Nay, not just any bath . . . not the tepid water at best, cold water at most, dunkings she suffered through in the name of cleanliness and hygiene. But rather, a bath that beckoned with steam that rose from the water like little puffs of white clouds.
Verity warred with herself in a shamefully short battle before shucking the borrowed dress aside, and her soaking undergarments. Before logic screamed at the folly of climbing into a stranger’s—a strange man’s—bath, she stepped in.
A blissful sigh spilled from her lips, and her eyes slid closed; the temperature of the water was so hot it nearly hurt. It did hurt. Her toes tingled, and those needlelike pricks radiated up the expanse of her legs. And she reveled in them. But it was the most glorious form of pain. The heat penetrated the chill left by the sewers.
Verity sank into the water until it covered her shoulders.
Then she closed her eyes and simply welcomed the warmth driving away the cold. The aches in her arms from descending into the tunnels eased.
And for a moment, she allowed herself to forget that she was, in fact, in the home of a stranger who wielded a weapon with dangerous ease.
Forget . . .
Cursing, Verity sat up so quickly water sloshed over the edge of the tub.
Bertha would be waiting.
If she’d even remained when Verity failed to return.
And Livvie would be beside herself.
But neither could Verity return to them as she’d been, her face bloodied and the stench of the sewers clinging to her garments and person.
And the man who’d sought to drag her off . . . and who undoubtedly would have if Mr. North had not intervened . . .
Taking a deep breath, Verity slipped under the surface of the tub and soaked the dirty strands of her hair. She ran her fingers through the mud caked upon the tresses, and emerged, gasping for air. Wiping the water from her eyes, Verity searched for a bar of soap amongst the items that the hulking figure who’d come carrying the water must have set down at some point.
Except . . .
Going up on her knees, Verity peered at the peculiar item atop the towel, and then grabbed—
“A bar of soap,” she whispered, sparing another glance at the door Mr. North had departed from, and then back once more to that finest of luxuries. She weighed the smooth item in her hand, turning it over. For not only was it a bar of soap, it was a clear one at that. Almost too glorious to use.
Almost.
Alas, the desire to scrub her body free of that filth overcame her reticence, and she dunked the soap and proceeded to lather herself from head to toe. The slightly bitter orange scent of the bergamot was crisply masculine, and yet so very preferable to London’s grime that streaked her skin and turned the white soap bubbles black. Returning the sudsy bar to the tray, Verity hurriedly rinsed. She inhaled deeply, then sank under the water; her ears immediately filled, the previous quiet becoming a muted, muffled ringing in her ears. She cleaned the soap from her hair, and emerged from the water.
Even as the pull of regret was strong, Verity forced herself from the bath. Limping over to the neatly folded towel, she dried herself off, and then mindful Mr. North would return, she reached for the undergarments—and a blush instantly scorched her red as she took note of the details that had escaped her while Mr. North had been here and she’d clung to her gown to keep herself shielded from that piercing stare.
Midnight-black lace—she turned the article over in her hands—delicate lace of the finest quality. A quality befitting one of means, and yet—her cheeks warmed—scandalous for the color . . . and the cut of the neckline. When presented with the option of donning the outrageous article or stepping into the filthy garments resting at the foot of the bath, she chose the former. Hurriedly, Verity tugged the chemise on. She smoothed it into place, taking in the ornamental crimson tie that wrapped about the middle, and ended in a bow at the juncture of her legs.
Her stomach muscles tightened, bunching the fabric of the piece North had given her to wear. And just like that . . . all the reservations flooded to the surface. The reminder that he was a stranger. That she’d entered not only his household but also his bedrooms, and now, now wore shameful numbers only ever worn by a mistress.
It was an understanding Verity had from being the daughter of a woman who’d filled that very role for a man of power and influence.
Once again, questions whirred and swirled about the identity of this man—she could not determine whether he was friend or foe.
No man who put a blade to your chest would ever be considered friend.
She shivered, the dread tripping along her spine having nothing to do with the cold. The same fear to grip her in the sewers found its way to the surface. For fine baths and soap and garments aside, there could be no doubting the man who went by the name North was dangerous. And along with that revelation, something else grounded her . . . those questions she carried about her unlikely savior.
With hands that shook, Verity hurried into the dress and drew it overhead. It clung slightly to her bosom, but as she slid the garment into place, it proved an otherwise remarkable fit that one might have believed had been designed specifically for her.
If gowns were designed for her.
Which they had been . . . once upon a lifetime ago, when she’d been the cherished daughter of a lord, who’d lavished her with fancy ribbons and fineries. And slippers. Her eyes went to that luxury. She lunged for them, ignoring the pain that shot along her scraped feet, and scrambled into the delicate scraps. Her eyes slid closed at the bliss of the satin cushioning within.
A quiet knock sounded at the door, and Verity jumped. “J-just a moment.” She made her legs move to the oak panel, and against all better judgment, she turned the lock to let the stranger . . . North . . . into his rooms.
Framed in the doorway, he made no immediate move to enter. Rather, he eyed her through thick, dark lashes that obscured his gaze, and yet somehow she still managed to be seared by the directness of it. “May I?” It was a slightly mocking request, one that sought to illustrate the ridiculousness in him asking permission to enter his own chambers.
And yet, they were his chambers, the place he slept. With an enormous bed situated in the center of the room. Verity’s fingers clenched and unclenched on the panel.
Reluctantly, she stepped aside.
Mr. North swept in. His keen eyes missed nothing. He touched that assessing gaze on every part of the room. As though he searched for a hint that his kingdom had been somehow set askew. And then he focused on her.
Verity felt the blush stealing up her chest and neck, and then setting her face awash in color. “Thank you for the garments,” she said lamely. “I’m ready to take my leave.”
“Close the door, Miss Lovelace,” he said flatly.
All the moisture evaporated from her mouth, leaving her tongue heavy, and as she spoke, her words came out slightly garbled. “Am I a prisoner?”
“Trust me, had I wished to hurt you, it would have happened in the sewers, where I’d have left you, and none would have been any the wiser that we’d met.”
Verity didn’t know whether to be terrified or reassured by that blunt admission. Pushing the door shut, she leaned against the panel and eyed him warily. After all, it hadn’t escaped her notice that he’d not answered her earlier question. Therefore, there was only one conclusion: she was his prisoner.
As he wandered to the opposite end of the room, Verity silently gave thanks for that space between her and her captor. The immediate threat that had her pleading for his help had since eased.