"It's that one." She pointed through a gap in the balusters to the door at the end of the landing.
With some hesitation, Elliot prised the door from the jamb and entered first, checking under the bed and inside the armoire, paranoia being a feeling foreign to him until now. But it distracted his mind from the thought of being alone with the pretty widow in her bedchamber. It did not prevent his cock from stirring. After all, he was a man, not a bloody saint.
"There are no candles," she said. "I used the last one and couldn't find any more. I'll just change my clothes. I can come back for the rest tomorrow."
"I'll help you collect what you need, so there's no reason to return." The last thing he wanted was to rummage around in a drawer full of lady's undergarments, but he'd be damned if he'd let her come back alone. And with his aversion to sunlight, he would not be able to leave the house until dusk.
Damn it. In his eagerness to play the noble hero, he had not considered the restrictions of his affliction.
Mrs. Denton threw her gloves onto the bed, removed a dress from the armoire and held it up to the window before taking it behind the dressing screen. "This will do for a day or two," she said, and he found he could not form a reply as his mind was engaged in imagining the soft curve of her hips, the peachy-cream skin he knew would feel like silk to the touch.
When she draped the torn medieval gown over the screen, he almost groaned out loud, and he breathed a sigh of relief when she walked out wearing the pale blue gown.
"I hate to inconvenience you further. But would you mind if I took a bath?"
"What, here?" Surely she didn't expect him to traipse up and down the stairs carrying buckets of water.
"No," she said removing a few items of clothing from the drawers. "Later, when I come home with you."
Such innocent words spoke of a deep intimacy. Panic flared. He felt out of his depth, floundering amidst a sea of turbulent emotions. He'd never taken a lady to his home. Since his tenth birthday: the day his mother left and disappeared without a trace, he swore never to allow another woman into his place of sanctuary — let alone bathe in his blasted tub.
Damn, he only had male staff.
"I'm sure it won't be a problem," he said stiffly, trying to banish the image of her lounging naked in the copper vessel. Reining in his errant thoughts, he stepped closer while she piled some items into his arms. "You'll need a brush," he said, "and don't forget the diary. We can study it together. I'm rather curious to see what she's written about me."
The lady gasped. "The diary. I almost forgot." Scurrying over to the dressing table, she dropped to her knees and ducked underneath. Even in the dark, she offered him a splendid view, ripe and round, as she grumbled and mumbled to herself before shuffling out
. "I thought it best to hide it," she said clutching the box under her arm as she brushed the dust from her dress.
Elliot didn't ask any questions. He was desperate to get home. He needed something to soothe the raging fire in his belly. Hopefully, the smooth red liquid would slide easily down his throat, to calm, to coat the restless feeling consuming him.
When they reached Portman Square, Elliot helped her inside with her things. After a brief conversation with Whithers, whose mouth hung open for so long Elliot feared it would never close properly again, they retired to the study while a room was prepared.
"Do you mind if I sit?" she said gesturing to the chair next to the fire.
"Please, make yourself at home." It was only for a night, he told himself, as the words left his lips. In an hour, she would be tucked up in bed and by the time he ventured down tomorrow evening, she would be ready to depart.
He watched her warm her hands by the fire, saw her flinch as the heat aggravated the grazed skin. "Let me put something on those cuts. It will take down the swelling, soften the skin so it won't feel as tight."
"That would be wonderful." She examined the marks as she sat down. "I keep trying to forget about it, but it's still a little sore."
Elliot took a glass and poured a small amount of brandy into the bottom. Walking over to his desk, he opened the drawer, removed a handkerchief and a flask of laudanum and pretended to add a few drops.
Swirling the amber liquid in the glass, he came to sit opposite her. "Give me your hand." He felt oddly nervous, as though he'd only recently progressed from the school room and just being in the presence of a woman was a stimulating enough experience in itself.
Mrs. Denton's gaze drifted over his face, and she glanced down at his open palm before placing her hand tentatively in his.
A host of overwhelming sensations flooded his body. He could feel the pulse of her heart beating against his skin. He could feel a strange tingling sensation that made him feel weightless, somewhat dizzy. His gaze met hers and he noticed her bottom lip trembling.
God, he'd had many women, taken his pleasure in every way possible. Nothing compared to the craving he felt deep in his chest when he looked at her. He shook his head and tried to focus.
"Look away," he said, aware of the slight change in the pitch of his voice. "It will hurt less."
She nodded and turned to look at the flames.
Elliot put the handkerchief to his mouth, wetting a corner before patting the broken skin.
She sucked in a breath as he continued with his delicate ministrations, touching it to his mouth, dabbing the skin. All the while, watching her. All the while, aching for something he could not explain.