“How?”
“My scars are on my face.”
“All that means is mine can be hidden. Does it change how you think of me?” He’d made his point, but he could see that she couldn’t quite trust him. Not yet. Someone had hurt her. Knowing people as he did, knowing his own sex as he did, he could imagine she’d suffered a barrage of unkind remarks and been made to feel ugly and unworthy. His heart ached for her, but he didn’t pity her. How could he when, smallpox scars or no, she was one of the most desirable women he’d ever met?
“It’s late,” she said. “And you shouldn’t even be out of bed.”
“We’ll speak more of this tomorrow.”
She hopped off the table. “No, we won’t. We will not ever speak of this again. Tomorrow we need to make a plan. I can’t stay here much longer. I have a tea shop to manage.”
Hew contented himself with the fact she’d agreed to speak in the morning. “Shall I bid you good night here? I think I can find my way back to my chambers alone.”
“And when you faint on the stairs and tumble to your death, then I’ll feel guilty for the rest of my life. No, Arundel. I’ll help you to your room. Just keep your hands to yourself.”
“Fine, but I want one thing clear.”
She glared up at him, obviously ready to be done with their conversation for the night.
“I didn’t faint.”
BELLE INSISTED ON STAYING close to Arundel as they made their way up the servants’ stairs, past the dozing footman, and then up the main stairway. She wanted to be near to him only in part because she was worried for his safety. Simply put, she liked being near him, liked the way he touched her, liked the way his body felt pressed against hers.
She knew she shouldn’t think such things. They weren’t married, and even the idea of a nobleman marrying a shopkeeper was preposterous. She didn’t know why the thought of marriage had entered her head, except that she’d believed him when he said her scars didn’t matter to him. It seemed impossible that he shouldn’t find them grotesque and disfiguring. When she looked at herself in a mirror—something she tried not to do very often—the scars were all she could see. But Arundel had been right when he’d said that his knife wound didn’t make him any less attractive to her. Could it be possible that her scars didn’t make her less appealing?
They reached the top of the stairway, and she forced herself to release his waist and step away from him. She didn’t have any reason to keep touching him now that the danger of falling to his death had passed. The man really was a gentleman—in every sense of the word. He had kept his hands to himself, and Belle suspected he wouldn’t attempt to kiss her again unless she gave him permission. In writing.
“I can make it from here,” he said, inclining his head toward his bed chamber. Hers was on the other side of the landing. Belle knew this was her cue to part from him. She would just have to content herself with the memory of the embraces they’d shared. Why had she cared so much that he’d kissed her scars? Why had she stopped him?
“You take the lamp,” he said, holding it out to her.
She took it. “Good night,” she said, turning toward her chamber, and holding the lamp up. The flickering light reminded her of the fire in her hearth. She hoped it had not burned too low as the house was chilly. “My wrap!” She turned back to Arundel who was frowning at her. “I left my wrap in your chamber.”
His gaze traveled past her to the doors in the shadows just beyond the landing. She knew he was thinking that she could certainly walk a few feet without catching a chill. Nevertheless, he gestured for her to go ahead, and she led the way to his chamber. She opened the door, entering the chamber, which was filled with warmth. She spotted her wrap—Lady Keating’s wrap, actually—draped over the chair where she’d been sitting. She snatched it up and pulled it like a shield about the dress she wore. Lady Keating said it had been one of her daughter’s dresses, and she was welcome to keep it. Belle would have never presumed. The dress was the finest thing she had ever worn, save the dress she and Maggie had sewed for her to wear to Maggie’s wedding. Belle had every intention of returning it as soon as she was able to return to her flat on Fenchurch Street and put on one of her own dresses. She just couldn’t walk around the baroness’s home in her shift, which was what she’d been wearing when the men broke into the shop.
“Before I go, do you need any help?” Belle asked. Arundel looked tired. The short walk to the kitchens and back seemed to have taken a toll.
“It’s probably best if I undress myself,” he said.
Belle felt her cheeks flame.
“Much easier to shed clothing than put it on, I think,” he added. “And judging by the color in your cheeks, just the idea of removing my clothing is shocking.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, ducking her head to hide the redness of her face. “I’ve been nursing you for days, and dressing and undressing a patient is all part of nursing.”
He smiled at her. “Considering you fainted at the sight of my wound, my suggestion is that you stick to tea.”
Belle put her hands on her hips. “That was one time. Besides, I didn’t faint. I just closed my eyes for a moment.” There. Two could play at his game of words. She dropped the wrap on the chair again and reached for him. “I’ll just help you remove these trousers.”
He caught her hands before they could reach the waistband. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
She looked up at him, into his blue velvet eyes. “Why not?”
“You know why not. Wait—don’t duck your head like that. You don’t have to hide your face from me.”
Belle realized she had tilted the left side of her face down, instinctively attempting to hide the scars. “It’s a habit,” she whispered.
“Not one you need when you’re with me.” He didn’t release her hands, and yet he made no move to close the distance between them. Belle raised her face to give him a full view. She saw the way his throat worked as he swallowed. This was no act. He really did seem affected by her. He really did seem to want her. She saw in his gaze then that her scars didn’t matter to him, and that seemed to change everything. She felt as though a part of her was abruptly unlocked and the tension released.
It was such a novel sensation to feel safe with a man. To feel as though she didn’t have to fear he’d point out her flaws or ridicule her scars.
One more kiss. That was all she wanted, and then she would go to her chamber. “If I kiss you,” she said, “would that make me a terrible nurse?”
He grinned. “You’re already a terrible nurse. I’d much rather you kiss me than tend me.”
She moved closer. “I think I should be offended,” she whispered, “but I like that suggestion.” She leaned into him, waiting for him to object, to show any sign of reluctance. Instead, his hands tightened on hers as though he was struggling to control the urge to pull her close. She wished he wouldn’t control that urge.
Finally, she pressed her mouth lightly against his, and again there was the sensation of pleasure rippling through her. How could she feel it so keenly at just the merest meeting of their flesh? The desire coiled in her belly from earlier unfurled and sent heat radiating through her. She moved closer, wrapped her arms about his neck, and kissed him.