Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1) (10 page)

He went to the door, paused with his hand upon the knob. "There is no question of you leaving this weekend. I have sent word to the Simons. You will recuperate here until you are well enough to attend to your duties."

"
Here
?"

"In this room." His tones were clipped. "Your arm is badly sprained, and you will not walk comfortably for at least a fortnight. 'Twill be easier for you to stay on this floor. Come Monday, one of the maids can attend to you, but for now you will ring the bell if you need me."

I, ring the bell, for my master? And had he forgotten I had but recently
been
one of the maids? His proposals were preposterous, beyond any rational consideration. "Truly, 'tis not necessary, my lord—"

"Save your strength, Abby, for something more useful than arguing with me. You will not win in this or any other instance."

I opened my mouth to dispute the outright arrogance, but to my chagrin a yawn escaped instead. I blinked, feeling suddenly buffle-headed. As if my neck could no longer support the weight of my thoughts.

"You need to rest," he said, his voice softer now, knowing. "Your body is tired and wants to let go. Let go, Abby, and let your mind follow."

For some reason, I could not withstand the lull of his suggestion. My eyelids drooped, saturated with fatigue. My muscles felt leaden.

"
Am
... a maid," I mumbled. "Don't need ... one."

"Hush, now." His voice drifted to me as if from some distant silken shore. "Close your eyes, Abigail, and leave your worries to the morning."

Unable to resist, I did.

THIRTEEN

I awoke to a quiet that betrayed no sign of time or day. Though the room was dim, I knew immediately where I lay. Even in the depths of my slumber, I had not forgotten. I studied my luxurious surroundings and tried to think what to do. My mind felt fuzzy, from too much sleep or too little, I could not say. As I looked at the elegant escritoire by the drawn windows, the fireplace with its elaborate brass grate, and the chaise lounge upholstered in floral velvet, I knew a moment's panic. I did not belong here.

I took stock of my injuries. Within the sling, soreness engulfed my entire left arm, deepening into the shoulder. I could only thank the heavens that it had been this arm and not the other; I could still write and manage my duties with a degree of dexterity. Moving my legs beneath the smooth sheets, I felt a responding twinge of stiffness, a dull ache, but not pain sharp enough to deter me. Carefully, I eased into sitting position. The room wavered, but after a moment, I slid my lower limbs over the edge of the mattress and leveraged myself to standing.

Pain burned like an open flame upon the soles of my feet. With a gasp, I felt my legs give way. I flailed, fighting for balance, but the carpet came up at me with resounding speed. I landed with a loud
thud
that sent shocks of agony throughout my body. My vision blackened; a pitiful sound broke from my lips. Whimpering, I curled into myself, praying for the torment to pass.

"What in blazes ...
Abigail
."

A hand took my uninjured shoulder. Even that gentle touch was excruciating. I shook my head, bringing my knees closer to my chest. I just needed to be left a moment, just needed ... I was lifted, the movement spinning my senses, and I felt a wretched rising in my throat.

"No, please don't, I'm going to—"

Before I could finish the sentence, the wave struck. My body took over and purged itself with stunning authority. I was dimly aware of the arms that continued to hold me through to the abominable conclusion. Afterward, mute with mortification, I lay motionless as silence ticked by.

"Well, I haven't seen such a casting of accounts since my university days," Hux said after a moment. "You reminded me of an old chum of mine just then. Reginald Locksley was his name. Dead loss as a student, but he had one redeeming ability: old Reggie could swill more ale than the entire boating crew combined. Thing was, the bastard couldn't keep it down."

I still couldn't summon words. I kept my eyes firmly shut.
This didn't happen
, I told myself.
I did not just wretch my guts out in my employer's company
.... But there was no mistaking the pungent tang in the air. My eyelids fluttered open to a perfect view of the earl's lap. Seeing the splotches upon the once pristine grey trousers, I moaned.

"Do not concern yourself, Abby," he said, with his uncanny ability to read my thoughts. "I have others."

"Oh, my lord, I—"

"We are not back to that my lording business, are we? Come, sit up, there's my girl." He eased me back against the pillows and looked into my face. "Are you feeling more the thing?"

I gave a miserable nod.

"That's an improvement then." My breath stuttered as he pressed a hand against my forehead. "No fever either. So it appears you are on the mend, though"—the corner of his mouth quirked—"I fear a bit worse for the wear."

I stared at him. I could hardly credit his bizarre sense of humor. He and I both were covered with the detritus of my disgrace—and his lordship was amused?

"I don't suppose food would appeal to you just now," he went on, the devil's gleam in his eye, "though a spot of tea would not be amiss later. First things first, though. We will have to clean you up."

My eyes widened at his choice of pronoun.
We
? Surely he did not mean to imply ... The thought of his involvement in any aspect of my personal hygiene had me yanking the covers to my chin.

"I can take care of myself," I sputtered.

"How?" he asked calmly.

"If you would be so kind as to bring me a basin and a towel—"

"Abigail," he said, his lips twitching again, "'tis no doubt ungentlemanly of me to say so, but the task of restoring your cleanliness will require more than a quick sponging. For starters, your hair needs a good washing."

My unhurt hand went to my head and encountered damp, sticky strands. I had thought myself beyond embarrassment at this point; apparently, I was wrong. Heat threatened to scorch the skin off my cheekbones.

"I will manage," I mumbled.

"With one arm and a basin? Don't be ridiculous. You'll need a tub and my help, and you'll have both."

Once again, I gawked at him. Surely he could not be serious. Even Lord Hellfire could not suggest so great an impropriety as to help me ...
bathe
?

His eyebrow rose like a dark wing. "No one else is here, Abigail. So unless you wish to stew like a rotten tomato, I suggest you take the assistance being offered."

"'Twould be
indecent
—"

"Decency is a relative concept, my girl," he drawled. "It depends on who it is doing what it is. In this case, I am the lord of the manor requesting my employee rid herself of the vomit and other malodorous substances adhered to her person. Seems perfectly decent to me. Besides which, there is no one else to know about it. Ergo, it will have never happened."

Trying to keep up with his fuzzy logic, I said, "
I
will know. And you will know."

"Know what?" he asked.

"That you saw me bathe!"

"Oh, that." His eyes were bright blue. "I promise not to look." Before I could summon a properly indignant response, he held up a hand. "Before you attempt to slay me with your righteous refute, allow me first to explain my proposition."

I held my tongue and waited.

"You will use the bathing room in my suite. Hear me out," he said, forestalling my attempt to argue. "You cannot use one of the hip baths—it will hurt your feet to stand. You must sit in a proper tub, and the closest one available is in my room. Think of my advanced age, Abby. You would not wish me to carry you halfway through the house, would you?"

I was torn between snorting at his self-deprecation and gasping at his suggestion that he
carry
me. I went with the latter. "You cannot lift me, my lord—"

"I am, of course, wounded by your assessment of my ability."

"'Tis not that," I said, giving into exasperation. "You know well enough you are a vigorous and able-bodied man. What I am saying is that it would be highly improper for you to carry me at all—no matter the distance."

"I carried you yesterday," he pointed out, "from the hordes to the carriage. You did not complain then."

"I was insensible then," I said between clenched teeth.

"And you are being sensible now?" His brow was raised again, his jaw firming in such a way that warned me no further argument was possible. "You cannot walk, Abigail, as you discovered for yourself but moments ago. You need a bath, a fact which grows more evident by the minute. And you require help for both. So kindly desist your maidenly protests and assist instead in strategizing the best means to accomplish the task before us."

'Twas appalling how convincing my employer could be.

"Fine," I muttered.

If I could have crossed my arms, I would have.

"I will carry you and set you down in the bath," he continued. "I will loosen the strings on your corset so you may remove it at your own leisure. Do you think you can manage the petticoats and stockings on your own?"

I was sorely tempted to ask how he knew so much about feminine unmentionables—but then I remembered who I was dealing with. He'd probably undone more corsets than I had. With a scowl, I nodded. "I'm not taking off my chemise."

"Fine. That leaves only the question of your hair." My pulse kicked up a notch as he leaned toward me and pinched a loose tendril between his fingers, measuring it from root to tip. When he let go of it, the strand fell to my waist. "I doubt you'll be able to see to all of this with the one hand."

"I'll manage," I said.

"Plebeian thinking," he said dismissively. "I have a better idea."

*****

The gossip concerning the earl typically hinged on his inability to stay within the bounds of respectable behavior. As I entered his bedroom in his arms, I suspected 'twas a deliberate choice rather than lack of ability on his part. Like his hair, his heart was streaked with a unique fire; he did not hold to the restraints of others. In fact, he disdained such mortal inventions as rules and conventions. Glimpsing the dark glory of the massive bed, I felt a shiver course over me. He who held me was a man beyond normal measure.

"Cold, Abby?" His voice rumbled beneath my ear as we crossed through his dressing room. Rows and rows of perfectly arranged masculine attire hung at the ready.

"I'm fine," I said, wishing that I was.

"We're here at any rate," he said. "This will work, don't you think?"

My jaw slackened as I beheld the chamber before me. Cleaning the master's suite fell under Ginny's purview; though my roommate had long enthused about its splendor, I had not reason to view it before this. 'Twas a marvel, to be sure. Though the large, claw-footed tub was partially shielded by a bamboo screen, I could see the steam rising from its filled interior. A miracle of modernity was evident in the brass taps: the hot water had been carried through pipes rather than upon the shoulders of a servant. We crossed glossy tiles of a checked pattern, and I was placed on the wooden chair next to the tub.

"Water warm enough for you?" he asked.

After a moment's hesitation, I dipped in my hand. The water lapped against my palm, the promise of cleanliness too much to resist. I nodded.

"I've arranged everything within reach." He indicated the contents of a silver tray he'd placed on a nearby stool. "Do you need anything else?"

Eyeing the colorful collection of bottles and jars, I wondered if he understood that my usual ablutions consisted of a bar of soap.

"This is fine," I said. "Thank you, my lord."

"Hux," he chided.

"Hux." The intimacy of speaking his name aloud prickled over my skin, heightening my awareness of his proximity and my state of undress. To escape my discomfort, I looked to the screen at the end of the tub. I saw that a large square had been cut from one of the embroidered silk panels, eviscerating a peacock and beheading several peonies.

"What happened to the screen?" I asked.

"I cut it." He said it matter-of-factly, as only a wealthy man who'd just ruined a beautiful, expensive piece of décor could.

I stared at him. "But why?"

"The price of your modesty, I'm afraid. Here is my plan. While you bathe in the tub, I will sit behind that screen. I will wash your hair through the hole I have cut, my eyes thus shielded from your charms." His eyes flashed with wicked humor. "That should suffice to stem those maidenly blushes of yours."

I swallowed, my eyes darting to the makeshift barrier he had erected. 'Twas an ingenious solution for certain; yet my belly fluttered at thought of him touching any part of my person, even if it was only my hair.

What better option had I? I asked myself. My skin itched with stickiness, and there was no escaping my malodorous state. I was in desperate need of a bathe. In truth, I supposed I ought be more grateful for my employer's consideration of the situation.

"Thank you," I mumbled.

"I'll have a go at those laces, then," he said.

Pulse thrumming, I felt his fingers work along my spine. My good hand clamped against the bodice, a flimsy attempt at modesty. Within seconds, he had freed the strings; my breath should have found an easier movement, but instead it remained hitched in my throat.

"We'll have to take the splint off as well," he said decisively. His movements were so deft that I felt no pain as he released my injured arm. "Do you want help with the rest?"

"N-no." The word emerged fitfully.

He turned his back. With shock, I watched as he shed his jacket and waistcoat, tossing them carelessly upon the floor. He rolled his sleeves, revealing sleekly muscled forearms sprinkled with dark hair. He remained with his broad back presented to me, his hands upon his lean hips, a virile god even in his shirtsleeves.

"Ready?"

His deep voice held a questioning note. I realized, then, that he was waiting for
me
to finish undressing. Awkwardly, I fumbled to remove my petticoat, drawers, and stockings. No goddess was I, but a clumsy, one-handed ninny. When I was finished, I sat in the chair wearing nothing but my patched linen shift.

"Ready," I said.

He turned back around, and I quickly averted my gaze. I need not have worried about any impropriety on his part; he lifted me with an impersonal touch. I might have been a valise or a sack of potatoes, though I doubted his lordship had ever cause to heft the latter. He placed me carefully into the tub, and I gasped at the sudden immersion in liquid heat.

"Too hot?" he murmured, his voice close to my ear.

"N-no. It's ... perfect."

Despite the soothing lap of the water, I kept my right arm over my chest. He straightened without giving me another look. I heard his footsteps behind me, the sound of a chair scraping against tile. I turned my neck against the tub's edge; I could discern his strong profile shadowed against the intact upper portion of the screen.

"Do you expect me to stoop to peeping like a damned schoolboy?" There was wry censure in his voice. "I told you before that your virtue is safe with me. Lay your mind to rest and enjoy the bath, Abby."

Flushing, I slid further down into the tub. Of course he would not lower himself to such a thing—he was Lord Lucien Langsford, Earl Huxton, famed connoisseur of the female sex. He had no need to steal an eyeful of a servant, not when his world was populated by exquisite and cultivated blooms, all of which vied for his attention. Indeed, what interest would a plain, small weed of domestic nature hold for him by comparison?

I felt suddenly foolish and mortified at my unfounded suspicions. So as to embarrass myself further, I did as he commanded. I tried to relax. In truth, 'twas not all that difficult; the hot soak was a panacea to my stiff and aching muscles. I poured a few drops from one of the bottles; a soothing scent of lavender and lemon lifted with the steam. Sighing, I stretched my limbs as the fragrant mist enveloped me. I lost myself to the easing, luscious heat and the lulling slosh of water against the tub.