Here, however, was another dilemma. Now that she had accompanied him to his chamber and they were alone, all the feelings she had been doing her utmost to banish had returned. The memory of his powerful body stripped of garments made heat pool in her belly and creep between her thighs.
But she was determined to remain impervious. He could be as handsome and as charming as he wished. And he could issue all the partial, growly apologies he liked. He had broken her trust today, and she would not soon forget that.
“You are still angry with me, minx?”
She worked on the knot of his cravat, not as easily removed thanks to the wet cloth. The copper spray there was prominent. A reminder this man was dangerous. Not just to her heart and body and mind. But to others as well.
“I am weary, is all,” she lied. “I would like to find my bed and rest. It has been a long day.”
“Christ yes.” For a moment, his eyes fluttered closed, and he rested his head against the chairback.
How young he looked in repose. She opened the knot and drew his cravat away. The removal of the blood from the starched white linen would be a matter for another. She did not think it could be saved.
“Will you tell me what happened?” she asked before she could stop herself.
Her fingers worked the simple line of three buttons on his shirt. As she did so, they grazed the bare flesh beneath. She could not deny her body’s reaction to him, against her will though it was.
His eyes opened once more, the hazel depths glittering with golden flecks. “The owners of a rival hell set fire to the building we intended to make into a second establishment. We paid them a call.”
“Raise your arms, if you please,” she said.
When he did as she asked, she pulled his shirt over his head before casting the damp, bloodied garment aside as well. Try as she might, she could not keep her eyes from feasting on the sight of his bare chest. There was a bruise marring his ribs. She traced over it lightly. “What happened here?”
“Bradley scum fights dirty. Don’t worry. I gave them something to remember me by.”
Of course he had.
But this evidence of the brutality of the beating he had participated in—it was shocking proof of the new world in which she found herself mired. Not the world she had once known, of pristine drawing rooms, polite manners, and majestic balls. Here, men fought each other with fire and fists.
“You could have been badly injured tonight,” she said, giving voice to the worries swirling within her. “Or worse.”
“Then you’d be less one scoundrel who forced you to be his wife, wouldn’t you?” he asked, voice wry.
She had been overly harsh when she had accused him of forcing her into this marriage, and she knew it. The choice had been hers, even if he had cleverly manipulated events in his favor. She knew the fault lay primarily with herself for having returned to him despite his warnings. She had understood the danger, but the allure had far surpassed all else until finally, she had been caught in a spider’s web of her own making.
However, she was not ready to concede.
“I do not wish any harm to befall you,” she allowed. “Shall we remove your boots next?”
“I can do it.” But though he made the claim, he winced as he doubled over to remove them.
Likely due to the ugly bruising on his ribs. Octavia placed her palms on his shoulders and gently pushed him back. “Let me help.”
Without awaiting his response, she dropped to her knees.
Jasper had imagined Octavia on her knees before him on many, many occasions. At long last, here she was, beautiful and wrapped in a prim dressing gown that did nothing to hide her ample curves, long black hair unbound down her back. Unfortunately, instead of taking him between those pretty pink lips, she was pulling on his muddy boot.
Curse Tim Bradley for managing to hit him in the ribs with that iron poker. Hopefully no broken bones, but bending over hurt like the bloody devil. Rather unmanning, having one’s wife removing one’s boots.
But her help, much like her presence in his chamber, was welcome.
It was difficult indeed for him to remain cross with her when she was so damned lovely and so filled with spunk. His initial desire to send her away had crumbled quickly when he faced the idea of a night without her. And what better excuse than a bruised and battered hide she needed to tend to?
Perhaps she would take pity on him.
She removed each boot and then his stockings as well without a word before she rose, going to the wash basin to clean her hands of the muck which had transferred itself from his boots to her hands. He watched her every motion, admiring her easy elegance not for the first time. She had not complained at the state of his boots nor the state of himself. If the blood of John Bradley, Old Tim’s feckless son, on his own hands and clothes had disturbed her, she had said nary a word.
The gin he had consumed upon his return to The Sinner’s Palace was no longer doing its work. Although he was weary, his body sore, his cockstand was at the ready. Reminding himself that whilst she was his wife, she was also very much an innocent, he stood, intent upon disrobing himself to preserve her modesty.