Page 9 of Someone to Watch Over Me
Vivien emerged from the privy a few minutes later, clearly surprised to find him still there. She seemed no bigger than a child, dressed in his shirt with the sleeves rolled back several times and the tail reaching below her knees. Her gaze lifted to his, and she returned his friendly smile with an abashed one of her own.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
He extended a hand to her. “Let me help you back to bed.”
She hesitated before hobbling forward. Carefully Grant reached around her slender body, hooking one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees. Although he lifted her with extreme gentleness, mindful of her injuries, Vivien gasped as he brought her against his chest. Of all the women he had held in his arms, none had ever possessed such lush, exquisite delicacy. Her bones were slender, but her flesh was pliant, voluptuous, utterly desirable.
Returning to the bedroom, Grant eased Vivien onto the mattress, fumbling to arrange a stack of pillows behind her. She tugged the blankets upward, bringing them high over her chest. In spite of her bedraggled condition, or perhaps because of it, he was struck again with the disconcerting urge to cuddle and caress her. He, who was known for possessing a heart of granite, or some similarly impermeable substance. “Are you hungry?” he asked gruffly.
“Not really.”
“When the housekeeper brings a tray, I want you to eat something.”
For some reason his tone of command made her smile. “I’ll try.”
Grant stood frozen in place by her smile…lucent and warm, a flash of magic that illuminated her delicate face. It was so unlike the self-absorbed woman he had met at Wentworth’s ball that he wondered briefly if she was the same person at all. Yet she was, unmistakably, Vivien.
“Grant,” she said hesitantly. “Please, would you bring a looking glass?” She pressed her hands to her cheeks in a self-conscious gesture. “I don’t know what I look like.”
Somehow managing to tear his gaze away from her, Grant went to the gentleman’s cabinet in the corner of the room. He rummaged through the narrow drawers and located a woodennécessairecovered in leather. The case was designed to hold scissors, files, and grooming items, the lid fitted with a rectangular looking glass inside. Returning to the bedside, Grant opened thenécessaireand gave it to her.
Vivien tried to hold the case near her face, but her hands still trembled violently from her experience of the previous evening. Grant reached over and steadied thenécessaireas she viewed her reflection. Her hands were very cold beneath his, the fingers stiff and bloodless. Her eyes widened, and she barely seemed to breathe.
“How strange,” she said, “not to recognize one’s own face.”
“You have no cause for complaint,” Grant said huskily. Even bruised and pale and ravaged, her face was incomparable.
“Do you think so?” She stared into the looking glass without a trace of the self-satisfaction she had displayed at the ball.ThatVivien had had no doubt of her many attractions. This woman was far less confident.
“Everyone thinks so. You’re known as one of the great beauties of London.”
“I don’t see why.” Catching his skeptical expression, she added, “Truly, I’m not fishing for compliments, it just…seems a very ordinary face.” She produced a comical, clownish expression, like a child experimenting with her reflection. A shaken laugh escaped her. “It doesn’t seem to belong to me.” Her eyes glittered like sapphires, and he realized with a flare of alarm that she was going to cry.
“Don’t,” he muttered. “I told you last night how I feel about crying.”
“Yes…you can’t stand a woman’s tears.” She wiped her wet eyes with her fingers. A wobbly smile touched her lips. “I didn’t think a Bow Street Runner would be so sensitive.”
“Sensitive,” Grant repeated indignantly. “I’m as hard-shelled as they come.” He gathered a handful of the linen sheet and swabbed hastily at her face.
“Are you?” She gave a last sniffle and peered at him over the edge of the sheet, and he saw a hint of laughter appearing behind the last glimmering tears. “You seem rather soft-shelled to me.”
Grant opened his mouth to argue, but realized suddenly that she was teasing him. With great difficulty, he tamped down an unexpected surge of warmth in his chest. “I’m about as sensitive as a millstone,” he informed her.
“I’ll reserve opinion on that.” She closed thenécessaireand shook her head ruefully. “I shouldn’t have asked for a looking glass. I look rather the worse for wear.”
Grant contemplated her dry, cracked lips with a frown. Reaching for a little glass jar of salve on the night table, he handed it to her. “Try some of this. Linley left a special mixture for bruises, dryness, scrapes, chafing…”
“I could use a barrel of it,” she said, fumbling with the hinged porcelain lid.
Retrieving the jar, Grant opened it for her. Instead of handing it back, he held it in his palm and let his gaze wander over her. “The shaking is better this morning,” he observed quietly.
Vivien colored and nodded, seeming embarrassed by the involuntary tremors. “Yes, but I still can’t seem to get warm.” She rubbed her palms over the fair, chapped skin of her arms. “I was wondering…if it wouldn’t be too great an imposition—”
“A hot bath?”
“Oh, yes.” The throb of anticipation in her voice made him smile.
