“If you hadn’t gone around shooting people, you wouldn’t need my help to get dressed,” she huffed, feigning more annoyance than she truly felt. “And where has Stevenson run off to again?”
“He’s out,” Colin said and met her eyes unapologetically. “And I only go around shooting people, as you have so succinctly put it, if they insult my wife.”
“Oh, please,” Elizabeth frowned at him. “Your actions dishonoured me way more than my cousin’s words.”
Colin contritely averted his eyes.
He looked almost dangerous with his too-long hair, rather attractive beard, and his right arm in a sling around his neck.
“You need to shave,” she said sternly in order to hide the desire that had suddenly welled up inside her.
“I shall wait for Stevenson to return,” he said softly, and then looked up at her. “Unless you…?”
That is how Elizabeth found herself in front of a silver basin and two pots of hot water, preparing the soap to lather his face.
“Do I need to sharpen the razor?” She asked.
“No, Stevenson keeps it sharp,” Colin replied,
There was a tension in the air that felt familiar. It reminded Elizabeth of the thrill of waiting for Colin to knock on her door during those first few nights in Norwich. She gently combed his hair with his heavy ivory comb and then tipped his head back gently. The way he looked up at her from where he sat was…
Elizabeth took a step back.
She lathered up his face with the soft brush and then started slowly and methodically shaving him. She ran her fingertips over his stubbled jaw and his Adam’s apple slightly more thannecessary, and she could see his heart beating in his throat. Her own breathing quickened.
“What if I cut you?” She murmured to distract herself. “Perhaps I should scar you slightly, just a bit, to make sure you never ask for my help shaving again.”
When she lifted the blade from his face, he grabbed her hand with his left and kissed her palm.
“It would be a mark of honour and I would cherish it.”
She pulled her hand out of his and turned to the water-filled basin, more flustered by a kiss on the palm than a married woman should be.
“I think that’s good enough. Stevenson can go over any parts I’ve missed,” she said and hurried out of the room.
On the way downstairs, she met Stevenson.
“Where haveyoubeen all day?” she asked, somewhat crossly.
“First, I had to deliver a parcel to the Cleveland Street poorhouse. Then, I was sent to pick up new shirts for His Grace, ones that make it easier to get his arm in.”
“Why not send someone else? Anyone can deliver parcels or pick up his shirts, but not everyone can shave and dress him!”
The usually stoic man smiled in a way that could only be described as mischievous.
“Tonight after dinner, I am to search his study for a book by Aristotle that we both know is on his desk,” he said and then halted, as if debating himself whether to forge ahead with what he wanted to say. “Madam, I dare say His Grace does this intentionally because he enjoys creating opportunities to be alone with you and to be taken care of by you.”
Elizabeth didn’t know how to respond to Stevenson’s uncharacteristic openness.
“I’ll get the book from his study after dinner. You help him dress for bed,” she said, gave him a brusque nod and all but ran down the stairs, not wanting to examine what exactly she was running from.
*
“How does it feel? On the inside?” Elizabeth asked after having felt a delicate fluttering under the hand that rested on Mary’s stomach as they sat side by side in the smaller parlour.
“Rather boring, mostly. When she doesn’t move, I almost forget she’s in there sometimes. And then, out of nowhere, she’ll hit me, like I’ve offended her with my carelessness,” Mary explained with her usual wit.
“She?” Lizzie smiled at her friend, who shrugged.
