He replied without hesitation. “Yes.”
Wister busied about the kitchen. She topped the large ceramic bowl with more hot water before carrying it back to the table. “Lay your head back a little please. I want to soften your bristles with a hot cloth.”
While Wister mixed the shaving paste with some water, Rhys savored the pleasant sensation of a warm, damp face washer over his beard and whiskers. After removing the washcloth, Wister came to stand behind him once more and lathered the shaving mix over his facial hair in gentle circular motions, humming to herself while she worked.
“Now, the secret to a good shave is for you to stay perfectly still,” she said.
Rhys wasn’t going to argue the point with a woman holding an open razor in her hand and simply nodded.
Wister chuckled. “Nodding one’s head is not keeping still.”
Tingles rippled through him as Wister placed her finger under his chin and tipped his head farther back. The first scrape of the razor against the side of his face had Rhys closing his eyes and trying his best to become like a statue. The sexual tension running through his body a constant reminder to him that he was most certainly not made of stone.
She worked methodically, humming that same soft tune as she shaved both the sides of his face and the delicate area under his chin. With her slender, feminine fingers gently stretching the skin up, the blade moved smoothly, never catching or nicking.
“You can sit upright now. I just need to shave your lip line,” she said.
As Rhys righted himself in the chair, Wister handed him a clean wet cloth. Freeing his hands from under the towel, he proceeded to wipe the rest of the shaving paste from his cheeks and neck.
“This is always the tricky part. I have to get very close to do it right,” said Wister, pulling up a three-legged stool and taking a seat right in front of Rhys.
She was so close he was able to study the color of her eyes in great depth. He had thought they were pure brown, but now caught glimpses of gold and pale brown flecks. It seemed that every time he got near to Wister, Rhys discovered something new about her.
“Rhys?”
Blinking he came back to the real world. Twice now he had lost himself in thoughts of her.
He silently chided himself. That was a lie. He was often thinking about Wister. His interest was fast becoming a secret obsession. “Sorry, I was woolgathering,” he replied.
Wister set the blade of the razor gently to his face, a half inch above his lip, then dragged it down. After wiping the shaving paste and facial hair on a spare towel, she repeated the motion, slowly moving from right to left. A quick rinse of the blade in the bowl and then she was back giving a final touch up. “I think that should do.”
Rhys picked up the hand mirror once more and checked her handiwork. He was not the least surprised to see that there was not a cut or a drop of blood anywhere on his face.
Wister retrieved the first cloth she had used and leaned forward to wipe the remains of the shaving paste from Rhys’s face. Gentle strokes of the flannel had Rhys holding his breath.
She was so damn close.
“Beau Brummell will be quaking like an aspen leaf when he sees you, Baron Carno,” she said.
Rhys grinned at her cheeky quote from Chaucer, though he seriously doubted that London’s prince of fashion would give him a second glance. It was her sultry use of his formal title which set his pulse racing ever faster.
In the matter of a heartbeat, he had taken the cloth from her hand, tossed it onto the table, and reached for her.
Chapter Eleven
Rhys’s strong hands cupped Wister’s face. For a moment their gazes met, and a silent understanding quickly took place. They both wanted this.
He captured her mouth with a gentle, tender kiss. Once. Twice. He brushed his lips over hers. She sensed his hesitation but also his need. As an unwed young woman, she had much more to lose from this encounter than Rhys did. When he drew back, his lips parted. She feared he was about to apologize. She would die if he did.
“Rhys,” she whispered.
When he leaned in again and took her mouth, she silently exalted. This time, he kept nothing back and she gave the kiss her all. Tongues danced over one another, fingers speared into hair—it was all she could do not to grab hold of the towel and cling to dear life in order to make sure he didn’t try to escape. Wister groaned as Rhys grabbed the front of her apron and held fast.
As he claimed her lips, her faint resolve wilted. If Rhys wanted her, she would let him strip her naked and take her right here and now on the table. She didn’t need to touch herself to know she was more than wet and willing for him. The kiss grew ever deeper, more frantic. She reached for the towel, silently cursing herself for having made such a clever knot that it remained firmly in place. Her desperate craving for his heated skin quickly overcame what remained of her sense of decorum.
All those cold, empty nights longing for the caress of a man—to be held and loved.
Please. I will do anything to have you.
Rhys broke free of the kiss, panting heavily. Her gaze took in the scowl which now appeared on his brow, and all Wister’s hopes for sharing a night of passion with him evaporated.
Damn. He regrets it.
She got to her feet and without a moment’s thought for the chill of the evening or the rain, which was now steadily falling, Wister flung open the kitchen door.
As she ran out into the night, Rhys’s voice echoed behind her in the darkness. “Wister, wait. Come back!”
You fool. You bloody fool. You should never have kissed him. Now he will want you gone.
Chapter Twelve
Rhys was waiting at the front of the main house as Deri’s travel coach came to a halt the following morning. He wasn’t used to him being the one to greet his guests when they arrived, but with Wister having disappeared to lord knew where the previous evening, the task had fallen to him.
He had searched in vain for her in the dark, then returned to the house, dressed, and waited. Wister still hadn’t come back.
Why did you kiss her? Now you have frightened her off. She will never trust you again.
The door of the coach swung open and Deri jumped down. Rhys shook his head. His cousin hadn’t even bothered to wait for his coachman to lower the steps.
“Thank god for that. I do hate the bumpy roads of England. Please tell me you have a decent brandy waiting for me. Nice haircut. You almost look human,” said Deri.
“Come on inside,” replied Rhys.
Deri glanced at the house. “Where is your Miss York?”
“I am not sure. She disappeared out the back door last night and I haven’t seen her since. I think I may have offended her. I asked Polly where she might be, but she either doesn’t know or isn’t prepared to tell me.”
Rhys had quickly discovered that while Polly might well be in his employ, she was fiercely loyal to her mistress. He planned to give the cook a special bonus at Christmas to thank her for supporting Wister.
But I still need to know where Wister is.
“Oh dear. That doesn’t sound good. I am not sure if I want to ask what you might have done to upset Miss York,” replied Deri.
They headed into the house and upstairs to the comfort of the cozy drawing room. Rhys said nothing as Deri’s discerning gaze took in the tattered curtains and faded sofas. At least the place was clean, and considering the state of the estate coffers, it was about all anyone could expect.