Chapter 11: A Day of Convalescence
The morning light filtered through the damask drapes like honey through cheesecloth, casting a warm, golden pallor across the bedchamber. Jennie stirred beneath the ivory brocade, her limbs heavy, her mind fogged with the remnants of restless sleep. A dull ache throbbed low in her belly, and she became slowly, mortifyingly aware of the dampness between her thighs—the lingering evidence of yesterday's transgressions, both the sweet and the terrifying.
She pressed her palm to her forehead, finding her skin clammy and warm. The memory of Lady Manoban's sharp voice, her imperious knocking, the way Leonid had so calmly risen from between her legs to greet his mother as if he had been examining the drapery—it all came rushing back in a hot wave of shame and thrill.
She had managed, somehow, to receive the woman with the appropriate deference. Had spoken of feeling faint, of needing rest, of the heat of the fire. Lady Manoban had looked at her with those hawk-like eyes, searching for something, and Jennie had smiled her gummy smile, the one that disarmed even the most suspicious of matrons. It had worked. It always did.
But now, alone in the pale morning, the consequences of her deception settled over her like a cold shroud. She was to marry Kai in six weeks. Six weeks, and she was letting his brother—her betrothed's own flesh and blood—between her thighs whenever the mood struck.
A quiet knock at the door interrupted her spiraling thoughts.
"Jennie?" Kai's voice, gentle and concerned. "Are you awake? I have brought you some warm milk with honey. You seemed peaky last evening."
She groaned inwardly, but forced her voice to a pleasant register. "Come in."
The door swung open, and Kai entered bearing a silver tray, his expression so full of earnest solicitude that it made her chest ache with guilt. He set the tray on the bedside table, then perched on the edge of the mattress, his hand finding her forehead with a tenderness that was almost more than she could bear.
"You are warm," he said, frowning. "I knew it. You have been pushing yourself too hard with the wedding preparations. I told Mother you needed rest, but she insists on those infernal fittings—"
"I am fine," she said, managing a smile. "Truly. It is nothing a day of quiet will not cure."
He shook his head, his jaw set with determination. "You will have more than a day. I have cancelled all my appointments for the week. I intend to look after you myself."
Her eyes widened. "Kai, you cannot. Your father's business—"
"Can wait," he said firmly. "You are my priority, Jennie. I have been remiss, I know it. Always running off to meetings and solicitors, leaving you to languish here while I chase my ambitions." He took her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles. "I mean to do better. Starting today."
The guilt in her stomach curdled into something sharper, more painful. She wanted to pull her hand away, to tell him that his sudden attention was too little, too late—that while he was attending to ledgers and land disputes, his brother had been attending to far more intimate matters. But she said nothing. She simply let him hold her hand and smiled her sweet, deceptive smile.
"There now," he said, releasing her to reach for the tray. "Drink this. It will settle your stomach. And afterward, I have drawn you a bath—lavender, to ease your nerves."
"A bath," she repeated, her voice faint.
"Indeed. The servants have filled the copper tub in your dressing room. I took the liberty of adding the oils myself." He grinned, boyish and proud. "I asked the apothecary which scents were best for restoring a lady's constitution. He recommended lavender and a touch of chamomile."
"Very thorough," she managed.
"I aim to please." He handed her the cup of warm milk, and she sipped it obediently, the honey coating her throat with sweetness. He watched her with such devoted attention that she felt the urge to squirm. This was not the Kai she had grown accustomed to—the distant, distracted fiancé who treated her more like a prized possession than a person. This Kai was attentive, caring, almost smitten. And she had no idea how to navigate it.
"There," he said approvingly as she drained the cup. "Now, into the bath with you. I will read to you while you soak—something soothing. I have a new volume of poetry, by a Mr. Keats. I am told it is quite exquisite."
She hesitated. "Kai, I am perfectly capable of bathing alone."
"I know," he said, his smile softening. "But I wish to be near you. Is that so terrible?"
It was not terrible. It was, in fact, exactly what she had once dreamed of—a fiancé who wanted to be near her, who cherished her company, who treated her as more than a decoration. But now, it felt like a cage closing around her, its bars gilded with affection she no longer deserved.
"Of course not," she said, rising from the bed. "I shall be but a moment."
She slipped into the dressing room, closing the door behind her with a sense of relief that was immediately punctured by the sight of the copper tub steaming in the center of the room, its surface scattered with lavender buds. She undressed slowly, her fingers clumsy with the buttons of her nightgown, and lowered herself into the water with a sigh that was equal parts pleasure and despair.
The heat enveloped her, loosening the tension in her muscles, and she closed her eyes, letting her head fall back against the rim of the tub. Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the man she had left behind in the stairwell last night—his dark curls, his knowing smile, his hands that seemed to find every secret she kept.
"Dare I say, you look rather fetching in disarray."
She snapped her eyes open, her heart lurching into her throat. Leonid was leaning against the doorframe of the dressing room, his arms crossed, a glass of brandy dangling from his fingers. He was dressed impeccably, as always—dark emerald coat, cream waistcoat, his cravat tied with careless elegance—and he was looking at her with that lazy, infuriating grin.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed, sinking deeper into the water. "Kai is—"
"In the bedchamber, reading his new volume of Keats," Leonid said, pushing off the doorframe and strolling closer. "I told him you had left the book I lent you in my study and that I wished to retrieve it before it was forgotten. He was most gracious in allowing me to pass." He paused beside the tub, looking down at her with undisguised appreciation. "He is, as ever, entirely oblivious."
"Leonid, this is madness. If he were to—"
"He will not." He set his glass on the vanity and crouched beside the tub, bringing his face level with hers. His eyes were dark, warm, utterly unrepentant. "He is absorbed in his poetry. I told him I would only be a moment, and that you were not to be disturbed in your bath. He thanked me for my consideration."
She stared at him, her heart hammering, her skin flushing from more than just the steam. "You are incorrigible."
"Among other things." His gaze dropped to the water, and she was acutely aware of the transparency of it, the way her breasts floated just beneath the surface, her nipples tightened into bud. He made no move to touch her, but his eyes roamed with a deliberate slowness that made her breath catch. "I have been thinking of you all night," he said, his voice dropping to a murmur. "Of the sounds you made. Of the way you pulled my hair. Of how close you were when my mother so rudely interrupted."
"Leonid, we cannot—"
"We can," he said simply. "We are doing it. The only question is how long we can keep doing it before the world catches up with us."
His hand reached out, and she thought he would touch her, but instead he brushed a strand of hair from her damp forehead, tucking it behind her ear with a gentleness that made her chest ache.
"Your skin is flushed," he observed. "Lovely. You look like a water nymph, disturbed from her grotto."
"I look like a woman who is about to be discovered in a compromising position with her fiancé's brother," she said, but there was no conviction in her voice.
"Ah, but that is my favorite position." He grinned, and she could not help the laugh that escaped her—a high, breathless sound, muffled behind her hand.
"You are impossible," she whispered.
"And yet, you are still here." He rose, retrieving his glass, and took a slow sip, watching her over the rim. "I will leave you and your lavender bath now. But I shall be in the drawing room this evening. And I expect you to join me for a game of cards."
"I do not play cards."
"Then I shall teach you." His smile was a promise and a threat. "It is, I assure you, a most educational experience."
He turned and walked out, his steps unhurried, and she sank deeper into the water, pressing her hands to her burning cheeks. She could hear him speaking to Kai in the bedchamber beyond—light, courteous, the perfect picture of fraternal affection—and then the door closing, and then silence.
When she emerged from the bath, wrapped in a robe ornately embroidered with tiny silver flowers, Kai was settled in the chair beside the fireplace, the poetry volume open in his hand. He looked up as she entered, his face softening with tenderness.
"Ah, there you are," he said. "I was beginning to worry you had drowned."
"Just soaking," she said, settling onto the chaise across from him. "The lavender was a wonderful idea."
He beamed, visibly pleased. "I am glad. Now, shall I read to you? I have found a passage I think you will adore—something about a nightingale, and the aching beauty of the world."
She nodded, pulling her robe tighter around her, and he began to read. His voice was warm, melodic, perfectly modulated for the poetry. She tried to listen, tried to lose herself in the rhythm of the words, but her mind kept drifting—to dark curls, to knowing smiles, to hands that found every secret.
Somewhere in the house, she heard the faint creak of a floorboard, and she knew, with a certainty she could not explain, that Leonid was listening. To her. To Kai's tender reading. To the farce they were all playing.
Kai paused, looking up at her with a concerned frown. "You are distracted. Shall I stop?"
"No," she said quickly. "Please, continue. It is beautiful."
He smiled, his eyes bright with love, and returned to the page. And Jennie sat there, wrapped in silk and deceit, watching the firelight dance across his beloved features, and wondered how long it would be before the flames consumed them all.