The Solemn Bell(28)

Sneers and derision, all directed at him.

By the time they reached their room, Brody understood the problem. People thought she was too beautiful for a chap like him. That, because she couldn’t see to know better, he had somehow duped her into choosing him over millions of deserving suitors.

Brody knew better—she was not his, even if he had wanted her to be. Once he found her another, more permanent arrangement, Angelica Grey was free to be with whomever she pleased. She would have no problem finding another protector. Hopefully, one who loved her for the woman she was, and not despised her for the angel she used to be.

The room was warm, and she fussed with the buttons of her coat.

“Here, allow me.” He slipped it off her shoulders.

Angelica perched on the edge of the bed. He hung their coats in the wardrobe, which had been filled with boxes from their shopping trip, delivered while they were away. He’d trusted Magda implicitly, and she’d come through for him. What could have been an embarrassing experience for Angelica had actually been rather pleasant. She’d enjoyed herself that afternoon. Honestly, he had, too.

Brody closed the wardrobe, and flopped down onto the bed beside her. He opened their cider and guided her hand to the bottle. She put it to her lips, tipping it awkwardly. The slightest bit leaked from the corner of her mouth. Angelica caught the drop of cider before it fell, laughing at her own inelegance.

“I like your hair,” he confessed. “I didn’t think I would, but it suits you.”

She wiped her dampened palm on her skirt. “I like it, too. Thank you for…for everything.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Feeding and clothing you was the easy part. Our struggle has only just begun.”

He carefully placed the fidget pie into her open hand. She cupped the slice, brought it to her mouth, and took a bite. Brody was too intrigued, watching her teeth sink into the each delicious layer, to remember his own process of moving food from mouth to stomach. He watched her eat the whole thing before touching his own.

“What do you think of fidget pie?” he asked, mouth full.

Angelica took another swig from the cider bottle. “It was good, though I think I’ve eaten enough apples for one lifetime.”

She smiled, and he laughed, remembering that she’d mostly lived off foraged fruit for years. “Yes, I imagine you have.”

When he finished eating, she turned to him. “I’d like to bathe. But, I’m afraid I don’t know my way around. I’m not asking you to help me wash, just…if you could…”

She was embarrassed. They’d once been so easy in each other’s company. He was sorry he’d made her feel like she couldn’t ask for help. “Of course, Angelica. Tell me what you need.”

“A flannel, and some soap, and a towel. Oh, and if you could please turn your back while I dig for my nightdress. I don’t want you to see my lingerie.”

She had lingerie. Whose idea was it to buy her lacy little nothings—and why? Angelica should have sturdy, boilable underclothes that could last her for years, not diaphanous negligees that practically melted away with a touch.

Brody was glad for a task. He pushed the thought of nightdresses out of his mind, and went to fetch the items for Angelica’s bath. He arranged them all along the rim of the tub, and began filling it with steaming water.

He was so intent on watching the bathtub fill, that he almost didn’t hear her come in behind him. She’d removed her stockings and shoes, standing barefoot on the linoleum clutching her folded nightdress to her chest. A quick glance told him the thing was silky, and cream in color.

He tore his gaze away. “Uh, you’ve got your flannel and soap to your left, and the towel is on the floor. Anything else?”

“No, thank you. I think I can manage now.”

Wordlessly, Brody brushed past her, closing the door behind him. The only thing more dangerous than Angelica Grey in lingerie was Angelica Grey stripping for her bath.





CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE





He paced from the bed to the chair, and then back again. She’d been in the bath for far too long. The water had gone quiet. He couldn’t hear her moving anymore. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied from the other side of the door. “Just luxuriating.”

Brody sat on the foot of the bed. He’d been tormented by visions of wet, naked women and lace dressing gowns for nearly half an hour. He fiddled with the condom tin in his jacket pocket, knowing he couldn’t leave until Angelica was safely out of the tub.

“Hurry up, damn you.” His voice was sharp with need.

Water splashed as she pulled the plug. He could hear it sucking down the drain. Not long now. She would brush her teeth and crawl under the covers, and then Brody would tell her that he needed to leave. He’d be back—late. Don’t wait up.

She would, of course, wait up all night. Angelica would wonder where he had gone. Why he had gone. After a few tense hours, he’d come back, drunk and sated, and lay it all bare.

Angelica wasn’t the only one who craved sexual companionship. Just thinking about having a whore made him hard. For years, his senses had been so dulled from the morphine that Brody completely forgot what a real orgasm felt like. His numb body could go for hours, as long as his stamina held up—he’d pleasured many women through an opioid haze, yet rarely found his own release.