Someone to Watch Over Me (4 page)

“Oh.” She yawned, fighting to stay awake, but her exhaustion was clearly overwhelming. “Grant,” she whispered, “what is
my
reputation?”

She fell asleep before he could reply.

G
rant awoke as the weak morning sunlight began to filter through the windowpanes. Perplexed, he stared at the ice-blue ceiling of the guest room, expecting to see the wine-colored canopy over his own bed. Suddenly he recalled the events of the previous evening. There had been no sound from Vivien’s room. He wondered how she had fared the night. After all she had been through, she would likely sleep for most of the day.

Fitting his hands behind his head, Grant lay there for another minute, pondering the knowledge that Vivien was here, in his house, only a few rooms away from him. It had been a long time since a woman had slept beneath his roof. Vivien Duvall, at his mercy…The thought entertained him prodigiously. The fact that she didn’t remember
what had happened between them only heightened his enjoyment of the situation.

Yawning, Grant sat up and scratched his fingers through the pelt of dark hair on his chest. He rang for his valet, padded to a nearby chair, and dressed in the linens and pale gray trousers that had been laid out for him. His morning routine had been established by years of habit. He was always out of bed at sunrise, had finished his personal ablutions and dressed within twenty minutes, spent the next half hour devouring a huge breakfast and scanning the
Times
, and left on foot for Bow Street. Sir Ross Cannon required all Runners who weren’t on duty to report by no later than nine.

In fewer than five minutes, his valet, Kellow, appeared with a ewer of hot shaving water and all the necessary implements. At the same time, a housemaid quickly laid the fire and tidied the grate.

Grant poured steaming water into a washbowl and sluiced handfuls of it onto his face, trying to soften what had to be the most obstinate beard in London. When his shaving was concluded, Grant put on a white shirt, a patterned gray waistcoat, and a black silk cravat. The official uniform of the Bow Street Runners included a red waistcoat, blue coat and navy trousers, and tall black boots polished to an immaculate shine. Grant detested the garb. On an average-sized man the brightly colored clothes—which had inspired the public to nickname the Runners “Robin Redbreasts”—were
somewhat foppish. On a man of his height, the effect was startling.

Grant’s personal taste favored dark, well-tailored clothes in shades of gray, beige, and black, with no personal adornment save his pocket watch. He kept his hair conveniently short and was sometimes compelled to shave twice a day when a formal occasion called for him to remove another layer of his encroaching beard. He bathed every evening, as he was unable to sleep well otherwise. The physical exertion of his job, not to mention the foul characters he often associated with, often made him feel unclean within and without.

Although many valets were called upon to assist their masters with their clothes, Grant preferred to dress himself. He found the notion of standing still while some other fellow dressed him as more than a little ridiculous. He was an able-bodied man, not some tot who needed help with his skeleton suit. When he’d expressed this view to one of his socially elevated friends, the friend had told him with amusement that this was one of the essential differences between the lower classes and the aristocracy.

“You mean only the lower classes know how to fasten their buttons?” Grant had asked wryly.

“No,” the friend had replied with a laugh, “it’s just that they have no choice in the matter. The aristocracy, on the other hand, can get someone else to do it for them.”

After tying his black silk cravat in a simple knot, Grant jerked the tips of his collar to neat standing points. He dragged a comb through his ruffled
dark hair and gave a cursory glance in the looking glass. Just as he reached for his charcoal-gray coat, he heard a muffled sound from a few rooms away.

“Vivien,” he murmured, dropping the coat at once. He reached the master bedroom in a few strides, entering without bothering to knock. The housemaid had already visited and had stoked a small fire in the grate.

Vivien was attempting to get out of bed by herself, the linen shirt twisted around the middle of her thighs. Her long hair fell in wild straggles down her back. She was standing on one foot, maintaining a precarious balance. Her sprained ankle was bound and swollen, and the pain it caused was obvious as she took one limping step away from the bed.

“What do you need?” Grant asked, and she started at the sound of his voice. She didn’t look much better than she had the previous night, her face ghastly pale, her eyes still swollen, her throat bruised. “Do you want the privy?”

The blunt question clearly caused Vivien no end of mortification. A scarlet flush cascaded over her skin. The sight of a redhead blushing was not something to miss, Grant thought with a sudden flicker of amusement.

“Yes, thank you,” she murmured, her voice hoarse and strained. She took another cautious hobbling step. “If you could just tell me where—”

“I’ll help you.”

“Oh, no, really—” She gasped as he scooped her into his arms, her body small and light against his chest. Grant carried her the short distance to the
privy, two doors down the hall, while Vivien tried in agonized modesty to pull the thin linen shirt farther over her thighs. The gesture struck him as odd for a courtesan. Vivien was known for her lack of sexual inhibition, not to mention her elegantly provocative style of dressing. Modesty had not been in her repertoire. Why did she seem so distressed now?

“You’ll be stronger soon,” he said. “In the meantime, stay in bed and keep off that ankle. If you want anything at all, ring for one of the maids.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Her small hands crept around his neck. “I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr.…” She hesitated, and he knew that she had forgotten his last name.

“Call me Grant,” he replied, setting her gently on the floor. “It’s no trouble.”

Vivien emerged from the privy a few minutes later, clearly surprised to find him still there. She seemed no bigger than a child, dressed in his shirt with the sleeves rolled back several times and the tail reaching below her knees. Her gaze lifted to his, and she returned his friendly smile with an abashed one of her own.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

He extended a hand to her. “Let me help you back to bed.”

She hesitated before hobbling forward. Carefully Grant reached around her slender body, hooking one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees. Although he lifted her with extreme gentleness, mindful of her injuries, Vivien gasped as he
brought her against his chest. Of all the women he had held in his arms, none had ever possessed such lush, exquisite delicacy. Her bones were slender, but her flesh was pliant, voluptuous, utterly desirable.

Returning to the bedroom, Grant eased Vivien onto the mattress, fumbling to arrange a stack of pillows behind her. She tugged the blankets upward, bringing them high over her chest. In spite of her bedraggled condition, or perhaps because of it, he was struck again with the disconcerting urge to cuddle and caress her. He, who was known for possessing a heart of granite, or some similarly impermeable substance. “Are you hungry?” he asked gruffly.

“Not really.”

“When the housekeeper brings a tray, I want you to eat something.”

For some reason his tone of command made her smile. “I’ll try.”

Grant stood frozen in place by her smile…lucent and warm, a flash of magic that illuminated her delicate face. It was so unlike the self-absorbed woman he had met at Wentworth’s ball that he wondered briefly if she was the same person at all. Yet she was, unmistakably, Vivien.

“Grant,” she said hesitantly. “Please, would you bring a looking glass?” She pressed her hands to her cheeks in a self-conscious gesture. “I don’t know what I look like.”

Somehow managing to tear his gaze away from her, Grant went to the gentleman’s cabinet in the corner of the room. He rummaged through the narrow
drawers and located a wooden
nécessaire
covered in leather. The case was designed to hold scissors, files, and grooming items, the lid fitted with a rectangular looking glass inside. Returning to the bedside, Grant opened the
nécessaire
and gave it to her.

Vivien tried to hold the case near her face, but her hands still trembled violently from her experience of the previous evening. Grant reached over and steadied the
nécessaire
as she viewed her reflection. Her hands were very cold beneath his, the fingers stiff and bloodless. Her eyes widened, and she barely seemed to breathe.

“How strange,” she said, “not to recognize one’s own face.”

“You have no cause for complaint,” Grant said huskily. Even bruised and pale and ravaged, her face was incomparable.

“Do you think so?” She stared into the looking glass without a trace of the self-satisfaction she had displayed at the ball.
That
Vivien had had no doubt of her many attractions. This woman was far less confident.

“Everyone thinks so. You’re known as one of the great beauties of London.”

“I don’t see why.” Catching his skeptical expression, she added, “Truly, I’m not fishing for compliments, it just…seems a very ordinary face.” She produced a comical, clownish expression, like a child experimenting with her reflection. A shaken laugh escaped her. “It doesn’t seem to belong to me.” Her eyes glittered like sapphires, and he realized
with a flare of alarm that she was going to cry.

“Don’t,” he muttered. “I told you last night how I feel about crying.”

“Yes…you can’t stand a woman’s tears.” She wiped her wet eyes with her fingers. A wobbly smile touched her lips. “I didn’t think a Bow Street Runner would be so sensitive.”

“Sensitive,” Grant repeated indignantly. “I’m as hard-shelled as they come.” He gathered a handful of the linen sheet and swabbed hastily at her face.

“Are you?” She gave a last sniffle and peered at him over the edge of the sheet, and he saw a hint of laughter appearing behind the last glimmering tears. “You seem rather soft-shelled to me.”

Grant opened his mouth to argue, but realized suddenly that she was teasing him. With great difficulty, he tamped down an unexpected surge of warmth in his chest. “I’m about as sensitive as a millstone,” he informed her.

“I’ll reserve opinion on that.” She closed the
nécessaire
and shook her head ruefully. “I shouldn’t have asked for a looking glass. I look rather the worse for wear.”

Grant contemplated her dry, cracked lips with a frown. Reaching for a little glass jar of salve on the night table, he handed it to her. “Try some of this. Linley left a special mixture for bruises, dryness, scrapes, chafing…”

“I could use a barrel of it,” she said, fumbling with the hinged porcelain lid.

Retrieving the jar, Grant opened it for her. Instead of handing it back, he held it in his palm and
let his gaze wander over her. “The shaking is better this morning,” he observed quietly.

Vivien colored and nodded, seeming embarrassed by the involuntary tremors. “Yes, but I still can’t seem to get warm.” She rubbed her palms over the fair, chapped skin of her arms. “I was wondering…if it wouldn’t be too great an imposition—”

“A hot bath?”

“Oh, yes.” The throb of anticipation in her voice made him smile.

“That can be arranged. But you’ll have to move carefully, and let the servants help you. Or me, if you’d rather.”

Vivien stared at him, openmouthed at the suggestion. “I-I wouldn’t care to put you to such trouble—” she stammered.

“No trouble at all,” he said mildly. Only the glint in his green eyes betrayed the fact that he was teasing her.

Before she could suppress it, an image appeared in her mind, of herself soaking in a steaming tub while he bathed her naked body.

“What a blush,” Grant observed with a sudden smile. “If that doesn’t warm you up, nothing will.” He drew his fingertip over the velvety anisescented salve and brought it to her mouth. “Hold still.”

Vivien obeyed, her gaze locked on his face as he gently applied the salve to her lips. The sore, dry surface absorbed the preparation at once, and Grant dipped his finger into the jar again. The
room was utterly quiet except for the sound of Vivien’s deep, trembling breath.

There was a tugging sensation in Grant’s chest that bothered him profoundly. He wanted to kiss her, hold her, comfort her as if she were a lost child. He would never have guessed that Vivien Duvall could be so endearing and vulnerable. Damn her, if this was somehow an act on her part, he would probably end up throttling her.

Obviously she had already driven some other poor bastard to it already.

Grant paused at that thought, and grimly warned himself not to be affected by her. Enjoy her, take what he wanted…but not for a minute would he allow himself to care for her. That much trouble, he didn’t need. He rubbed more of the salve between his fingers, until the cool scent of anise spiced the air. With the lightest possible touch, he spread the salve over her bruised, swollen throat. Vivien was very still beneath his hand, her gaze focused on his hard face.

“We knew each other before last night, didn’t we?” she whispered.

His lashes lowered, and he took his time about replying. “You could say that.”

Another soft pass of his fingertips over her skin, rubbing the salve deeper into her bruises.

Mired in confusion, she tried to analyze the sensation of his touch, the surprising sense of familiarity and comfort she found in his presence. Nothing in the world was familiar to her, not even her own face…but somehow he made her feel safe and reassured. She wouldn’t feel this way in
the company of a stranger, would she?

“H-how well did we know each other?” Vivien asked unsteadily.

“We’ll discuss it later.” Exactly what he was going to say to her, and how he would present the situation, would take some consideration. In the meantime she would rest and heal, and remain under his protection. Although Vivien seemed none too pleased with his evasiveness, she refrained from pursuing the matter, and he guessed she was still too exhausted to debate. Reaching into the pocket of his waistcoat, he extracted his watch. The lateness of the hour made him frown. “I have to leave for Bow Street,” he said. “I’ll visit your town house today and fetch some clothes for you.”