The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(61)

“No. You’re my first prisoner here.”

“That’s what I thought.” She suppressed a sigh and pulled his shirt over her head. Even though it had been laundered, it still smelled like Fallon, clean yet with some mysterious scent that made her pick the fabric from her neck and sniff it. She looked down, noticing that he’d been right—his shirt did fall just below her knees. He was the sort of man who knew everything at all times, she was beginning to discover.

How did he anticipate the correct outcome to any situation? Perhaps he would teach her. It was a skill that could save her from further heartache in life. She would have known of Victoria and Lord Hardaway’s engagement. She’d have seen ahead of time the threat posed by going to the museum alone even if the visit had sounded lovely when Mr. Grapling had suggested it. And she’d have been prepared to encounter Fallon’s already-claimed heart.

An uncomfortable silence grew between Isabelle and Fallon that for the life of her she couldn’t find a means of breaking. She stepped out from behind the screen and moved to the area of the thick rug where the towels had been spread out for her, not daring to look up and meet Fallon’s gaze where he stood before the fire. But once she’d settled herself on the floor, pulling the shirt down over her knees, the quiet of the room began to close in on her.

The seconds were counted in the sounds from the fire at her side, every crackle of burning ember, another moment passed. Then Fallon closed the distance between them.

He knelt beside her, and his thigh brushed her side through the thin shirt. It occurred to her for the first time just how intimate washing a lady’s hair could be. But she seemed to be the only one unbuttoned by the experience, as he set to work gathering her hair in his hands. There was still a silence hanging between them, but it grew steadily more intense as he slid his hand to the back of her neck. He held her head in the palm of his hand as he guided her to lean back against the side of the tub. She blinked up at him, trying not to think of how his arm curved around her, holding her steady, or the warmth of his fingers against the back of her head.

“I cared a great deal for her,” he said and settled her gathered hair in the water with his free hand.

“Oh.” Her heart was pounding. She really did need to get a hold of herself. This wasn’t the makings of one of her dreams. This was Fallon washing her hair. Her friend Fallon. Her friend, she repeated to herself.

He ran his fingers up the back of her neck to make sure no strands had escaped his grasp, and she shivered. His touch was gentler than that of any maid she’d ever encountered. She was trying not to think about the fact that a man was caressing her skin, even out of perfunctory need. Unfortunately, their current topic of discussion was unsettling as well.

“You don’t have to tell me about Lady Herron. Really. It must be difficult for you to discuss her, and I don’t need to know. Just know that I’m…glad for you that you had her in your life.” Those last words almost killed her to say, but she’d done it and now it was over, dealt with. They could discuss something else now. Fashion? The weather? Anything was better than conversing about Fallon’s lost love. She exhaled.

The movement of his hands over her scalp stopped, and he looked down, meeting her gaze. “I’m glad she was in my life as well, but she wasn’t in my life the way you’re thinking of it.”

Isabelle’s eyes went wide. She almost sat up straight to have this conversation without distraction, but then he poured warm water over her head, and she found herself sighing into the firm hold he had on the back of her head. Even her back, rigid a second ago, settled against his thigh. She rested against him as warmth trailed in rivulets over her scalp. “She wasn’t your lady? I mean… I wasn’t thinking of anything so…”

“Scandalous?”

She opened her eyes—they had drifted closed with the soothing effect of the water—to see he was smiling down at her.

“Pearl liked scandal, enjoyed the talk, even encouraged it.”

“She sounds like Victoria.”

“Perhaps she once was,” he mused with clear fondness ringing through his words as he applied soap to her scalp. “When I met Pearl, she was in a very different stage of life than your sister.”

“Mrs. Featherfitch told me she was a widow, that she was much older than you are now. She said your position here was that of a…” She couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

“I was many things to Pearl,” he began to explain as he massaged the lather with his fingers. His strokes somehow managed to be firm and gentle at the same time. Isabelle sighed into his touch, like a cat begging to be scratched. Her eyes drifted shut, and she simply listened. Fallon’s deep voice washed over her like the warm water that steamed around her.

“She gave me guidance in life when I was lost. She housed me, clothed me, and in exchange, I cared for her.”

Cared for her sounded like an entirely different relationship than Isabelle had been led to believe. “How so? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t ask. Whatever happened between you and Lady Herron is none of my concern. It’s your private business. I have no place to ask—”

“Pearl was above all else a proud woman. When she became ill…she couldn’t have society guessing the reality of it. She needed a companion to look after her medical needs without anyone discovering the truth of her condition. She had a specific list of requirements for her companion that included being muscular and quick witted.” He broke off with a thin smile and shake of his head.