Someone to Watch Over Me (Bow Street Runners #1)(52)

She had an entire life that neither of them knew a damned thing about.

And where in the hell was the real Vivien? Had her would-be murderer already found her and accomplished the job he had set out to do?

Confounded by the turn of events, Grant waited until Vivien--he could think of her by no other name--had calmed somewhat, and he laid her gently on the bed. Procuring a striped burgundy dressing robe, he tied the belt around his waist and strode to the bellpull. He rang for Kellow, who appeared in less than five minutes. The valet had dressed hastily, his hair mussed and his eyes sleep-heavy. Grant met him at the door, keeping it partially closed to prevent him from seeing Vivien. "A ewer of hot water and some washcloths," Grant said curtly.

"Yes, sir." The valet vanished, and Grant turned back to the bed. Vivien had not moved. At first he thought she might have fallen asleep, but as he came to her, he saw that her eyes were open. Her gaze was turned inward, her mind dwelling on thoughts she couldn't or didn't want to share with him.

"I'm going to make up to you for what I've done," he said quietly.

She stirred then, turning her head to regard him with a tremulous smile. "You don't have to," she whispered, her eyes sparkling with tears. "It wasn't your fault that you mistook me for Vivien...Everyone did. No one questioned my identity. I can't blame you for accepting what seemed to be the obvious." She released a shaky sigh. "And as far asthis is concerned..." She made a quick, embarrassed gesture to the rumpled bedclothes, and her gaze lowered. "I was more than willing," she said in a bashful whisper. "And you couldn't have known I was a virgin."

"That makes me no less responsible." Half sitting beside her on the bed, he took a lock of her hair in his hand, rubbing the silken strands between his fingers. "Vivien--" he said, and stopped as soon as the name left his lips. "Damn. What should I call you now?"

Her lips curved in the faintest of smiles. "You may as well continue to call me Vivien. I'm accustomed to it by now, and besides...I don't want to choose yet another wrong name. I just want to find my own." "I'm glad you're not really Vivien," he murmured, still toying with the lock of hair as he stared at her. "I'm glad that no man has made love to you except me."

She hesitated before replying, her blue eyes questioning as she gazed up at him. "So am I."

They stared at each other for an endless moment, lost in unspoken thoughts of what had just occurred between them, and how it had changed everything.

Reflecting on how he had treated her, Grant was deeply troubled. He was in an impossible position. He, of all men, had managed his own life so efficiently, so carefully. Now he had fallen in love against his will, only to discover that she wasn't the woman he had thought her to be, and then he had unintentionally taken her virginity. He faced a devil of a reckoning on the morrow. His only choice was to tell her the truth and expose his own lies, and hope to hell that she might be able to forgive and trust him again. And even if she did, there was still every chance he would lose her when she regained her memory and returned to her former life.

Grant had never expected to feel such responsibility for a woman, such an emotional and physical connection to her. The act of sex seemed almost new, as if in taking her innocence he had somehow gained back a little of his own. He wanted to make love to her again, teach and explore and share with her. Although he had reluctantly acknowledged his growing love for her before tonight, the feelings were suddenly infused with promise and wonder, and every fragment of bitterness was gone. He felt humbled, almost clumsy, a great moonstruck creature whose every hope of happiness was absurdly precarious.

Impatiently Grant wondered where Kellow was, and why he was taking so long to fulfill a simple request. Opening the door, he stared at the darkened hall. His foot touched the edge of an object on the floor. Glancing down, he saw a tray loaded with hot water, washcloths--and brandy and a glass. Kellow had tactfully left the tray just outside the door.

Grant picked up the tray and closed the door with his foot. Returning to the beside, he set the tray on the night table. "Here," he said, handing a linen cloth to Vivien. She wiped her streaming eyes and blew her nose with a childlike vigor that almost made him smile. He filled a creamware bowl with steaming water, and soaked and wrang out another cloth. Self-consciously Vivien averted her pink and puffy face as he began to wipe it. The warm cloth passed over her fragile skin, erasing the salty tear tracks beneath her eyes and on her cheeks.

Quietly he bid her to lie back against the pillows, and she obeyed. He dampened the cloth again and began to wash her as if she were a child. He bathed beneath her arms, over the chest, stomach, legs. His dispassionate demeanor seemed to soothe her, and gradually she relaxed, not resisting even when he washed between her thighs. Using another clean, warm cloth, he bathed away every trace of blood and se**n. He was as gentle as possible, but even so, she winced as he performed the intimate service.

When the task was done, he covered her with the bedclothes and undressed and washed himself. He blew out the lamp, shrouding the room in darkness, and got into bed beside her. Exhausted but still awake, Vivien went still as his weight depressed the mattress. "What are you doing?" she whispered.

"Holding you." He kissed her temple, the curve of her ear, the side of her neck, taking his time, his mouth moving over her in light, warm brushes. Vivien blinked and gasped, and pushed at his chest. "Not again," she said unsteadily. "I'm very tired." He sensed rather than saw her blush as she added, "And sore." "I won't hurt you. I promise." He opened his mouth over the tip of her breast, stroking with his tongue until he felt it gather in a sensitive bud. Cupping both br**sts in his hands, he lingered first on one, then the other, until Vivien let out a shivering sigh and put her hands to his head. At first he thought she intended to push him away, but her fingers curved to his scalp and urged him closer. He clasped her h*ps in his hands and kissed a trail down to her navel. Making his tongue into a point, he jabbed it softly into the small hollow, again and again. As his mouth began a hot downward slide toward the triangle of cinnamon curls between her thighs, she gasped and covered it with a protective hand. "Wait," she said, a pleading note entering her voice.