The Many Sins of Cris De Feaux (Lords of Disgrace 3)

‘Massage,’ Collins pronounced, blandly ignoring the reaction that threat of torture provoked. ‘I have unpacked your possessions in an upstairs room and the bed is made up, sir. I thought you would wish to transfer there before nightfall. It is five o’clock and the ladies are all in the front room just at the moment.’

Collins wa

s considerably more than a valet. He numbered code breaking, five languages and lethally accurate knife-throwing amongst his less public skills, although he was also more than capable of turning out the Marquess of Avenmore in a state of perfection for any social occasion.

Now he shook out Cris’s heavy silk banyan and waited patiently while, swearing under his breath, Cris got out of bed. Collins did, however, wince at the sight of the borrowed nightshirt.

‘I’ve already been carried through the house and dumped in the bath stark naked in front of every female in the place.’ Cris eased his arms into the sleeves of the robe and allowed Collins to tie the sash. ‘I thought it courteous to cover myself.’ The more he thought about it, the more embarrassing it became. He had no reticence about his own body, but being dropped nude and dripping like a half-stunned fish, in front of a gaggle of single ladies was…not good form.

The other man muttered something about stable doors and bolted horses and dropped a pair of backless leather slippers on the floor for him to shuffle his feet into.

‘I feel as though I’m a hundred and four,’ Cris grumbled as he made his way across to the door.

‘If you came ashore here, I would suggest that you had not been swimming like a centenarian.’ Collins opened the door and tactfully did not offer his arm. ‘Top of the stairs, first on the right, sir.’

‘I was swimming like a damn fool, I know that.’ Cris walked straight up the stairs without stopping. Swearing in Russian certainly helped. ‘You must have assumed I had drowned.’

‘I saw no signs of a struggle on the beach when I found your clothes, sir.’ Collins followed him into the bedchamber and shut the door. ‘I therefore concluded you had entered the sea of your own volition. I confess to a degree of anxiety, especially as you had gone out so early and I had not thought to look for you for some time. I questioned the local fishermen, but they had seen nothing. They did, however, inform me of the direction of the currents and I was about to ride along the clifftops in the hope of sighting you when the message arrived.’

‘I was distracted.’ Cris ignored the tactful murmur of Quite, sir. However discreet he had been, and, in fact, there was nothing to be discreet about, it was close to impossible to keep secrets from Collins. Ominously, the bed was covered with towels and the man was pouring oil into his palm. With grim resignation Cris stripped off and lay face down. ‘If you could stop short of actually making me scream I would be obliged. There are ladies around.’

Collins took hold of his right calf and started doing hideous things to the muscles with his thumbs. ‘Yes, sir. An interesting household.’

‘Mrs Perowne is the widow of a man who leapt off a cliff rather than be arrested and hanged for smuggling and associated crimes.’

‘Indeed, sir? Very novel. If you could just bend your knee… Miss Holt, the owner, seems a kindly lady.’

‘Is she the owner? I assumed Mrs Perowne was.’ Brown eyes, hot, sweet mouth, the promise of oblivion for a while. He stirred, uncomfortably aware of how arousing that thought was. ‘Ow! Damn it, man—are you attempting to plait those muscles?’

‘No, to unplait them, sir.’ Collins moved to the other leg. ‘Miss Holt welcomed me to her home. That was how she worded it.’

A ruthless massage was certainly an effective antidote to inappropriate erotic thoughts that made him feel unfaithful to Katerina. Which was a pointless emotion. An indulgence he was not going to wallow in, making himself feel like some tragic victim. They had not been lovers, they had not even spoken of that feeling between them, let alone exchanged protestations of love. There had just been those silent exchanges amidst crowds of others and that one, snatched, burning kiss when they had found themselves alone, passing in a corridor at the Danish royal palace. No words, no hesitation, only her body trembling between his hands, only her mouth sealed to his, her hands on his shoulders, and then her little sob as they tore themselves apart and, without a word, turned and walked away.

It was a relationship that could never be, not without the sacrifice of her reputation, his honour. Cris set his jaw, as much against the pain in his heart as the agony in his overstretched joints. He was a man, he was not going to become a monk because of how he felt for an unattainable woman. Next season he must find himself a bride, get married, assume the responsibilities of his title. He would be faithful to his wife, but not to a phantom—that way lay madness.

Tamsyn Perowne had kissed him back. He smiled into the pillow. It had probably been shock. Doubtless she would box his ears if he took any further liberties. Any fantasies about a willing widow to make him forget his ghosts were just that, fantasies. She was a respectable lady in a small community, not some society sophisticate. He’d be gone tomorrow, out of her life.

There was a tap of knuckles on wood, the creak of hinges and a sudden flap of linen as Collins swirled the sheet over his prone body.

*

‘Oh, I beg your pardon, I had assumed Mr Defoe would be in bed by now, not…’ Tamsyn put down the tray on the small table in the window embrasure and tried to forget the brief glimpse of elegant, sharp-boned bare feet as the sheet had settled over the man on the bed. She had seen all of him today, in the sea, in the bath, so what was there to discomfort her so in one pair of bare feet?

‘I have brought some more broth.’ Long toes, high arches, the line of the tendon at his heel… She was prattling now, looking anywhere but at the bed. But it was a small room and a big bed and there wasn’t anywhere else to look, except at the ceiling or the fireplace or the soberly dressed man who stood beside the bed in his shirtsleeves, hands glistening with oil. ‘It isn’t much, and dinner will not be long, but the doctor said to keep his strength up and it will help Mr Defoe’s throat.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ the valet said. ‘I will see that Mr Defoe drinks the soup while it is hot.’

‘Mr Defoe is present, and conscious, and capable of speech, Collins.’ The husky voice from the bed brought her head round with a jerk. His eyes were closed, his head resting on his crossed arms, his expression as austere as that of an effigy on a tomb.

‘Are you warm enough? Perhaps I should light the fire.’ She moved without thinking, touched her fingers to the exposed six inches of shoulder above the sheet, just as she would if it had been one of the aunts in the bed. But this was not one of the aunts and his eyes opened, heavy-lidded, watchful, and she did not seem able to move her fingers from the smooth, chill, skin. When they had kissed, those beautiful, unreadable blue eyes had been open, too. Now she tried not to show any recollection of that moment.

‘Yes, I will light the fire.’ The words came out in a coherent sentence, which was a surprise. Her hand was still refusing to obey her. ‘You seem a trifle cool.’

‘Cool? You think so?’ The question had a mocking edge that seemed directed more at himself than at her.

‘I will deal with the fire, ma’am.’ The manservant’s words jerked her back into some sort of reality, mercifully before her hand could trail down below the edge of the sheet.

‘Thank you.’ Tamsyn twitched the cover up over Mr Defoe’s shoulders. ‘I’ll just…’ The blue eyes were still open, still watching her. ‘You should drink that soup while it is hot.’