Chapter 42

She turned on her heel and padded across the faded Turkish rug. Christ be thanked. Now finally he'd get the peace he so richly deserved to run his morning his way. Pour as much brandy as he wanted down his throat, starting right here, right now this very minute, with this mouthful. Grin fondly at Etti after he'd summoned her with the hot water. Maybe even do more than that, the nicely appointed derriere she had and those breasts that begged to be touched.
Finally the gods smiled upon him. Life was looking up, in an infinite universe of ways. Give this a day or two and he'd forget this troublesome larcenist ever-care was required with what he thought here ... beguiled him, was probably truer than existed. He washed another mouthful of brandy down his parched throat. Given what she'd done to him ten years ago, the likelihood was he'd be indeed fortunate to forget she existed either. 'Had ever been in his bed,' were probably the best words of all.
All it took was for her to go. Every nerve end waited. Why the hell, having reached the door, did she stand facing it like that? As if he was going to call her back or something. He wasn't going to call her back. And he wasn't getting the door for her either. This was over. He'd had his fill. All that remained was turning her over to Lord Koorecrofte once she'd failed to find whatever she was looking for in the papers she could take home.
"Lord Hawley, there's something I want to show you."
"Please no."
"But ... "
"If it's anything like you showed me yesterday? Well, believe me, I've seen it all. There is nothing you can show me I could possibly be interested in." She didn't speak and he glanced round. "Miss Armstrong, kindly do not remove that peignoir. I told you to leave. Now. You may take the papers, prove you are Cleopatra's mother for that matter."
"A moment, Lord Hawley ... "
She turned round and eased the robe so the material slipped down the milky white curve of her back. He was bound to look. Bound to think she believed he leered and this was how she thought she could play him. His throat dried.
"Yes." The silence she broke was brittle and burning. "It's what I never wanted you to see."
Jesus.
"Then what the hell are you showing me for if you don't want me seeing?"
He hated his voice sounded as it did. Frankly, at what laced her shoulder blades, his first reaction was surprise. How could he not have noticed? Yes, the threads were silver with age, but it didn't make them invisible. So, frankly too, when he considered how viciously that spider's web had been constructed, he was grateful he sounded like that.
"And where's my damned hot water this morning? Do you have any damned idea about that? Or did you use that too so now I don't have a drop to shave with?"
The attempt to reach him, whatever it cost her, was one he'd damn well defeat. She was as far as he was prepared to let her. If he allowed her further, it would be the end of him.
"I don't much care about your shaving water."
"Etti ... " He crossed the floor, grabbed the handle of the other door.
"I don't care about much actually. You just need to know you're not the only one with scars."
"Etti ... "
"Do you think I don't understand why people turn to certain gods?"
"Do you? Think that I'm in any way religious? If you do, it just shows how badly you've misjudged this situation. Etti!"
He clawed a short breath and shouted louder along the corridor. Where the hell was everyone this morning? Tactfully keeping their distance?
"I think you're the one guilty of that, Lord Hawley, if these bottles are anything to go by. What you suffered last night may even be-"
Even though she couldn't see it, he forced a smile. "What I suffered? Who says I suffered?"
Sometimes in life it was better just to hold your blasted tongue. To offer nothing. Didn't she know that? Did she want it being put around Chessington she was his mistress? His whore? Sure to happen now if Etti came in here and saw her. It was something he'd given some thought to when he brought her here. If only he could say he hadn't meant to. But he had and that fact spurred him to round fully on her.
"The only thing I suffered, so far as I can see, was you using all the water so now there isn't even a damn drip to wash my damn face with either.As for you standing there like that-you were on your way out. So why don't you just put that robe back on and go to hell?"
"Lord Hawley-"
"Now, preferably. In fact, let me get the door for you."
He walked to the dividing door and yanked it open. Whatever she looked like as she sailed through it, he was just glad to see the back of her. Etti now bustled in and out the room again, closing the door behind her. Hot water. Fresh towels. Thank God. Now he could shave the night's fever from his chin.
He cursed as a droplet of blood trickled down his chin. Now, to add to his other miseries this morning, he'd nicked himself with his razor. He glared at the leather strap hanging down from the washstand. He must have over-sharpened the thing. How else could he have cut himself? After all his hand never shook. It didn't matter how he'd spent the night.
He resumed his stance and sliced a path through the shaving soap on his other cheek. Slow and steady. Perfect. His gaze wandered to the adjoining door. Christ. Just when he needed to keep it fixed on his shaving glass. Now he'd a nick on his left cheekbone to match the one on his right. Both bleeding profusely. Cursing, he threw the razor down. What the hell was wrong with him?
It was pretty obvious. But if there was anything wrong with him, he could help himself. Yet there was no denying either, he had been aware of her last night. She hadn't run. She hadn't left him to it. Her presence had been sweet. He just hated anyone seeing him like that. Weak. Powerless. So it shamed him to think she had.
That was all bad enough. The worst of it was when she'd stripped off that robe. He'd thought Sapphire had led a charmed life. Well-the way Ruby behaved didn't exactly say so, but he had convinced himself because he'd had to convince himself. He still needed a reason to hate her.
These marks on her back didn't say so. They spoke of beatings. Of beatings upon beatings. Of mistreatment even he hadn't suffered. A mistreatment that said she'd done nothing willingly.
She'd tried to tell him that day about Matthew. He hadn't wanted to listen. He didn't want to listen now. At least a half hour had passed since he'd told her to go anyway.
That was fine. Because he didn't care about these marks. He didn't care about Matthew. Most of all he didn't care about her.
And he would first see himself in hell before he stopped her leaving Chessington.