Wonderful. Now his servants would be talking of their errant lord and how he pranced around the corridors practically naked.
“I should be going.” Ivy thrust a thumb behind her, at a bedroom door. “I mean…” She corrected herself and pointed in the direction of the stairs. “Forgive me for taking up so much of your time, my lord—” She held up a hand before he could open his mouth. “I mean Cillian.”
He didn’t try to stop her.
He wanted to.
He wanted to snatch her up and bundle her into him and draw in all that sweet warmth. But even if, for a moment, she’d wanted to kiss him too, he hadn’t been wrong about how she’d viewed him in the bath. He knew from experience, behind closed eyes, one never forgot the sight.
Ivy wouldn’t forget it either.
Chapter Seven
Ivy dawdled down the stairs, allowing her fingers to dwell on the polished banister and idly pausing to peer into the stern gazes of the men and woman in the portraits. Anything to put off meeting with Mrs. Baxter. The housekeeper would not be convinced Ivy knew anything of running a large household and kept sniffing every time Ivy suggested they economize a little. They were not hosting grand balls nor large house parties and for that, Ivy was grateful. At least her husband had no taste for such things, either. That was one thing they had in common.
Cillian also wanted to keep expenses to a minimum. He had not said as much—in fact the man told her little of what he wanted for the house except that it was up to her—and he ate every meal quite happily whether it be a simple stew or turtle soup.
Which it never would be. Ivy couldn’t fathom eating the endearing looking creatures.
But her point was, it didn’t seem to matter what lengths or unlengths the cook went to. He devoured it all as though it was his last meal and left.
She stopped at the next level and leaned over the stair rail to eye the patterned floor of the hallway below. This was a house designed for grand meals and entertaining, and the housekeeper continued to believe as much. For that woman, using it for anything less was practically an insult to her skills as a housekeeper.
However, Ivy had noted Cillian’s careful ways. He rarely took the carriage, preferring to ride on horseback, he always drank ale instead of port or whisky, and as far as she could tell he had few luxury garments. In fact, since their meeting at a ball, she could not recall seeing him in anything more than tweed and cotton. There had been no offer of a dressmaker for her either, not that she minded.
Of course, she had seen him in significantly less than tweed and cotton.
Ivy pressed away from the banister and shook her head as though she could shake away the images. She’d apologized for startling him, and he found it amusing, but the truth was, he’d startledher.
She hadn’t been prepared for so much skin. It seemed to dominate her vision, a muscled torso and strong arms taking up the height and breadth of the bath. She still recalled rivulets trailing through the dark hair on his chest as he stood in front of her and apologized.
Really, she should have been noting what she’d seen of his eye. It looked painful, slicing all the way through where an eye should be and leaving nothing but scar tissue. But she’d forgotten such a sight the moment he’d snared her arm.
In the place of surprise, a strange hot and curling sensation made its way through her. But as strange as it was, she knew what it meant. She desired her husband. Which would be well and good if he did not seem to wish to avoid her. Yet again, he vanished after the morning meal to who knew where and she likely would not see him until tonight. Though she had thought for a moment he’d wanted to kiss her yesterday, she wondered if she had misread him.
She wondered if he wanted to kiss someone else.
The tangle in her stomach vanished when she heard someone below. Peering over the edge, she spied a maid with a broom. She thrust it aggressively toward the corner of the hall. “Shoo, I tell you.”
Ivy frowned and made her way quickly down to spy a tiny round shape in the corner. The shape made an awful, high-pitched noise in response to the broom nearby.
“Please stop,” she told the maid, bending low to view the creature.
“It shouldn’t be in here, my lady. I can’t finish sweeping and it keeps making the most horrendous noise.”
“I think its injured.” Ivy shuffled closer, remaining crouched as the hedgehog emitted another, admittedly, horrendous sound. “Leave it to me,” she told the maid and unhooked her fichu from around her neck. Carefully, she scooped the hedgehog up into the fabric and cradled it gently.
“What the devil is that noise?” Cillian rushed into the hallway and paused. His jacket indicated he had only just returned from wherever it was he had been.
Not with another woman, she hoped.
The hedgehog wailed, sounding almost like a crying baby. “It’s injured,” she told Cillian.
“What’s injured?” He came to her side and peered at the tiny bundle. “Damn it, you’ll—” He tried to take it from her but drew his hand back sharply. “Ouch.” He put a finger in his mouth and sucked on it.
“Hurt myself?” She shook her head. “I have him just so. But I need to get him warm and see if he will eat something.”
“I see.”