behind her and allowed the wonderfully warm water to soothe her aching muscles, not a few of them located in an area of her body never named in polite company.
Beau’s Grosvenor Square mansion was wonderfully modern. None of the bathing tubs at Brean or in Portland Place were this large, or anchored in one spot, as this one was. In its own private room, no less, and not carried into her bedchamber and placed before the fire, with a small army of servants forced to haul in buckets and buckets of hot water, sloshing some of it on the floor and generally making a mess of things.
This tub even had pipes located at one end of it and turning levers, and when you turned them, water gushed out of the pipes and into the tub. This had so amazed Chelsea that she’d turned them again and again, so that now the tub was in danger of overflowing.
Not that she cared; it was too heavenly, being submerged up to her chin in the lovely water, and with the mounds and mounds of scented bubbles tickling her nose.
It was difficult to believe that only hours ago she had been faced with the idea of being wed to Francis Flotley. Kidnapped, spirited off, locked up and made into some twisted bit of Thomas’s promises to his Maker.
But in only those few hours, she had saved herself, frustrated Thomas, met two fools and was, at least marginally, now the affianced bride of one of them.
She would think that she and Mr. Robin Goodfellow Blackthorn appreciated each other more, but it was Mr. Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn who most deserved the honor of, well, of pushing Thomas’s face in the muck, she supposed it could be said.
It mattered not who she married—wet-mouthed men and anyone Thomas approved of excluded. Marriage was a social dance, and nobody really cared whether the people involved actually liked each other. Marriage was an exchange of dowry for title, or the other way around, a duty to procreate in order to keep one’s lands and fortunes out of the hands of disliked relatives. Emotion had nothing to do with the thing.
She knew this because she was a student of history. Ask Josephine if her Bonaparte had truly loved her, when he’d cast her off for a younger womb. The royals had it the worst, bartered away for the sake of a few acres of land or a military alliance, or simply because the prince or king had decreed it, and when those men tired of their wives, the chopping off of heads had many times been the accepted method of being rid of said wives.
At least she would be spared that!
She could only hope the man realized how grateful he should be to her for thinking of him and this particular revenge in the first place.
But she very much doubted that he did.
“Men can be so annoyingly obtuse,” she muttered, holding up a palm full of bubbles and blowing at them.
“My lady? Was there something you wanted?”
Chelsea smiled at the maid, who had been adding another log to the fireplace that was also situated in this lovely bathing chamber. “No, thank you, Prudence. I was only reminding myself that women are supremely superior to men in intellect and understanding. Haven’t you always found that to be true?”
“If that means that my brother Henry is thick as a plank, then yes, my lady, that’s true. He once tried to milk a cow from behind, our Henry did, which is why he’s only got the two teeth and why we brought ourselves to London to find work when Mr. Beau offered, as far from cows as we could get. Poor Henry, they aren’t even his front teeth. I’ll leave you to your bath, my lady,” Prudence said and then curtsied and quit the room, hopefully never noticing that Chelsea’s shoulders were shaking with suppressed mirth.
Maybe she was tired. Perhaps the strain of the day had been more than she’d realized. The argument with Thomas, the moments of horrible panic, the mad dash to Grosvenor Square. Convincing Oliver Le Beau Blackthorn that he was a lucky man, except, of course, if he dragged his heels enough that Thomas and his gaggle of brawny footmen and grooms showed up and strangled him, at which point he would have been an unlucky and very dead man. Three hours on a horse, riding pell-mell away from London. Three more hours in the saddle, riding back again.
No matter what the reason, Chelsea was suddenly giggling at the thought of poor Henry and his two teeth. Laughing. Chortling so hard she sniffed some bubbles up her nose and then laughing even more.
“And here I assured Puck that you weren’t a fugitive from Bedlam. Or is it that the bubbles tickle? Interesting thought, that second possibility. Precisely where would they tickle?”
Chelsea sucked in a breath midgiggle and turned her head to see Beau standing not five feet away from the tub. The quick action, when combined with the slipperiness of the tub bottom, caused her to slide helplessly beneath the surface of the water. Throwing up her arms and wildly grabbing for purchase on the rim of the tub, she resurfaced gasping, choking, blinking soap out of her eyes and caught between an urge to kill the man and a heartfelt desire to sink below the bubbles once more.
“Monster! Take yourself off, Mr. Blackthorn. I’m in my bath.”
“Actually, you’re in my bath,” Beau pointed out, which is when she noticed that he was clad in a burgundy banyan, his bare chest visible, along with his bare legs and feet.
She’d seen Thomas dressed—or undressed—in much the same way a time or two, when he’d been convalescing from his bout with the mumps. Thomas had looked silly, all skinny white legs and paunch. Beau looked nothing like Thomas. His legs were tanned—she’d have to ask him how he’d managed that particular feat—and his calves bulged with muscle. There was a dusting of golden-blond hair on his chest, and his waist, marked by the tied sash, was remarkable in that fact that it was so small, his belly so very flat.
She didn’t know if any of this should affect her in any way, but it did. She just wasn’t sure quite how. She looked away quickly.
“I ordered you put in my father’s wife’s chamber, which adjoins his. As neither my father nor his wife has been to town in a decade, I’ve taken over his chamber, mostly because of this tub. Or did you think we have one of these contraptions in every chamber? Are you planning to spend the entire evening in there?”
She hadn’t thought at all, which she wasn’t going to tell him. Prudence had led, and she had followed, half asleep on her feet and longing for a lengthy soak. “I’ll be in here as long as you’re out there, if that answers your question. Go away!”
Instead of doing as she’d asked—ordered—the miserable man pulled a chair away from the wall and sat himself down, just as if he planned to take up residence.
“No. I think, as the saying goes, I have you just where I want you, Chelsea.”
“Well, you’re not where I want you,” she said, surreptitiously fishing around the bottom of the tub with one hand, attempting to locate the washing sponge that had sunk to the bottom. Except that, when she moved, bubbles popped. When she breathed, bubbles popped. Unless she remained very, very still, bubbles popped.
She would have cried, except that would have given him satisfaction. She would have pled, except he was probably expecting that, as well. If it killed her, utterly destroyed her, she would not let him know how mortified she was, how frightened she was, how vulnerable she felt at this moment.
He had thrown down the gauntlet, that’s what he’d done. Insufferable lout. She would confound him by refusing to pick it up. Just as if she was entirely accustomed to having a man in the room as she bathed.
Or
