Tanner strolled over to the tub and felt the water, now on the very cold side of tepid. At home, his valet would be hovering with pots of hot water to add, making certain his bath remained warm from start to finish.
She rose from her chair, still holding the comb. “I could ask Mrs Gwynne for more hot water.”
They faced each other over the tub and it took Tanner a moment to remember to speak. “You cannot go out with your hair wet.”
“I shall put it in a quick plait,” she assured him. “I will need to go out anyway so that you can bathe.”
He could not help gazing at her. It took time for him to compose another thought, that thought being he did not wish her to leave. “Will not the Gwynnes think it odd that Mrs Lear walks to the public rooms with wet hair?” He reached over and fingered a lock, marvelling at how it already shaped itself in a curl. “They would not expect you to leave your husband merely because he bathes.”
She held his gaze, and he fancied her mind working again, mulling over this latest puzzle.
“I believe you are correct.” Her eyes were large and round. “I shall position my chair so that my back is to you, and I will comb my hair with the lovely comb you have purchased for me.”
With resolution, she marched back to her chair and set it to face the fireplace. Tanner watched her pull the comb through her hair, wishing it was his fingers doing the task.
He shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat and laid them on the bed. Sitting next to them, he removed his boots and stockings. As he pulled his shirt from his trousers, he watched Miss Brown totally absorbed in combing her hair.
He laughed.
Her comb stilled. “What amuses you?”
He had not realised he’d laughed aloud. “Oh, I was merely thinking that when I’m in the company of a woman, undressing is usually a quite different prospect.”
She paused for a moment and then began combing again. “Have you been in the company of so many women, Tanner?”
He faced her, naked and aroused and wishing she would turn and see the evidence of his desire for her. He wished she would come to him and let him make love to her right at this moment, to the devil with bathing.
Such thoughts were dangerous. He’d promised her he would not touch her. “I have known enough women, I suppose,” he mumbled instead, padding over to the tub, cringing as he tested the water again.
Again she hesitated before speaking. “I suppose you have lots of mistresses.”
He frowned at her assumption of him. “I assure you I am quite a success.” His attempt at a joke fell flat to his ears. Truth was, he tended to be involved with only one woman at a time, and none but the briefest of encounters in this last year. At the moment he was wondering what the appeal had been in any of them.
She cleared her throat. “Are there towels folded nearby? And the soap?”
He walked around the tub to see them. “I’ve found them.”
Bracing himself, he put one leg in the water, which was as cold as he expected. He forced himself to put the other leg in and began lowering the rest of him, making the water splash loudly in the room.
“Ye gods!” He shot up again when the water hit the part of him most sensitive to temperature. “Ah!” he cried again as he lowered himself a second time, but now it was because his ribs hurt from jumping up so fast.
“It is too cold,” Miss Brown said. “I knew I ought to have sought hot water.”
“It is tolerable,” he managed through the pain and the chill.
He picked up the soap and lathered himself as quickly as he could, grateful for having had the foresight to do a fairly decent job of washing his hair that morning. In his rush, the soap slipped out of his hand and fell into the water. He fished around for it, making a lot of noise doing so. When he finally caught it and lifted it out of the water, it slipped from his hand again, this time clattering to the floor and sliding too far away to reach.
“Deuce,” he muttered.
“You’ve dropped the soap?” she asked from her seat facing the fireplace.
“Yes.” This was a damned odd conversation to have when naked with a woman. “It is of no consequence. I believe I am clean enough.”
She stood. “I will fetch it for you.”
“It is not necessary, I assure you.” he told her.
“I do not mind.”
Before he could stop her, she turned to face him. Their gazes caught, but she lowered her lashes and searched for the soap, picking it up and bringing it to him. He quickly glanced down to see how much of himself he was revealing at this moment. The water was too cloudy to see anything.
“There you are.” She placed the bar of soap in his hand as calmly as if she’d been handing him his hat and gloves. After wiping her hand on a nearby towel, she returned to her chair and resumed combing her hair.
Tanner guessed he was as claret-faced as she’d been unflappable. “You are not missish, are you, Miss Brown?”
“Mrs Lear,” she corrected. “And you are correct. I am too old to be missish.”
“Old,” he repeated. “How old are you exactly?”
She chose another lock of hair to work the comb through. “Now that is a question no woman wishes to answer.”
He shot back. “As old as all that, then?”
She turned her head to him and smiled. “I am twenty-five.”
“Good God,” he cried in an exaggerated voice. “You are in your dotage!”
She laughed. “And you, sir, are teasing.”
He liked the sound of her laughter. He also liked that she was not prone to blushes and foolishness like that. He never could abide the young misses who flocked to London during the Season, looking for husbands when they’d barely been let off leading strings. Miss Brown was ever so much more interesting.
He turned back to his bathing, frowning at what it might mean that she was not missish. What was her experience of men, then?
He realised he was merely sitting in the water, which was turning him into gooseflesh.
“I warn you, I am about to rise from this bath and stand up in all my glory.” He started to rise, but stopped. “You may wish to look, seeing as you are not missish.”
He tried to make it sound like a jest, although he wanted her to look at him with a desire matching his own of her.
Because of the cold water, however, a part of him was not showing to its greatest advantage. In fact, it had no glory at all.
“I’ll look away,” She kept her back to him while he dried himself and donned his shirt and trousers.
“It feels glorious to be clean, does it not?” she said.
“Indeed,” he agreed, pressing his hand to his ribs. “But I would be happier if I had a clean shirt.” He picked up one of the packages and walked over to the bureau upon which sat a mirror, a pitcher and a bowl.
She switched to the hairbrush and turned around again. “It must be wretched wearing the same shirt.”
He smiled at her. “It is not that bad. It merely smells like the devil.” He rubbed his chin. “I suppose I shall have to shave myself. Now that is a wretched prospect.”
He unwrapped the package and took out a shaving cup, brush and razor. She picked up the soap and brought it to him, her long dark hair falling about her shoulders in soft waves. He wanted