Page 4 of Impassioned
“This needs to be cleaned first.” She lifted her gaze, passing over that taunting triangle of his exposed chest. She’d barely seen him without clothing. When he came to her bedchamber, he wore a banyan, then closed the curtain around the bed so that they were always cloaked in darkness. “Do you have water in your chamber?”
“Yes.” He turned his body and waited for her to pick up the tray. “After you.”
She’d never been in his room. Decorated in a rich, vibrant blue and accented with golds and browns, it was surprisingly warm. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but perhaps she’d assumed his bedchamber would be cool and austere, like his personality much of the time.
Aside from the bed, which she studiously avoided looking at, there was a small desk, a pair of dressers, and a cozy seating area with two wingback chairs in front of the hearth. The latter drew her attention as she wondered who would join him there. He’d certainly never invited her.
He went to one of the dressers and poured water from a pitcher into the basin beside it. Picking up the basin with his uninjured left hand, he carried it to the small table near the door and set it down. It was as if he didn’t want her coming too far inside.
She nearly said so, but her newfound courage failed her. Setting the tray beside the basin, she plucked up a small piece of cloth and dipped it into the water. “Your hand, please,” she murmured softly.
He extended it again, palm up. Now shehadto touch him. Keeping her gaze averted from his, she put her palm beneath his hand and gingerly clasped him. The connection made her breath stall in her lungs. She dabbed at the dried blood, working as quickly as possible but gently too, lest she cause him further harm.
“What happened?” she asked.
“A glass broke in my hand at White’s.”
“Bad luck.” She finished cleaning his flesh and set the soiled cloth back on the tray, letting go of his hand. At last, she exhaled as she reached for the small jar of poultice.
“I can apply that,” he said, his voice neither rising nor falling. He nearly always spoke to her in a monotone.Whenhe spoke to her, which wasn’t often. That required them to be in the same physical vicinity.
“Yes, but I’m going to do it,” she asserted.
She glanced at his face, just catching the arch of his brow and the flash of surprise in his eyes. Busying herself with her task instead of looking at him, she took the lid from the jar of poultice and set it onto the tray. She dipped a fingertip into the salve, then clasped his hand again to smooth the medicine onto the cut.
The barest intake of breath—his—prompted her to look back to his face. Faint lines fanned from his hazel eyes, marring the perfect planes of his countenance. He was an exceptionally handsome man, with his aquiline nose and sharp jawline that looked as though they’d been chiseled from granite to be displayed in a palace somewhere. A face for people to look upon and admire but that masked an empty shell.
Only he wasn’t a statue, even if it was easier for her to think of him as such. He was a man, and he was her husband. For better or worse.
Forever.
“It hurts,” she noted, as she carefully applied the salve.
He barely nodded in response.
“I’m sorry,” she added.
“It’s fine.” The words were low and clipped, and they irritated her. Everything was always fine. Except that it had never been. Perhaps for a short time after their betrothal, when he’d been charming and attentive. Then, just before the wedding, he’d seemed to grow more distant, less charming and far less attentive. As if he regretted their engagement. She assumed he had. Then her mother had told her quite plainly that Aldington didn’t care for the union but that he would see his duty done.
That had set the stage for a thoroughly awful wedding night and subsequent marriage. It was bad enough that Sabrina suffered from an excess of nerves and anxiety. Add in a husband who had no desire to marry her, and the result was a union of polite detachment. She supposed it could be worse, that they could openly despise each other. Yes, she was grateful for polite detachment and hoped they could move beyond that, if only to do what was necessary to have a child—something she wanted and heneeded.
She exhaled as she took the bandaging from the tray. “Do you think we could try to be pleasant?” Her gaze fixed on the small area of his exposed chest once more, and a peculiar heat flushed her neck.
“Am I not pleasant? Ow!”
She’d begun to wrap his hand and realized she’d pulled the cloth too tightly against the cut. “My apologies.”
He frowned, his brow creasing. “Should I call for Peale?”
“No.” She continued, moving more slowly and gently. “Do not call for Peale. And no, you aren’t pleasant. You are… dispassionate.”
His hand twitched, and she feared she’d struck a nerve. She finished wrapping his wound and tied the ends of the cloth together. “There.” She put her hands around his, holding him for a moment as she looked into his eyes.
There was a wariness in his gaze. Not quite vulnerability, but that seemed…not far off. Her breath snagged again.
“I don’t mean to be,” he said softly. “Dispassionate.”
“I know.” Did she? How could she know anything about him? “Actually, I don’t know, but I’ll give you a chance to prove it.” This was the moment.
