Violet paced toward the bedroom door, lifted a hand to knock then paused. Perhaps he was sleeping. She twisted, retreated several steps then stilled again. Perhaps he was awake and needed company. He had to be in so much pain, yet he bore his injuries with gritted teeth and nary a complaint. Mama wanted Violet to look after Duke but over the past two days, he wanted for nothing. Violet didn’t like it. With such injuries, the man needed more than the brief aid of a maid or Father’s valet.
Perhaps it was the silly romantic in her, but she wanted to look after him. Violet liked looking after people.
She turned and knocked gently. She listened for a few heavy heartbeats and heard nothing. This was silly. He was her friend—one of her closest. He knew things about her only her sisters knew. She should just go in and—
A thud sounded from the room followed by a pained grunt. Right, that was it. She twisted the door handle and entered. “Duke, are you—” Eyes wide, she halted.
He pivoted as she entered, freezing in position with a groan of agony. Naked from the waist up apart from a bandage wrapped around the middle of his torso, he propped himself up on the washstand with one hand and held a damp cloth in the other.
Violet’s mouth dried. His grip on the table revealed the strong lines of his muscles and even with the bandage disrupting her view, she noted the strength of the rest of him. Then she spied the slight trail of hair leading down into breeches that were loose at the waist and slung far too low. She could practically see the bones of his hips.
Far too late, she spied the huge bruises and the agony furrowing his brow.
“What are you doing?” she demanded as she strode over and snatched the damp cloth from his hand.
“Washing. Clearly.” He tried to seize back the cloth, but she moved it out of his reach, and he hissed through his teeth.
“There are servants who can do that and who cares if you’re a little dirty. You should be resting!” She flapped the cloth in the direction of the plush bed.
A few water droplets arched across the room and landed upon the duvet. Pale gold bedding matched the gold surround of the headboard. They’d concluded this was the least feminine of the bedrooms apart from Papa’s but even with all the swirls and delicate embroidery, not a single hint of femininity lingered once Duke was laid on the bed.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and cast her eye over his body. Everything was hard and insanely male. How had she never noticed that about him before?
Well, perhaps she had, but it was not in her best interest to dwell on it. Having seen him like this, however, was going to make it a lot harder. One did not dwell on one’s friend’s muscles or...or their nipples for goodness’ sakes!
“Vi,” he said through still gritted teeth. “I have been abed for days and, quite frankly, I stink.”
She instinctively sniffed and smelled nothing but a hint of sandalwood and soap. She waved the cloth again. “You need to return to bed.” She gestured up and down him. “You can barely stand.”
“I can stand fine.” His knuckles whitened on the hand that gripped the washstand.
“Go. To. Bed,” she ordered firmly, then set the cloth down on the washstand, took his arm and tugged lightly. “Do it or I shall be forced to fetch the footmen and have them carry you to bed.”
Duke scowled at her. “Did you forget the part where I have broken ribs?”
“Which is precisely why you should not be contorting yourself to get clean.”
“It’s all well and good for you but I would wager you had a bath this morning.”
“Well, yes.”
Duke’s gaze drifted up and down her making her feel strangely hot. Despite the bruises and the swelling, his lips slanted into that devious smile that made many a woman gasp for air. Not her, though. She’d seen it in practice many times. She’d be a fool to think it was anything other than a practiced smile and she was not going to let him charm his way out of this. The man needed to rest.
“I’m not asking much, Vi. Just let me finish and I shall return to bed like a good patient.”
“Let me fetch a maid.” She pivoted but he snatched her wrist, making her pause.
His fingers were cool upon her skin, and she met his gaze feeling a little likeshewanted to gasp for air. She rummaged her mind trying to find a time that their bare hands had connected before and struggled to find one. When they danced, they always wore gloves, and they certainly didn’t touch hands in public.
“Don’t,” he said.
She frowned and tried to wriggle her hand free of his strong grip.
“Let me have a little dignity,” he pleaded. “It’s bad enough being crippled and ruining everyone’s Christmas.”
“It is hardly ruined. We are glad to have you here and once your father arrives, it shall be quite lovely.” The words came out oddly prim but perhaps she needed prim right now considering he was touching her bare skin and he stood before her half-naked.
“I’m itchy and uncomfortable and, frankly, cannot stand the smell of myself. I need to wash, Violet.”