“Hmm…”
There it was again, that sound he made when he seemed to have a lot to say yet chose to keep all thoughts to himself. She huffed a breath in frustration and went to busy herself with her bag. Perhaps then she’d forget how small the room was or that she would soon be lying down beside him on the narrow bed.
An unbidden thrill of excitement swept through her on that notion, even as she did her best to ignore it. If the kiss had taught her anything, it was that she was out of her depth where Mr. Dale was concerned. Considering what he’d told her last night before Cloverfield’s arrival, she feared she’d not been as skilled in the art of kissing as she should have been if she’d had as many lovers as she claimed.
For now, she believed her proposition had made him unsure of his suspicions about her, but if things progressed between them, there’d be no doubt in his mind at all. He’d call her on her deception and while she didn’t know how he’d react to the truth, she could not take any chances.
The sound of something landing upon the bed made her turn. Apparently Mr. Dale had shucked his jacket. She stared at the garment and blinked when his waistcoat landed on top of it. Her gaze darted toward him, and then to the door behind him. When had he closed it? She’d not heard the click.
Mouth dry, she watched from her crouched position by her bag as he stood, slightly turned away from her, fiddling with his cravat. Was he truly getting undressed with her right there?
Of course he was, she chastised herself. How else was he meant to shave or get ready for bed? She shook her head and gave him her back lest he see the hot flush she could feel in her cheeks. Her fingers curled ’round her nightgown. It wasn’t the most scandalous garment in the world. The linen was densely woven and would protect her modesty while she slept. But how on earth was she meant to put it on without him seeing her in a state of undress? She almost laughed. If anything would convince him of her lacking experience it would be prudish and shy behavior.
Biting her lip, she considered her options. Perhaps she could make an excuse, tell him her nightgown had gotten torn during the incident with Cloverfield, and sleep fully clothed? It wouldn’t be comfortable, but at least it would save her from having to strip in front of a man whose hands she longed to feel on her skin.
“I can’t get this bloody knot undone.” Mr. Dale muttered another curse followed by an apology and an irritated sigh. “Can you please lend a hand?”
Jolted out of her contemplations, Wilhelmina flinched. She glanced at him over her shoulder. “What?”
He tugged on his cravat. “I think I pulled the wrong end and made the knot tighter.”
“And you want me to try and get it off?” Lord, she sounded daft.
“That is the idea,” he said with a frown that suggested he might be worried she’d hit her head. “Hence my reason for inquiring after your help.”
“Right. Of course.” She stood and closed the distance between them, which only required taking a couple of steps. Reaching up, she focused all her attention on the knot in question, not on the enticing scent of sandalwood filling her nose or the fact that she feared her heart might run off without her if it raced any faster. Her jaw set, her fingers loosed one part, wove a strip of white cotton through, then tugged here and pulled there until the entire cravat came free. She saw Mr. Dale’s throat work and heard his hard intake of breath as she stared at his neck.
She’d felt this tension before, in the carriage when he’d placed his hand on her thigh and held her gaze with his own. The kiss that followed had been inevitable – just as inevitable as it was now. Only now, in this room, there was no telling where it might lead.
Wilhelmina stepped back. Away from danger. “There you go.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Lawson.” She gave a swift nod and started to turn away when he said, “I hate to trouble you with this, but I worry I’ll nick myself with the blade unless you shave me.”
She stilled. “I beg your pardon?”
He sighed. “At home I have two large mirrors set up. When I’m at Clarington House, my father’s valet helps out. But here there’s only one small mirror.” He indicated the one that hung on the wall. “It’s barely big enough for me to see my entire head.”
His disgruntled tone made her lips twitch. “Are you saying you’re big headed?”
“I would never admit to any such thing,” he told her lightly. “Seriously though, you had a husband for what, twenty years? I reckon you must have some experience with a blade, unless a servant did the task.”
“We only had a maid of all works, so you’re quite correct in your assumption, Mr. Dale. I do know how to shave a man.” She’d done so for George most mornings before breakfasting. Until the last year of their marriage when he’d spent every night with Fiona and she’d accomplished the deed. For Wilhelmina, it had always been one of those chores she’d enjoyed helping her friend with. She’d chatted away while he sat and listened to whatever thoughts struck her fancy. Later, he would do most of the talking, relating the news of the day to her while reading the paper. It had been habitual, but this did not make her oblivious to the intimacy of the task.
She stared at the box Mr. Dale held toward her as if it threatened to burn her fingers. Carefully, she reached out and took it. There was really no way around this unless she planned to explain her reluctance to touch his face, which she did not.
Wilhelmina willed her hands not to tremble and gestured toward the bed. “Have a seat.”
He did as she asked while she set the box on the nightstand. “I’ll need to lather your face first.”
“Of course.”
She went to locate the soap. How on earth did he manage to act as if all of this was perfectly normal? Wilhelmina had no idea. Her nerves were jumping about and Mr. Dale looked completely at ease. Damn him. With a shake of her head she opened the tin box beside the wash bowl and was instantly overcome by the fragrance of roses. An unexpected chuckle rippled through her at the thought of covering Mr. Dale’s face with such a feminine scent.
“What’s so amusing?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She soaked one of the washcloths, wrung it, and gathered the soap.
When she turned to face him, every bit of amusement she’d just experienced vanished, as if swept away on a breeze. For there he sat, shirtless of all things, patiently waiting for her to proceed.
14
It wasn’t easy, feigning indifference while Mrs. Lawson stared at him. For a second, he worried he’d pushed her too far. But he never shaved while fully clothed since water and soap invariably dripped. Plus, he’d thought it a great excuse to gauge her response. Wide-eyed and with her lips slightly parted, she seemed visibly shocked by his state of undress. Yet another hint she wasn’t as worldly as she tried to appear.
There was something else in her gaze, however – a flicker of interest and, dare he hope, appreciation. James’s stomach clenched. He could scarcely wait for her to touch him, the anticipation of the moment when they would come skin to skin tightening every muscle. So he held his breath and watched her approach, his gaze never leaving her as she laid out a towel on the bed and placed the soap on top.