of her blanket. “If you will stand, Your Grace.”
He obeyed, and she tilted her head slightly to hold his unflinching regard. Her gaze lingered one second too long on the golden skin at the base of his neck. “Am I to act as your valet?” she murmured, a blush crawling over her entire body.
“Alas, I am quite able to undress myself, Miss Danvers. I’ll not shock your sensibilities anymore.”