Perhaps she even wanted him to look.
What if she were trying to seduce him, standing naked by the fire and washing herself? He wouldn’t want to be found wanting. Besides, she’d get cold.
Looking, he decided, was the polite thing to do.
His mouth was dry and his heart was pounding as he leaned forward, slowly, carefully drew back the curtain, and looked out.
The fire danced. A candle flickered. There was no naked, flame-lit siren waiting. The room was empty. There was no one there at all.
He could still hear the sound of water splashing.
“Are you there, Miss Woodford?” he called out.
“I’m in the scullery.” She sounded startled, a little flustered. She might, he supposed, be bathing in the scullery, though it would be cold there.
“Are you all right?” she said after a moment. “Do you want something?”
He did. He wanted her. “What are you doing?” he asked.
She hesitated. “Just a bit of washing.”
But which bits was she washing? “Can you come here a moment?”
“Is it urgent?”
“Yes.” His voice croaked as he said it. He was rock hard and aching for her.
“Oh, very well.” He heard the sound of dripping water, quite a lot of dripping water. He braced himself.
Would she come to him naked and wet? Or wrapped modestly in a large cloth that would cover her from top to toe, clinging most delightfully to where she was damp.
“What is it?” She came, wiping her hands on a cloth, dressed exactly as she had all day. Covered from top to toe in layers of clothing. Thick layers, dammit, all fastened and buttoned up.
She gave him an expectant, quizzical look. He’d told her it was urgent. He couldn’t think of a thing to say. “Water,” he said finally, like a great stupid. Luckily his voice still croaked.
She brought him a cup of water and he drank it as if thirsty. He was, but not for water. She smelt like beeswax and flowers, but then she usually did.
“Another?” she asked and he nodded.
She fetched another cup and waited, her head bent in thought as he drank it down. And that’s when he noticed her hair. She usually wore it twisted into a knot on the top of her head, but at night she took it down, shook it out into a glorious mass, brushed it, then braided it into a loose, silky plait. Tonight the tips of the braid were unmistakably damp. His fingers itched to unbraid it, spread it across a pillow, and bury his face in it.
“Did you just take a bath?” he asked.
“I was washing the children’s smalls,” she said crisply, but her cheeks flushed rosily, and it wasn’t the light of the fire or the glow of the candles. She took the cup and retreated without saying a word.
He lay back, quietly exultant. He hadn’t been mistaken. She’d bathed. For him. Soon she’d come to bed, fresh and fragrant.
He couldn’t wait.
Seven
She put the cup on the table and disappeared, returning in a matter of moments with a small bundle of twisted cloths. She shook each one out with a snap and hung them on a line strung above the hearth with a rather pointed air, silently emphasizing that she had indeed washed children’s smalls.
His lips twitched. Didn’t mean she hadn’t bathed.
She dumped a pile of lace and feathers and ribbons onto the table. Then she took a hat and proceeded to destroy it.
“What are you doing?”
