How to Woo a Wallflower (Romancing the Rules #3)(47)

He gave her a single nod, and she took the gesture as his promise he wouldn’t duck out the back door.

When she’d asked him about violence, he’d shuttered, closing himself off from her. Clearly, he wasn’t a man who liked speaking of his past. But the more time she spent with him, the more she needed to know. What haunted him? Why did he guard his secrets so tenaciously?

After filling a basin in the kitchen and retrieving a few clean rags, she returned to find him settled on the stool, his head tilted back against the wall, eyes closed. But he didn’t look peaceful. Lines pinched his brow under a fall of glossy black waves. His mouth had firmed in a tense grimace.

She breathed deeply, steeled her nerves, and focused on the injury to the side of his head. He’d been bashed, perhaps more than once, and his cheek bore an abrasion too. Blood had dried on his face, near his ear, and trickled down his neck, completely saturating his crisp white shirt.

“You must be in a great deal of pain,” she said softly, causing his eyes to flicker open.

“I’m fine.” When he saw her approach with a damp rag, he reached for the cloth. “I can do this. You needn’t get blood on your hands.”

“Let me.” A tug-of-war ensued, though he didn’t fight her with much might. “I’ll be quicker.”

He let his shoulders slump and turned his head so that she had a clear view of the area in need of cleaning. Without a single wince or flinch, he allowed her to wash the area, casting his gaze toward the floor as she worked. The abrasion on his cheek wasn’t bad, but he’d have a fearsome bruise.

“How bad?” he asked, once she’d started wiping at the injury at his temple. “Will the cut require stitches?”

“I don’t think so. It’s more of a large abrasion than a cut.” She applied the cloth gently, desperate not to cause him more pain.

“The sight of blood doesn’t bother you?” He glanced up at her. “Most young ladies would be appalled. Or faint dead away.”

Clary bit her lip before replying, weighing how much she should reveal about her childhood preoccupation with tales of horror and garish drawings. “When I was a girl, I spent a good deal of time up in the nursery, drawing and painting.”

“Based on what I’ve seen, you’re very skilled.”

She waved away his compliment. “I tended to draw bloody scenes.”

He tilted his head back to narrow an eye at her.

“I read a lot of penny dreadfuls,” she confessed with a shrug. “Every single issue I could I get my hands on. And Kit taught me to love Shakespeare’s plays, which are brimming with violence.”

“So you’re a lady with cutthroat tastes.” He stared at the floor again. “Who loves flowers.”

For a man who’d suffered real, painful injuries this evening and used his fists on another man, her interest in fictional violence must have seemed childish to him. Frivolous. Na?ve.

“Why are you in Whitechapel tonight?” she asked quietly. “Who did this to you?”

He ignored her questions as if she hadn’t spoken.

“What are those?” he finally asked, pointing to long rectangles of butcher paper hanging on the wall.

“Sketches for the ladies’ magazine. We’re trying to design a masthead.” Clary had worked up a few ideas for The Ladies’ Clarion. They needed a symbol that represented women and knowledge and inspiration, all at the same time. A few of the students whom Clary tutored in art had worked on sketches too.

“You’re still determined to make a go of your project?” He flicked her a rueful grin. “I thought perhaps a few weeks in the office would put you off Ruthven’s altogether.”

“Not at all.” She reached for another clean rag, returning his grin. “I’m more interested in the business than ever before.”

“There’s a bit more to publishing than charming vendors and dousing yourself with printing ink.”

She let out a wry laugh and nudged his shoulder. “I’ve always loved the smell of books and paper and ink, but to see so many people working together to create books is truly impressive. To watch the presses steaming away and know all the work that’s gone into printing a single page. It’s breathtaking. Inspiring. I’m excited to come to work each day.”

“Daughtry must be a good teacher to have such an enthusiastic student.”

“You’ve taught me a few things too.” Her breath tangled in her throat, and he looked up, his gaze glittering and intense.

“What are you doing?” He caught her hand in his when she reached up to untie his neckcloth.

“Your collar is ruined. There must be blood underneath.”

He allowed her to remove the paper collar and unbutton the top button of his shirt. Against the backs of her fingers, the skin of his throat was hot and smoothly shaved. He swallowed, and she felt the movement against her skin. After cleaning a bit of the dried blood, she reached for his second button gingerly, fearing that once she began undressing him, she wouldn’t wish to stop.

“Leave it,” he said, as he clasped her hand and stroked his thumb in dizzying circles against her palm. “I’ll wash when I get home.”

“Home, where you live with your sister, whose name you still won’t tell me.”