calmed down one iota since she’d seen him last.
She’d watched him beat a man with his fists, possibly to death. There’d been rage behind his actions, but there had also been
cold calculation, precision, and no hint of indecision.
Viola twisted about to face him. He was dirty, rumpled, and nearly as blood-streaked as she’d been. But even under all that blood and grime, the hard, masculine planes of his
face were distinct, like an ancient marble statue just reclaimed from the earth. And her impulse was the same as anyone discovering
such a treasure: to revel in its glory.
He was hers, at least for the moment.
“Nance, that will be all.” Viola wet the edge of a clean towel and stood, her robe swirling around her feet in heavy folds.
The click of the door shutting signaled her maid’s swift departure. “Sit.”
She took his arm and pushed him into the small chair she’d just vacated. He tensed, then sank obediently.
Viola passed the towel across his forehead, trying to be gentle. “Are your servants all right?” The splinters of window glass
had sliced his cheek in multiple places.
As with her own wound, the blood made it look far worse than it was. The only real damage was one nasty slice that ran along
his cheekbone like the scratch of some great cat, though it was clear he’d have a black eye come morning.
“Yes.” He winced slightly as the towel passed over the largest cut, his wicked green eye closing tight, tiny rays of smile
lines running down his cheek. “A broken arm and a knife wound that needs stitching are the worst of it. Lucky for us, most
of my family’s footmen are veterans of the King’s Royal Ethiopian Regiment. They’re a bit more useful in a fight than their
London-bred counterparts.”
“Really?” Viola stood back to admire her handiwork. She cocked her head and wiped off one last smudge near his ear, allowing
her fingers to linger on the hard edge of his jaw. The faint burr of whiskers pulled at the fabric ofthe towel. “I had wondered why most of your footmen and grooms were Africans.”
“My uncle was one of the officers in charge. Promises were made for their support. Promises that haven’t been kept for the
most part. When he returned after the war, he retired, and now he spends his days finding employment for as many of his men
as he can.”
She ran her thumb over his cheek, holding her breath to prevent herself from leaning forward to kiss his wound as though he
were a child… or a lover. He was in need of a shave; the dark whiskers gave his jaw a faint velvet sheen in the candlelight.
It must be later than she thought, for he’d been immaculate at the theatre.
Lord Leonidas plucked the towel from her grasp and rose. One hand caught her chin and tipped her head for his inspection.
His eyes narrowed, and he dabbed at her neck. Clearly dissatisfied, he tugged the collar of her robe open, exposing her shoulder
and very nearly her breast.
Viola bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “Once again, my lord, you’re considerably above my knee.”
“What—”
His look of bewilderment set off a peal of laughter.
“Very funny, my lady.” He thrust her down into the chair and began scrubbing the dried blood from her shoulder with much the
same air as an annoyed governess with a recalcitrant and muddy charge.
“Is your uncle an abolitionist?”
“Of the strictest order.” He soaked a new towel and continued his almost rough ministrations. “No sugar. No rum. No cotton.
Rides about distributing pamphlets. Even paid for his secretary’s memoir to be published last year.”
“He sounds like an admirable man.”
“He is.” Lord Leonidas tossed the towel into the basin and dropped a casual kiss on her still-damp shoulder. Her lungs seized,
shriveling away to nothing inside her chest. “He’s also an incredible bore.”
She shuddered as the ability to breathe returned. “Most reformers are.”
“We’re
She’d watched him beat a man with his fists, possibly to death. There’d been rage behind his actions, but there had also been
cold calculation, precision, and no hint of indecision.
Viola twisted about to face him. He was dirty, rumpled, and nearly as blood-streaked as she’d been. But even under all that blood and grime, the hard, masculine planes of his
face were distinct, like an ancient marble statue just reclaimed from the earth. And her impulse was the same as anyone discovering
such a treasure: to revel in its glory.
He was hers, at least for the moment.
“Nance, that will be all.” Viola wet the edge of a clean towel and stood, her robe swirling around her feet in heavy folds.
The click of the door shutting signaled her maid’s swift departure. “Sit.”
She took his arm and pushed him into the small chair she’d just vacated. He tensed, then sank obediently.
Viola passed the towel across his forehead, trying to be gentle. “Are your servants all right?” The splinters of window glass
had sliced his cheek in multiple places.
As with her own wound, the blood made it look far worse than it was. The only real damage was one nasty slice that ran along
his cheekbone like the scratch of some great cat, though it was clear he’d have a black eye come morning.
“Yes.” He winced slightly as the towel passed over the largest cut, his wicked green eye closing tight, tiny rays of smile
lines running down his cheek. “A broken arm and a knife wound that needs stitching are the worst of it. Lucky for us, most
of my family’s footmen are veterans of the King’s Royal Ethiopian Regiment. They’re a bit more useful in a fight than their
London-bred counterparts.”
“Really?” Viola stood back to admire her handiwork. She cocked her head and wiped off one last smudge near his ear, allowing
her fingers to linger on the hard edge of his jaw. The faint burr of whiskers pulled at the fabric ofthe towel. “I had wondered why most of your footmen and grooms were Africans.”
“My uncle was one of the officers in charge. Promises were made for their support. Promises that haven’t been kept for the
most part. When he returned after the war, he retired, and now he spends his days finding employment for as many of his men
as he can.”
She ran her thumb over his cheek, holding her breath to prevent herself from leaning forward to kiss his wound as though he
were a child… or a lover. He was in need of a shave; the dark whiskers gave his jaw a faint velvet sheen in the candlelight.
It must be later than she thought, for he’d been immaculate at the theatre.
Lord Leonidas plucked the towel from her grasp and rose. One hand caught her chin and tipped her head for his inspection.
His eyes narrowed, and he dabbed at her neck. Clearly dissatisfied, he tugged the collar of her robe open, exposing her shoulder
and very nearly her breast.
Viola bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “Once again, my lord, you’re considerably above my knee.”
“What—”
His look of bewilderment set off a peal of laughter.
“Very funny, my lady.” He thrust her down into the chair and began scrubbing the dried blood from her shoulder with much the
same air as an annoyed governess with a recalcitrant and muddy charge.
“Is your uncle an abolitionist?”
“Of the strictest order.” He soaked a new towel and continued his almost rough ministrations. “No sugar. No rum. No cotton.
Rides about distributing pamphlets. Even paid for his secretary’s memoir to be published last year.”
“He sounds like an admirable man.”
“He is.” Lord Leonidas tossed the towel into the basin and dropped a casual kiss on her still-damp shoulder. Her lungs seized,
shriveling away to nothing inside her chest. “He’s also an incredible bore.”
She shuddered as the ability to breathe returned. “Most reformers are.”
“We’re
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