Free Anita Mills by Scandal Bound Page B

seen about every item of female apparel at one time or another.” He came back to stand just outside. “And if you mean to wear them under the blanket, it won’t do. You must get dry.”
    She opened the door wider, swallowed in embarrassment, and clasped the coverlet closer as she edged into the room. “I will hang out my own, sir,” she told him with her chin held high.
    Only her bare feet and her face and one hand were visible, and yet she felt utterly exposed. He faced her wearing a clean shirt and a pair of breeches that were too tight for comfort. With a jolt, she realized he must be embarrassed also.
    “That should do, Ellen. Now, come warm yourself by the fire before your teeth chatter out of your head.”
    “You cannot be very warm, either.”
    “I am like solid ice,” he admitted. “I don’t suppose you found a comb or hairbrush in there, did you? We could both use one.”
    “On the chest.” She edged closer to the warmth and found a bench. Stretching her toes to the fire, she did not think she would ever be comfortably warm again. She closed here eyes in exhaustion and leaned forward to huddle in the blanket.
    “Ouch!” She felt a tug as her wet hair was lifted outside the coverlet and a clumsy attempt was made to drag a comb through it. “I can comb my own,” she muttered ungraciously as she ducked away.
    “That I should like very much to see.” He grinned, unrepentant. “Most women of my acquaintance raise their arms to do their hair. To do that, you would have to let go of your wrap.”
    She turned around and found that he had combed his own hair until it lay ridiculously flat against his head, and she guessed he was like her brother, Julian, and did not appreciate the thick curls. She extended three fingers while maintaining a precarious grip on her cover. “Hand it to me and I shall go back and do my own.”
    “Have it your way.” He shrugged. But as she retreated into one of the bedchambers, he added impulsively, “You have beautiful hair, Miss Marling.”
    “Nonsense, my lord,” she called back. “And now is not the time to begin giving me Spanish coin, for I have no illusions about my looks. And I have not forgotten what you said when you found we were on our way to York.”
    “Well, I was wrong,” he yelled through the door. “And I have revised my opinion. You are not nearly so thin as I thought. I think you would draw attention if you were properly gowned.”
    Squeezing the water out of her hair and pulling the comb through the dark tangles, she began to worry that he was trying to set her up for a flirtation that could only cause her grief. Admittedly, she found him exciting and attractive, but she was not foolish enough to think that anything could ever come of even the slightest flirtation. Men like Trent probably simply flirted with what they saw at the time, and certainly they did not really give an Ellen Marling a second look if anyone else were available. And even if he were serious, which he could not be, there was still the matter of Basil Brockhaven. Finally satisfied that she had done what she could with the hair, she pulled up her blanket and sought the fire.
    They sat quietly for a time, savoring the warmth from the hearth. He appeared to be brooding about something—probably the loss of his coach and coachman, she decided—and she left him alone to his thoughts. Abruptly, he drew back and looked at her.
    “I don’t suppose you can cook, can you?”
    “Of course not.” She smiled as his face fell. “I have the accomplishments of a lady of quality: I do watercolors, play the pianoforte well, embroider with a fair hand, and sing on key.”
    “And set broken bones. You cannot say that is a lady’s accomplishment my dear.”
    “Well, when I was younger, I wished to be a doctor rather than a lady,” she admitted. “I have never wanted to be a cook.”
    “A pity. We are like to starve before Dobbs gets here, then.” He rose and went into the small kitchen