Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(25)

His heart stilled at the mere thought of her hurting herself.

He was a fool. Of course this debate harkened back to her recent capture. To her near rape. What must she have thought when she’d been kidnapped? When she’d been hooded and dragged before the Lords of Chaos and made to kneel in front of a sacrificial stone?

She must have been out of her mind with terror.

And yet she’d controlled her fear. More, despite her firsthand near experience, she now passionately argued that a woman ravaged and raped should never give up hope. Should fight to stay alive despite all odds.

He was amazed by her perception.

Awed by her bravery.

He turned his hand over and gripped her fingers. “Your pardon.” It wasn’t na?veté that had driven her argument. It was something far nobler. “I would never blame you, my duchess, if you were thus abused, and I would never wish for you to take your own life.”

He lifted her hand and pressed his mouth to her palm, and as he did so he had a sharp, visceral memory: He’d kissed her before the fever had overtaken him. Her lips had been soft and yielding to the invasion of his tongue. She’d tasted of tea.

He wanted to taste her again. To lick across her prim little lips, make her open her mouth and moan.

But that was folly. He could not let himself slip, even a little bit. She was pure and he was not. He had to make sure his stigma never touched her.

He let her hand fall from his lips, looking down so that she might not see the lust in his eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

She started to say more, but at that moment Nicoletta entered the room. The maidservant held a dish of steaming soup and a cloth over her arm. Behind her was Ubertino with a jug of hot water.

The manservant beamed at the sight of him. “I think you will want to sit, Your Grace.”

Raphael nodded as the Corsican helped him to sit up.

Nicoletta and his duchess discreetly retired to the dressing room.

Raphael unbuttoned his banyan, noting that it was stiff with blood at his shoulder. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the mess.

He glanced at the dressing room door, making sure it was closed before he spoke. “How has my duchess fared?”

Ubertino brought the chamber pot to the side of the bed. “Her Grace has spent most of her time nursing you.”

And sneaking into rooms where she didn’t belong. “She hasn’t ventured outside of the abbey?”

Raphael sighed as he relieved himself. He shook his prick and drew the banyan closed.

“No, Your Grace.” Ubertino covered the pot and stowed it away behind the screen.

The door to the dressing room opened.

His duchess cleared her throat pointedly from the threshold. “If you spend your strength chatting with Ubertino, you’ll not stay awake long enough for Nicoletta and me to wash you.”

She proposed to put her hands on him herself? The mere thought had his belly tightening.

He turned to her, scowling. “I don’t need to be bathed like a bloody babe.”

He couldn’t afford the temptation.

“Actually you do.” She crossed to the bed and handed him the bowl of Nicoletta’s savory beef soup. She smiled sweetly. “You haven’t washed since the night I shot you. You’ve been lying in a bed with dried blood on your banyan and the bedclothes. You stink.”

He narrowed his eyes and took a bite of the soup. He could have argued with her further, simply to impress upon her that it was he who was in charge, but he was tired. Weak and susceptible to her lure.

And besides. He did stink.

He ate half the bowl of soup in silence as Nicoletta bustled about the room, muttering to herself in a scolding voice.

When at last he pushed the bowl aside, Ubertino hurried over to take it.

Raphael caught his wrist. “Have there been any callers? Anyone on the grounds?”

“No, Your Grace,” he replied. “The men walk around the outside of the abbey and have seen no stranger.”

Raphael nodded and released him. “Good.”

Ubertino bowed and left the bedroom.

He lay back against the pillows. This injury was ill timed. He needed to find a way to continue to burrow into the corrupted apple that was the Lords of Chaos. With the spring revelry over, they wouldn’t have another meeting for months—not unless the Dionysus called a special meeting. Perhaps if he—

“Sit up a little,” his duchess murmured in his ear.

He opened his eyes. She was close, her hands reaching for his arms. Apparently she was serious about this washing.

Foolish, foolish girl.

He pushed himself up, ignoring the stab of pain in his shoulder.

She placed several cloths under his head. “You can lie back.”

He raised an eyebrow at her.

She merely pursed her lips and turned to wet a cloth and rub soap into it. When she faced him again, her shoulders were squared, her expression calm and determined.

She started with the left side of his face. The unscarred side.

Naturally.

He watched as her brows furrowed slightly, the warm, damp cloth moving gently over his cheek, across his jaw, up to his forehead.

She blinked and hesitated.

“The scars bother most people,” he said softly. Stiffly. “It isn’t anything to be ashamed of. Let Nicoletta do the other side. She is used to them.”