The Crimson Gown

Chapter Ten

Lydia waited until the majority of the servants had retired for the night. She laid in her own bed, on her side, her face turned towards the door as she listened to the house settle for the evening. There was the steady clomp of footsteps as the various maids made their way to their rooms in the garret, along with the occasional burst of laughter followed by the sounds of people shushing one another before continuing to speak in lowered voices.

The other bed in her room was empty. Anna had yet to return for the evening. No doubt she had ensconced herself in some dark corner with her footman, her skirts gathered about her hips, her bodice unbuttoned and pushed hastily down to reveal—

She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut until the image disappeared, though the ache between her legs did not. She shifted beneath her blankets, rolling onto her back before returning to her side again, her heart pounding inside her chest as she heard yet another door open and close, marking another servant's progress towards bed.

It was when several minutes of silence passed that Lydia finally pushed back the covers and crept from her bed. She was still in her dress, though her hair hung over her shoulder in a loose braid. She stepped into her shoes, walked on the balls of her feet to the door, and peeked into the corridor.

All was darkness. All was still.

Without shutting the door completely, she returned to her night table, lit the stub of candle that sat in its tin holder, and shielded the flame with her hand before leaving the room.

She moved quickly, her skirts a whisper of sound across the walls as she passed from one corridor to the next, her breath held as the flame guttered and threatened to go out as she crept down one of the narrow staircases that led her to the family apartments. Candles glowed from their sconces in the wall, and so Lydia put out her own light and set the holder on a small table a few feet from Lord Cailvairt's door.

She did not bother to knock. She slipped inside the room, the door clicking shut behind her. The sound was as loud as a gunshot to her ears, but no doubt could not be heard by anyone more than a few feet away. She took a single step forward, then stopped. For there, standing before the fire, was a bathtub, one that was filled with a rather large quantity of water.

The tub was large and constructed out of some sort of metal. Copper, perhaps, though Lydia could not be certain if the warm glow on the tub's surface was due to its material or simply a reflection of the fire's light. She remained standing near the door, uncertain what to do now that she was once again inside Lord Cailvairt's chamber.

Lord Cailvairt himself came around from the other side of the tub, eating up the space between them in a few long strides. She noticed the absence of his jacket and neckcloth, his open collar revealing several inches of his throat and upper chest, while his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. Her gaze settled on his arms, on the dark hair scattered across his forearms, the same shade of hair as was visible above the open collar of his shirt.

The hair on his head was still tied back, but it lacked its usual sleekness, and she experienced a sudden urge to reach out to him and undo the knot in the leather cord that held it in its queue. But she made no move towards him, only remained in her place a few paces from the door, her gaze still darting from him, to the tub, and back again.

"After last night," he began, and stood in front of her, his arms loose at his sides. "I thought perhaps you would wish for an activity a little less rigorous, more soothing." He gestured to the tub. The surface of the water danced with the reflection of the fire's flames. "Forgive my presumption, if indeed it is in need of forgiveness."

She looked past him to the tub. "I have never..." She cleared her throat, her gaze dropping down to her hands. "My grandmother believed bathing in a tub to be a ridiculous extravagance. As was hot water, except for the guests, of course."