He finished, finally, and sat back to stare at the fresh blood oozing from her shin. He hadn't been kidding about the scar, though she hadn't seemed to care either way. Strange girl.
"The maid's bringing bandages," he said and heard the bedcover shush as she nodded. "It should be just a moment."
The pain of the wound must have worsened. She didn't bother to pursue her assault on his character, she only lay still and stiff on the bed. A strange awkwardness crept over his skin as he sat and stared at the bare leg of a woman who wanted nothing from him. Her pink toes curled into the carpet, drawing his eye, and he noticed that her leg shook a little, from pain or cold. He smoothed a hand down her instep and curled his fingers around her toes. The icy cold against his skin shocked him.
Not bothering to wonder what she'd think of it, Hart raised her foot and unbuttoned his waistcoat to settle it against his stomach. He pressed his palm close to warm those shell pink toes. When they curled into the linen of his shirt, awareness prickled down his belly, and her small sigh affected him like a moan.
"Are you . . . ?" He cleared the unexpected huskiness from his throat. "Are you being chased by creditors, Lady Denmore?"
"Not that I know of. Is someone hanging outside my window?" Her toes curled again. Hart stroked his palm over the top of her foot and up her ankle, chasing goose flesh ahead of his touch. There hadn't been goose flesh before.
He shook his head. "You seem in reckless need of a few pounds. I thought perhaps your late husband left you wanting."
Another wave of chills. "I can't imagine what you mean."
"Really?"
"Not to mention that it's still none of your concern."
Hart smiled, intrigued by her refusal to concede anything to his title and wealth. Her body, however, was conceding something to his touch. He eased his thumb beneath the curve of her arch and worked small circles into her foot. Those pink toes curled obligingly and her knee bent a little, prompting Hart's brain to craft a series of fascinating images. The little widow bending her knee
farther, tilting it to the side, so that he could see the soft white flesh of her inner thigh. Then she'd slide her foot across his belly until she could hook her ankle around his waist and tug him closer. His hips would fit perfectly in the cradle of those thighs, the skin so white, never once touched by the sun.
Hart sighed. He had a libertine's soul but the mind of a man yoked with responsibility and pride. If only he were twenty again, and unconcerned with the world and its fascination with his life. And though he had thought Lady Denmore subtle, she was not the least bit subtle. The very opposite of circumspect. She'd already goaded Hart into embarrassing them both.
He gave her foot one last lingering rub, then lowered it to the floor. "I will go check on that maid."
"Thank you," she said, sounding as if she choked on it. She rubbed the sole of her foot against the deep-piled rug before he turned away to yank open the door.
The maid was flying down the hall, hanks of blond hair escaping her cap. "Sorry, milord! I'm sorry. There was a—"
"Wonderful." He plucked the bandages and the little brown crock from her hands. "My thanks."
"Yes, sir," she gasped, and curtsied over and over until Hart closed the door.
He found Lady Denmore pushed up on her elbows, watching with a smirk. "I do believe you're the queen in disguise. My, my. Such deference."
"You have no respect for your betters, Lady Denmore."
She laughed. Really laughed. That same husky sound he'd heard the night before. "So true," she chuckled. "None at all."
Women never laughed at him. Never. Hart found himself suddenly smiling. "You remind me of my sister."
Her amusement died in a fluttering blink of her eyes. "I'm not surprised."
"What do you mean?" He knelt before her again, and lifted the skirt she'd dropped over her leg. Dark stains of blood marred her petticoats. "You can't have met Alexandra."
"No. But I've heard that. . . she sounds quite . .. unconventional."
"Yes," he said carefully. He dipped a square of linen in the salve and dabbed the pale yellow muck against her leg. "She is that."
He listened for a pained gasp or at least a sigh, but instead, her muscles began to relax. "Oh, that's not too bad at all. Lovely, actually."
"Good."
"I'd imagine your sister has placed a daring wager or two in her life."
"Mmm." Hart picked up the length of linen and began to wrap it around her calf. He let his fingers brush the silk skin at the back of her knee. Impossibly soft. "My sister," he went on, "tends to wager more important things than coin. But that is neither here nor there. I've patched you up as best I can."