Page 50 of Rules for a Bastard Lord
“Trust me.”
She shook her head, but he didn’t listen. He had seen the washing basin, and they had not used all the water in the kettle. So he added water to boil and pulled out the basin.
“Mr. Hallowsby, I cannot think this is proper,” she said in her stiffest accent.
“It is in the Bible, Miss Bluebell. And I swear no one will know.”
“No one would believe it,” she said. “You, a London gentleman, washing my feet? It cannot be.”
“There you are,” he said, all smiles. “Come, come, where is the bold woman who dragged a pig across the county? You cannot be afraid of a little soap and water.”
She didn’t fear soap and water. He could read the war in her expression. She knew she should not indulge him, and yet she was intrigued. Fascinated. Maybe even hungry for a man’s touch anywhere, including her feet.
That was the way with virgins. Everything was a temptation because most everything was denied They lived a constant game of should I or shouldn’t I? His task was to make the most dangerous indulgences appear innocent.
She fixed him with a level look. “Are you avoiding the rest of the story?”
He looked away. “Mayhaps. A little.”
“Tell me how she betrayed you.”
“Miss Bluebell, how many ways can you betray a man?”
She thought about that, her even white teeth chewing on her lower lip. “She bedded other men. Not just her protector, but other men as well.”
He nodded. “But I expected that. She was a courtesan under someone else’s protection. I could not afford her. Exclusivity with a courtesan is expensive indeed.”
It took her a moment to understand, and she colored a dusky rose as the simple businesslike nature of the rutting became clear. He was impressed. She caught on faster than most virgins would.
“But you loved her. And she went back to her violent protector.”
Had he loved Cara? The kettle began to sing, and he lifted it off to pour water into the basin. There was enough cooler water in the barrel that he didn’t need to run to a stream, thank God. And soon he had the basin filled at a perfect temperature.
“Where is the soap?” he asked.
She stood and grabbed a cake from a cabinet. “It is lavender. I made it a few weeks ago.”
He brought it to his nose and inhaled deeply, but he kept his eyes on her. “Lovely,” he said, making sure his gaze said he was thinking of her.
She laughed, the sound high and tight. She knew he was playing a game, but she liked it nonetheless. Then, lest he think she was completely cowed, she pressed him with that awkward question. “Did you love her?”
“Will you let me bathe your feet?”
She hesitated, and he waited. Two heartbeats. Four. Five.
“I will if you answer all my questions.”
“All!” he said in mock horror.
“Every one. As it pertains to this story of yours.”
He dipped his chin. “Very well.” He settled on the floor by her skirt. He pulled the basin forward and rolled up his shirtsleeves. She was looking at his forearms—probably at the scars that decorated his arms—and while she was distracted, he reached forward for her—
And stopped. Her hands blocked him, holding him back until he looked up into her gaze. “I know this is indecent, my lord. I am not a fool.”
“I never thought you were.”
“You shall wash my feet and no more.”
