Refusing to discard the golden opportunity, she immediately turned to Bartwick and clapped her hands together.
“I need your best salve and clean linen strips.” Bartwick nodded and left them alone to fetch what was required.
She spared him a brief glance before moving across the room to fetch a stool.
She dragged the chair across the room and placed it directly in front of him, wincing at the loud and embarrassing noise it made.
Then she settled down on it and met his gaze.
“You do realize that you are putting yourself in a compromising situation, do you not?” She waved his comment off and smiled.
“I am only trying to see to your hands.
After all,” her smile widened, “We have been in much more scandalising situations and yet no scandal has broken out.” He leaned back against his chair.
Her eyes immediately darted to the open part of his chest.
“Only because I have a strong sense of self-preservation.” She scoffed.
“What exactly are you preserving?” As soon as she asked the question, she realized her mistake.
“Pardon me, Lady Whitmore.
I forgot that only marriageable men have names to protect.” His voice was cold as usual, but there was sting in it she could not miss.
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” They fell into an uncomfortable silence afterwards.
Eve took to tapping her feet lightly in order to busy herself, but one look from him made her freeze all together.
“You know, I never really wanted to marry into the royal household.” She blurted out of the blue.
When she glanced up, she realized that he was looking at her as though he were studying a specimen.
“My mother always says it is rude to stare.” “Says a woman who stares so shamelessly.” “You mean me… or my mother?” “You, of course.
I know very little of your family.” She winced inwardly.
Yet she knew everything about his own family… “I don’t… stare shamelessly.” He scoffed.
“Then how do you explain… forget it.
Bartwick is here.” She glanced at the door.
There was no one there.
He followed her gaze.
“Three, two… one.” Bartwick appeared at the doorway just then with two servants in tow.
She slowly tore her gaze away from the doorway and looked at him.
But his attention was elsewhere.
“Where should they set the trays down, Sir Theodore?” Bartwick asked, his hands clasped.
Theo just shrugged.
“Ask Lady Whitmore, she is the one in charge after all.” Colour crept up her cheeks.
She was in charge?
“Set it down here.” She indicated the table.
The servants set about the task quietly.
When they were done, they stood aside to await further instructions.
“You may leave us.” She reached for a linen strip and the bowl of salve.
The servants left the room but Bartwick remained.
“You too, Bartwick.” The old man’s brows quirked up.
“I beg your pardon?” “Yes, Bartwick, I would not be requiring any further assistance from you.” The old man glanced sharply at Theodore before he began to retreat from the room.
As soon as he left the room, she dragged her chair closer until their knees brushed.
“Why did you ask him to leave?” Everetta barely heard his question.
She was fixated on the way her legs were tingling from the contact despite the thick layers of fabric between them.
She finally met his gaze and blinked.
“What were you saying?” Why was he not shifting away?
She had to wonder.
“At least the door is open.” He muttered under his breath.
She smiled warmly at him.
“Do take off your shirt, I would rather not stain your sleeves with the salve, Sir Theodore.” His brow cocked up.
“Shall I take off my breeches as well to please you?” The sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable, but she dismissed it.
“You may if it would make you more comfortable.” Theodore shook his head.
“I give you an inch and you take a mile.
Have you no shame, Lady Whitmore?” She set the bowl of salve back into the tray and placed both her hands on her lap.
“Can you just call me Everetta?
Everytime I am called Lady Whitmore, I have to remind myself that I am the one being called instead of my mother, you see.” “You might as well get used to it.
I have no intentions of initiating any more familiarity with you.” She seized his left hand and inspected it carefully.
“At least pull your sleeves back.” He looked at his hands and looked back at her.
“With what hands?” Flushing beet red, she sighed and reached for his sleeves.
His wrists were made of… only bones.
And the veins… The fingers… It was the second time she was touching them… if only they would be the ones touching her.
She rolled back the second sleeve and sat back to examine her work.
“Why are you sweating all of a sudden?” “It isn’t hot for you?” He shook his head.
“No, it is not.
Are you feeling ill?” Eve blinked.
“No… no, of course not.” He leaned back against his chair and waited.
She dipped two of her fingers into the buttery mixture and rubbed them over his palms.
He did not so much as wince, never taking his eyes off her face.
“Breathe properly.” She stole a glance at him.
“I am breathing properly.” Then she pressed a hand to her heart and realized it was beating louder than a drum.
Could he hear it?
Everetta picked up a linen strip and began wrapping it around his slender one with shaky hands.
When she was done with one hand, she moved to the other hand and repeated the same routine with growing difficulty – her hand slipped more than once.
And each time it did, his brows arched up in a questioning gesture.
She stood to her feet and stretched when she was done.
“Perhaps I should get some air.
It feels quite stuffy inside here.” She made to move but he blocked her movements by placing his leg on the chair she had just evacuated.
“Did I make a mistake with the wraps?” Her voice had a higher pitch than was the norm.
He shook his head very slowly.
“You surprised me actually with your wraps.
Where did you learn how to do it?” Her stiff shoulders relaxed somewhat.
“I made a habit of taking care of wounded animals around my estate.” His eyes widened ever so briefly that she almost missed it.
“Speaking of animals, why do you remind me of a mare in heat?”