The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(60)

She couldn’t allow there to be a dispute in his home because of her, not after the inconvenience she’d been to him. “It isn’t your housekeeper’s fault. Please don’t be angry with her. I asked questions. I’m sure I’m to blame. Isn’t there anyone else who can wash my hair? I would do it myself, but I’ve always had a maid. The cut on my head is healing, and…I suppose I could try if I had a pitcher of water.”

He fell silent for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching up slightly. She’d noticed it was the face he made when he was deep in thought, so she didn’t interrupt him, only met his gaze in the quiet room.

“I’ll do it for you,” he finally said, closing the gap between them and lifting a hand to her hair where it fell over her shoulder. “I want your stay here to be enjoyable, Isabelle.”

“You…” She should have taken a step away from him at the shock of his offer, but she didn’t. After all, she’d never been one to sidestep an adventure. “That seems…” Wonderful, delightful, dangerous, and exciting all collided into a mangled pile of words in her mind. The man she loved was going to run his hands through her hair. She blinked up at him, eyeing his weary eyes and the stubble of beard starting to appear across his jaw. He looked every bit the pirate tonight. “All right.”

Isabelle saw only a glimpse of Fallon’s slow smile before he turned away and went to work. But that smile—there had been some secret, entirely male thought behind it, she was certain. Just the brief sight of it as he looked at her made her knees weak. She sank to the sofa, staring at the fire as her heart pounded. This was a very poor idea indeed. Evie certainly wouldn’t approve. But Isabelle was already locked away in Fallon’s bedchamber and had been for days. She might as well enjoy her imprisonment with clean hair not matted with dirt and blood from the museum. That’s all this was.

A moment later, Fallon instructed her to go behind the screen in the corner and to stay out of sight until everyone was out of the room. She sat quietly on the small stool, hidden from view of the servants, and watched through a small crack as footmen brought bucket after bucket of water into the room.

Fallon watched over the process as he did everything else in his life, with great attention to detail and a commanding presence. If only he looked after himself with such care. But for Fallon, she was learning, everyone else’s needs came before his own. He was even seeing to her needs when he must have been exhausted. He hadn’t returned here to sleep in some time. It was already early evening now. Had he eaten? Someone needed to look after him as well as he looked after others.

Perhaps that was what Lady Herron had done for him when she was alive. It wasn’t Isabelle’s place to take up the task. She was here for only a short time. If he didn’t wish to hear about her love for him, he certainly wouldn’t wish her to fuss at him about his eating habits and lack of proper sleep. He wanted only her friendship, and she would have to be content with that, sad though the fact might be. Perhaps unrequited love was simply her plight in life. She shook off the melancholy thought and watched Fallon check the temperature of the water.

Even with such a simple task as having water brought in, he oversaw the operation as if they were on the front lines of battle and this was the most important mission in a great war. She couldn’t look away. When the last jug of water steamed in a pitcher before the fire and his staff had left the room, he turned toward the screen. “Come here, Rapunzel.”

Isabelle rose from the small stool and moved toward him with hesitant steps, but there was a confidence in Fallon’s stance that pulled her forward. Perhaps having one’s hair dealt with by a man wouldn’t be odd at all. She did trust him. And for his part, there was only friendship between them. It was only the new experience that had her body filled with butterflies.

“You’ll want to change into this so your dress doesn’t get wet,” he instructed, handing her a slightly wrinkled piece of linen.

“One of your shirts?”

“It should hang to your knees at least, for modesty.” He was already removing his coat and tossing it onto a nearby chair. “I’m a bit larger than you are.”

She watched as he removed his waistcoat as well and then his cravat. His shoulders were broad beneath all that clothing. He was indeed larger than her, and she couldn’t keep from staring. He was looking down as he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing muscular forearms. She cleared her throat, trying to collect herself. “Is this terribly wrong?”

“Not at all.” He glanced up at her, his expression one of completely businesslike efficiency. “Once you’ve changed, sit on the floor where I have the towels covering the rug. I’ll give you some privacy.”

She moved back to the floral dressing screen in the corner and pulled her day dress over her head. It was odd. Even if it had been for only one short second, he’d looked at her earlier in a way that made her heart race. Now he seemed to be disconnected from the situation, guarded. “You act as if you’ve done this before.”

“I have.”

“Oh.” Her dress fell to the floor behind the screen, followed shortly by her petticoat, stockings, and stays. She should have been expecting such a response, it should even put her mind at ease, but it didn’t. “I don’t suppose you’ve rescued other ladies from art thieves.”