“You would think seeing as I am so gravely injured you could at least pretend.”
A slight smile worked across her lips—the first he’d seen since he was attacked—and he regretted he’d brought even the faintest frown of concern across her face. No one smiled like Violet, and she deserved to smile every damned day.
With a little more tenderness this time, she smoothed the cloth down one arm then up again and across his chest before working down his other arm, all the way to his fingertips. He watched her work diligently and efficiently, carefully dabbing each bruise. And he saw her expression change. The hint of amusement fled, and her brows furrowed.
“Good God, Duke, what did they do to you?”
“Gave me a good kicking I think was the doctor’s analysis.”
“Why anyone would do such a thing I do not know.” She met his gaze and bit down on her bottom lip.
“It could have been worse.”
“Yes, you could have died.”
“They could have broken my nose and made me ugly,” he countered.
Violet gave a tiny laugh and rolled her eyes. “Do not fear. Under all these bruises you are as handsome as ever.”
She moved the cloth to the bruises in question and he closed his eyes, the coolness a welcome relief to the constant throb and ache in his face. Her fragrance teased his senses and the mattress shifted slightly. He felt the warmth of her body reach across the gap between them and he opened his eyes to find her leaning close—so close he’d only have to lift up slightly, turn his head, and he’d be able to kiss her with ease.
The temptation gnawed at him like a craving for something sweet after a savory dish, and, damn, she was sweet. From those lovely pale blue eyes to the curve of her cheek down to a soft jawline that ran into a long neck. She wore a simple gold locket around her neck, and he reached up to finger it. The back of his finger grazed her skin and her eyes widened.
“I’ve never seen what’s inside this,” he said. A terrible excuse for touching her.
“It’s nothing.”
“I’m sure it must be important to you.”
“No.” she quickly flicked it open to reveal nothing inside. “Literally nothing. I never decided what to put inside it. I have three sisters. I think it would be unfair to only put two of them in there.”
He let his hand drop to his side. The gnawing ache didn’t dissipate, and he knew exactly what it meant. He wanted to kiss her again. And again. And again.
“You know, I think it would be more appropriate if one of the servant’s aided me,” he said through a tight throat.
Brow creasing, she fisted the cloth in one hand. “Are you…are you certain?”
He nodded vigorously. “Most certain.”
With a shrug, she stood and put the cloth in the bowl. “Very well. I’ll have one sent up. But I’ll return to check on you shortly.”
He forced a smile. “Excellent.” The word could have been a lie or the truth, he wasn’t certain. Duke wanted to see her. Hell, he did not even really want her to leave. But if she stayed much longer, he might not be responsible for what he did next, injured or not.
Chapter Six
“I’m sorry, my lady, but Mr. Cameron is not receiving visitors.”
Violet paused behind the marbled pillar to see who had rung the doorbell. A wind swept through the hallway, and she heard the hammer of rain on the steps outside. No doubt the butler would be furious that the hallway floor would need mopping once again after—heaven forbid—a few droplets of rain were swept into the house by the miserable wind. She’d already heard the man complain about the spots the rain would leave on the windows as though the weather was waging war against him and this fine house at Christmastime.
“I’m sorry, my lady, but Mr. Cameron is not receiving visitors,” she heard the butler say again.
She peered around the column, her shoulder pressed against the cool surface. Whoever had come visiting was eager indeed. Even she felt the chill of the weather from here.
The visitor stepped around the butler, and he shadowed her steps. Violet narrowed her gaze. Lady Ava Wilson, dowager Viscountess Belmont. The woman had never once called upon the Musgraves. She came from an ancient family—one with a name that stretched back into the medieval era, with ancestors written into history at the elbow of kings. Nothing but disdain for the Musgraves ever dripped from her expression so why had she decided to come calling in such wretched weather?
“My lady,” the butler protested, shadowing the women’s steps as she folded her umbrella, shook it vigorously so that yet more spots of water splattered across the once shining tiles and thrust it at the poor man.
Violet shook her head and strode out from behind the pillar. “Can I help you, Lady Belmont?”