Chapter 1: The Bath and a Silent Intrusion
The door to the bathing chamber whispered against the marble floor, a sound lost beneath the crackle of candle wax and the soft lap of water. Leonid did not open his eyes. The scent of lavender and rainwater that always hung in this room had shifted, pierced by something wild and unfamiliar—damp earth, night air, and her.
Jennie stood for a moment on the cool stone, her bare feet leaving ghost-prints of moisture from the hall. Her shift, a thin linen thing, was plastered to her skin from the rain, outlining the narrow straightness of her shoulders, the sharp angles of her collarbones. Her hair, a cascade of black, dripped onto the marble.
He was a sculpture in the steaming bath, his head resting back against the rim, eyes closed. The flickering light caught the pale map of veins beneath his skin, trailed over the defined muscles of his chest and arms resting on the edges of the copper tub. The water glistened on his shoulders.
She moved like a silent animal, her breath held. The hem of her shift darkened as she stepped into the overflow of water on the floor. She didn’t hesitate. In one fluid, graceless motion, she swung a leg over the side of the tub and slid into the water opposite him.
The water displaced, sloshing heavily against the sides. Leonid’s eyes opened. Dark, fathomless brown, utterly devoid of surprise.
“Jennie.” His voice was a low, beautiful note in the steam-filled room. A statement. An epitaph.
“It’s cold in my room,” she said, as if that explained everything. She was crouched in the large tub, the water rising to her chest, her knees bumping against his legs under the surface. Her shift bloomed around her, transparent. The tops of her small breasts were visible, pale brown against the wet cloth. Her feline eyes were fixed on his face, unblinking.
He sighed. It was a long-suffering sound. “Get out.”
“No.”
“You are dripping filth from the stables into my bath.”
“It’s just water. Rainwater.” She inched forward, her knees sliding along the bottom of the tub until they framed his hips. The water swirled between them. She was close enough now that her damp hair brushed his chest. The scent of her—unbathed, feral, all Jennie—cut through the lavender. “Your water is warmer.”
He didn’t move away. He simply watched her, a king tolerating a troublesome cat. “Rosé will be looking for you. To give you your own bath. Like a civilized person.”
“I don’t want Rosé. I want to be here.” Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes. A challenge. Her hand rose from the water, fingers heading for his face.
He caught her wrist before her wet fingers could touch his cheek. His grip was firm, not harsh, the veins standing out on the back of his hand. “What do you want, Jennie?”
“You.” The word was a growl, simple and absolute. She tried to lean forward, but his hold on her wrist anchored her. Her other hand found his knee under the water, her nails biting faintly into his skin. “I always want you. You know that.”
“I know you are a nuisance.” His thumb brushed over the frantic pulse in her wrist. “You are also shivering.”
The bathroom door clicked open again. Rosé stood there, a large towel and a fresh cake of soap in her hands, her blonde hair a bright shock against the dark wood. She took in the scene—Jennie crouched in the master’s bath, Leonid holding her wrist—without a change in her gentle expression. A faint pink touched her cheeks.
“My lord,” Rosé murmured, dipping into a curtsy. “I am so sorry. She slipped away from me after the storm. I’ll have her out immediately.”
“See that you do.” He released Jennie’s wrist as if letting go of a thorny branch.
Jennie scowled, slumping back in the water with a sulky splash. “I’m not finished.”
“You are,” Leonid said. He closed his eyes again, dismissing her. The lines of his body were taut, though, the relaxation feigned.
Rosé stepped forward, businesslike. “Come now, miss. You’ll catch a chill. And you’ve bothered his lordship enough for one night.” Her voice was sweet, coaxing, as one might use on a spooked horse.
With a sound that was almost a hiss, Jennie stood. Water streamed from her, the soaked shift clinging to every contour, outlining her tiny waist, the curve of her hips, the dark shadows between her thighs. She didn’t look at Rosé. Her dark eyes stayed locked on Leonid’s closed, unmoving face for one long, burning moment. He did not open them.
She climbed out of the tub, water cascading onto the floor in a small flood. Rosé swiftly wrapped the large towel around her, blotting the worst of it, and began to guide her, shivering and muttering, toward the door.
“You will boil the water for her bath thoroughly, Rosé,” Leonid said, his eyes still closed. His voice was calm. “And see she is scrubbed. She smells of the stables.”
Jennie whipped her head around, teeth bared. “I smell like outside! Like real things! Not like a pot of dead flowers!”
But Rosé was already urging her through the door, whispering soft, placating words. The door shut, cutting off the sound of Jennie’s protests.
Silence reclaimed the bathing chamber, broken only by the pop of the candle. The scent of lavender was slowly reasserting itself. Leonid opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling where the steam had gathered in a faint, swirling cloud. His hands, resting on the edges of the tub, had tightened, the knuckles pale against his skin. The water where she had been was already cooling.
In the maids’ bathing annex, steam rose from a smaller, simpler tub. Rosé worked in efficient silence, pouring heated water from a pitcher over Jennie’s head. Jennie sat on a stool, subdued now, her knees drawn to her chest, submitting to the scrubbing.
Rosé lathered the soap, the smell of plain lye replacing the wild scent of her. “You mustn’t do that, miss,” she said softly, working the suds into the long, tangled black hair. “It isn’t proper.”
“I don’t care about proper.”
“I know.” Rosé’s hands were gentle but thorough. “But he does. It… it troubles him.”
Jennie turned her head, cheek against her knee, to look at Rosé. Water droplets clung to her lashes. “Did he look troubled?”
Rosé paused, considering. She recalled the lord’s flawless composure, the closed eyes, the steady voice. But she also remembered the white-knuckled grip on the edge of the bath, the tension in the line of his jaw. A stillness that was not peace.
“Yes,” Rosé said finally, pouring clean water to rinse the soap away. “I believe he did.”
A slow, victorious smile spread across Jennie’s lips. It was a feral, gleaming thing. She rested her chin back on her knees, staring into the steam as Rosé wiped it from the mirror, her dark eyes holding the reflection of her own satisfied, untamed face.