Oh, but she loved it here.
Yes, the house had an uncomfortable air about it—morbid perhaps solemn. Happiness was the cure for that, and laughter, and love. Greystone rarely laughed.
The man in question slipped from the bed, returned with a linen towel and cleaned the evidence of their lovemaking from her thigh.
“While I’ve got you on your back,” he began, and her pulse quickened for she wondered what he would say, “allow me to tend to your feet as promised.”
In the throes of passion, she had felt no pain. Now, her feet ached. “You expect me to lie here naked?”
“Of course not.” He gathered her into his arms, turned her around until her head met the plush pillow. After pulling the sheets around her to cover her modesty, but leaving her feet poking out, he slipped into his breeches, sat on the end of the bed and cradled one foot in his palm.
A frown marred his brow, and he scanned the small cuts and grazes. The muscle in his jaw twitched.
“It was foolish to run without shoes,” Lydia said to break the silence. “But … but I had no choice.”
Greystone looked at her, the planes of his face hard, stone-like. “That fop did something to you, didn’t he?”
Lydia swallowed. She could tell Greystone anything. “Randall stole into my room with the express intention of taking my virginity and consequently forcing me to wed. The fool doesn’t know me at all if he thinks that would induce me to accept a proposal.”
Greystone’s eyes darkened to the forest green that warned of sinister thoughts. “I’d call him out, but it would only reinforce the belief that we’re lovers.” Frustration oozed from every fibre of his being. “Perhaps I might torment him until he insults me.”
“You would shoot Randall? For me?”
“Without question.” He stared into her eyes, and she saw a level of tenderness that went beyond the wild and lustful romp they’d shared. “I can count on one hand those people I would risk my life to save. My friends—Drake, Dariell, Valentine and Lockhart—and you, Miss Lydia Lovell.”
Lydia’s heart raced.
Love for Greystone burst through her body.
But she could not make a declaration. They needed time—the one thing they didn’t have—to explore the possibility that their relationship might lead to something more permanent. Uncertainty surfaced. Was it truly love she felt, or simply excitement at delving into the forbidden?
“You do me a great honour, my lord,” she said.
He inclined his head but remained silent. Moving to the oak chest of drawers, he rummaged around inside the top drawer and returned to the bed, a silver pot in hand.
“The heat abroad can cause all sorts of problems with cuts and wounds,” he said, pulling the metal top off the small round pot and scooping a yellow substance onto his finger. “This was given to me by a healer in Assam.”
Resting her heel on his muscular thigh, he dabbed the ointment on the cuts, massaging in slow, soothing strokes. The room was suddenly filled with a spicy scent, an aromatic fragrance that teased the nostrils. Greystone took hold of her other foot and repeated the process.
Lydia watched him, mesmerised.
She found him irresistible. Their lovemaking had been thrilling, satisfying—utterly sublime.
The thought of living a life without him pained her.
“So as an heiress, you say you have no need to marry,” he said, continuing with his ministrations. “Then you plan to live with your brother indefinitely?”
“Money is a bone of contention between my brother and me. You see, my father left me everything except that which is entailed.”
Lydia told him all about Arabella’s greed and Cecil’s inability to control his wife, about the house in London and her plans for the future.
“And so the gossip making the rounds of the London ballrooms will make it difficult for you to return to town?”
“Difficult, but not impossible. And I’ve still three weeks until I come into my inheritance.”
“And you’re determined to live in London?”
There were more complicated questions hidden beneath the simple one. She wished he would simply say what was on his mind.