“That wasn’t lip rouge on your face, was it?” Beth challenged.
Alex should have let her believe it was. “I told you it wasn’t.”
“Blood?”
Shrugging, he said, “Not mine.” But it could have been.
Her pretty blue eyes clouded with fear. “Alex, what happened?”
There would be no wriggling his way out of this confession. He sat on the second stair and tugged on her hand, pulling her down beside him. “I was at a gambling club in Pall Mall and decided to walk the few blocks home.”
She arched a brow. “By yourself?”
In an effort to lighten the mood, he said, “You may have noticed I’m not a debutante who requires a chaperone.”
“Please, just tell me what happened.”
“It’s barely worth mentioning,” he said, waving a hand. “A pair of ruffians jumped out of the shadows and attacked me—or, they tried to. But I made short work of them. Both will have the devil of a headache when they wake.”
“Were you hurt?” Without waiting for his answer, she took his face in her hands, turning his head from side to side, looking for signs of injury. It was nice having her fret over him. Unnecessary, but nice.
“Nary a scratch. Although, I’ll admit this was my favorite pair of trousers,” he quipped.
“You could have been killed,” she said soberly. “I don’t know how you can make light of such a serious matter.”
Her concern warmed him, but he didn’t want her worrying. “I’m fine. Trust me, I’m perfectly capable of handling a pair of two-bit thugs.” The knives they wielded had made things interesting—but he saw no need to mention that.
“This makes at least four attempts on your life in … what? Three weeks?”
“Yes, but who’s counting?” He grinned.
Unamused, she bent to look at his knee once more. “I don’t like the look of this wound, Alex. It’s red and jagged, almost like a—” Eyes wide as saucers, she glared at him.
“I’ll make sure I clean it before I go to bed. I barely feel it.”
“This gash is from a knife.”
“Gash? No. More like a scratch—it’s not deep. See? It’s not even bleeding anymore.”
“You don’t have to protect me, you know.” She was still poking around his knee like a nursemaid—of the beautiful, sensual variety. “You think that you’re sparing me, but without all the facts, my imagination conjures the worst scenarios.”
What was he going to tell her? That he’d grabbed one attacker’s head and bashed his face against his raised knee? Or that the other one had his blade pressed to Alex’s throat before he’d flipped him over his shoulder? That he’d jogged the last two blocks home, in case the thugs had reinforcements lying in wait, ready to come after him?
“There’s nothing else to tell,” he lied, lacing his fingers through hers.
“Of course there isn’t,” she said skeptically. She stared at him for the space of several heartbeats, giving him a chance to change his story. When he didn’t, she sighed. “Very well. We’re going up to your room to clean this gash. Right now.”
He knew better than to object. And at least she’d given up on learning the suspects’ names—for now.
Besides, if she wished to accompany him to his bedroom for any reason, he wasn’t about to complain.
Silently, they climbed the stairs, hand in hand, and made their way to his room. He closed the door and lit a lamp, while she poured fresh water into his wash basin and dampened a towel. Placing a hand on her hip, she pointed at a chair. “Sit.”
“As you wish, siren.” He did and placed his left leg on an ottoman.
“Your other knee has barely healed,” she said with a tsk, “and now this.”
She knelt beside his leg and dabbed gently at the cut, brushing away the pebbles and road dust. She rinsed the cloth and repeated the procedure twice before she was satisfied. “There. You should bandage it before you dress tomorrow, but I think it shall be fine for tonight.”
“Thank you.”
Tentatively, she sat on the ottoman opposite him and bit her bottom lip, as though she were suddenly nervous.
“What is it?” He put his leg on the floor and leaned forward. “Please don’t worry about me, Beth. I promise I was never in any real danger.”
She took a deep breath and continued. “I beg to differ, but it’s not that. It’s about downstairs, earlier. I shouldn’t have assumed that you had been with a woman. I’m afraid I have the tendency to be rather quick to judge. But it wasn’t fair of me … and I’m sorry.”
He chuckled. “Given my reputation, I can hardly blame you.”
“No, it wasn’t right, and of all people, I should know better. After all, I’ve spent the last few years trying to shrug off my own reputation as a wallflower. Without much success, mind you, but I do know that we are all much more than the sum of our reputations.”
“Indeed.” She was much, much more.
“So you forgive me?” She looked so vulnerable. And beautiful.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said, taking her hand in his. “If anything, I’m flattered.”
She balked. “You’re flattered that I assumed you’d been…”
“Bedding a woman?” he provided smoothly. “No. I’m flattered that you were jealous.”
“I never said I was jealous,” she said, tossing her head.
“You didn’t have to. I could tell by the fine lines on your forehead and the way you crossed your arms and your chilly tone of voice.”
She made a sour face but smiled grudgingly. “I might have been a little jealous.”
He traced small circles on her palm with his thumb. “Would it help if I told you that there’s only one woman I want to bed? And that it’s you?”
“How very charming,” she said dryly. But he could see her melting a little. “Most gentlemen try to woo ladies with poetry.”
“I’m no gentleman.” He pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “And I can do better than poetry.”
He heard her sigh as he kissed the soft spot inside her elbow. “I don’t know,” she said breathily, “a romantic sonnet can be quite moving.”
“I’ve no use for sonnets.” He peeled the tiny puff of her sleeve down her arm and playfully nipped at her smooth shoulder.
“Song lyrics then?” Her eyes fluttered shut. “Perhaps a stirring ballad?”
“Why would I need words or music to express how I feel about you,” he growled, “when I can do this?” Spearing his fingers into her thick hair, he kissed the column of her neck.
“That’s very nice,” she said huskily, even as he trailed kisses along her jaw. “But sometimes a girl likes to hear the words too.”
Reluctantly, he sat back. “What do you wish for me to say, Beth? That I think about you when I brush my teeth and when I lay down at night? That I look for you every time I walk into a room?”
She swallowed soberly. “You do?”
“You don’t know the half of it,” he admitted. “I like many, many things about you.”
Arching a brow, she asked, “Such as?”
He raked a hand through his hair. How in the hell was he supposed to tell her that she made every day better and brighter just by being there with him?
He thought for a moment. “Well, you always find a way to make my grandmother smile. And I like how you take it upon yourself to fix everything, even when it doesn’t need fixing.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Tell me more.”
More? He touched his forehead to hers and searched for the words. “I like how you scoff at dragons, spirits, and monsters when, secretly, you find them fascinating. Maybe you even hope they are real.”
Sniffing, she said, “I should like to meet a unicorn or a griffin, but I hope I never encounter a werewolf or vampire.”
“Coward,” he teased, placing his hands on her hips, which reminded him. “I like how perfectly we fit together and how you feel in my arms.”
“I like that too,” she purred.
But if he was being honest, his feelings for her transcended the physical. That was why this was so complicated and why he was so damned tongue-tied. That was why he was terrified that she’d discover the type of man he really was.
“Mostly,” he said earnestly, “I like the way I feel when I’m with you. Even when we’re bickering with each other, I know we’re really on the same side … and that we can depend on each other.” He shrugged. “When I’m with you, I’m more than a scarred, ornery duke. I’m the one who can make you sigh and smile. And I like that job.”
“Do you want to know what I think?”
“Always.”
“I think that you’re a better poet than you know.”
He snorted but was secretly relieved that he might have managed to say something right.
Brushing her lips along the edge of his jaw, she whispered, “Do you recall a few moments ago, when you said that I was the only woman you wanted to bed?”
He barked a laugh. “Beth, I’m likely to forget many things—Latin conjugations, my grandmother’s birthday, your favorite flower—but I can promise you that I would never, will never, forget the way I desire you.”
“Good. Because I’d like you to take me to your bed … right now.”