His gaze was not in the least desirous; in fact, he seemed to be going out of his way to be matter-of-fact about the whole business. But that made things all the more confusing. How she wanted Henny. A woman; a nursemaid. Someone whose attentions would be straightforward and uncomplicated, and she could receive them in the same way.
A bang at the door yanked her out of her reverie. She looked in panic at Tarquin, who merely handed her a wrapper and gestured toward the shadows of the bed curtains at the head of the bed. Juliana retreated, drawing the folds of the muslin wrapper tightly around her, listening as two footmen labored with a porcelain hip bath, copper jugs of steaming water; a maid followed with bandages, salve, the pungent lye soap, a heap of thick towels.
No one spoke. No one glanced toward Juliana's retreat. The duke remained perched on the windowsill, arms folded, watching the preparations. Then the entourage withdrew, the door was closed. Juliana stepped forward.
"I'll bandage your hands first." He poured hot water into the basin on the dresser.
"How can I wash myself with bandaged hands?" Juliana objected.
"You aren't going to, mignonne. I am doing the washing." A flickering smile played over his mouth, reminding her vividly of the last time they'd made love, when he'd looked down at her, looked into her very soul, with so much wonder and warmth. Where had his anger gone? Juliana was plunged anew into the chaos of bewilderment. What was he feeling?
He gestured to the dresser stool. "Sit down and give me your hands." As deft and gentle as an expert nurse, he bathed the raw strips of flesh, smoothed on salve, then wrapped around bandages, tearing the material at the ends to make a knot. He was as surprised as Juliana at this newfound skill, and his smile deepened with an unlooked for pleasure and satisfaction.
Juliana nibbled her bottom lip. "Were you concerned for me when you heard where I was?" The question was tentative, and it was only as she asked it that she realized she hadn't intended to.
"Sit in the tub," he responded. "Keep your hands well clear of the water."
"But were you?" she persisted, one foot raised to step into the hip bath. Suddenly the question was more important than any she'd ever asked.
"I wouldn't leave my worst enemy in such a place," he said flippantly. "Are you going to sit down of your own accord?"
Juliana hastily slipped into the water. It was not a satisfactory answer. She stared down at the water.
Tarquin caught her chin, bringing her face up. "I have never been more concerned in my life," he stated flatly, both expression and tone now devoid of flippancy. "You frightened the living daylights out of me, Juliana. And if you ever scare me like that again, I can safely promise that you will rue the day you were born."
Releasing her chin, he poured hot water over her hair. Juliana snuffled, impatiently pushing aside the drenched mass of curls so she could see his face again. That same luminous glow was in his eyes despite the conviction of his threat. And for some reason she found the threat as pleasing as the glow. Satisfied, she bent her head beneath his strong fingers.
Juliana grimaced at the smell of the lye as he rubbed it vigorously into her tangled hair. It reminded her of sheep dip. It was even worse when he scrubbed her body with the washcloth, leaving not an inch of skin untouched. He was not rough, but very thorough, and when he soaped her breasts, she had to force herself not to flinch at their new tenderness.
Tarquin noticed the almost imperceptible wince. He wondered how long it would be before she told him of her pregnancy. Presumably it didn't occur to her that he might have guessed for himself. There was something touchingly naive about the idea that she didn't realize he was as attuned to her bodily cycles as she was. He smiled to himself but gave no indication of his thoughts; she would tell him in her own good time.
"I think you're clean," he announced finally. "No vermin that I could find. It's to be hoped you weren't in there long enough to catch an infection either. Step out." He picked up a large towel.
Juliana stood still while he dried her as gently as if she were a china doll, attending to the most intimate parts of her body with a careful thoroughness that again was deliberately matter-of-fact. Finally he dropped her nightgown over her head.
"Now you may get into bed and tell me precisely what flight of fancy led to this latest debacle."
"Flight of fancy! Is that what you call it?" Juliana, fatigue and confusion momentarily forgotten, glared, her damp hair flying about her face. "I try to help those women see a way to gain some power over their lives, and you call it a flight of fancy!" The contempt in her eyes scorched him. "There's a world of slaves out there… slaves whose bodies you enjoy, of course, so it's in your interests to keep them enslaved."
She turned aside with a little gesture of defeat and climbed into bed. "You have no compassion, no soul, my lord duke. Just like the rest of your breed. If you would speak out… you and Lord Quentin, and others like you… then people would listen. If you insisted on fair treatment for the women whose bodies you use, then it would happen." She dragged the covers over her and thumped onto her side, facing away from him.
Tarquin stared at the curve of her body beneath the coverlet. Absently, he raked a hand through his hair in an uncharacteristic gesture of bewilderment. No one had ever spoken to him, looked at him, with such furious derision before. And instead of reacting with anger, he felt only dismay. A seventeen-year-old chit accused him of utter callousness in his way of life, his view of the world, and he was standing there wondering if she was right.
She was driving him to the edge of madness. When she wasn't terrifying him with her crusading adventures, she was unraveling every neat thread in the tapestry of his life, forcing him to look and see things that had never troubled him before. More than a few of those revelations concerned himself, and they were not comfortable.
He took a step toward the bed, then, with a bewildered shake of his head, left the chamber, softly closing the door behind him.
As the door closed, Juliana rolled onto her back. She gazed up at the flowered tester, her eyes fixed unseeing on a strand of ivy. She closed her lids on the tears that spilled over, telling herself she was crying only because she was fatigued. Because of reaction to what she'd endured.
Chapter 27
“Mercy me, but I don't know what the world's coming to when you young things can get yourselves into this state." Henny shook her head as she untied the bandages on Juliana's ruined hands the following morning.
"How is Rosamund?" Juliana was feeling limp, filled with a deep and most unusual languor. She'd slept all day and all night and now couldn't seem to drag herself fully awake. Rain drummed against the windowpane, and her chamber was candlelit, which didn't help matters.
"She'll do. Had a nasty shock, but she's recoverin' nicely. That Mistress Dennison came and took them both home."
"Already?" Juliana winced as a strand of bandage stuck to an open cut. "Why didn't someone tell me?"
"You were sleeping, and His Grace gave order that you weren't to be disturbed until you rang." Henny dipped a cloth into a bowl of warm water. "When y'are dressed, he'd like to see you in the library. If you feel up to it, that is." She bathed Juliana's palms and patted them dry before applying fresh salve.
Juliana closed her heavy eyes, wondering if she could have unknowingly swallowed a sleeping draft. She could remember nothing after Tarquin had left her in yesterday's morning sunshine. Who had informed Mistress Dennison that Lilly and Rosamund were here? Did she bear them a grudge? It would seem not, if they were received back into the fold so quickly. Tarquin would have the answers.