The Dying Duke's One-Year Wife Is a Nurse novel · Chapter 5 of 24

Chapter 5: The Copper Tub

"Then he'll meet them standing," said Rosalind, "and tonight we find out if he can."

She rang for the two footmen Bett trusted.

She had them fill the copper tub in the dressing room with warm water, not hot.

By the time the steam rose, the Duke of Ardmoor was wrapped in a blanket by the fire.

He was looking at her.

"You mean to drown me," he said.

"I mean to see if your legs hold you."

"At midnight."

"At midnight. Dawn is five hours away, and I would rather know."

The footmen carried him in, gently, and lowered him into the water.

Then she sent them out and shot the bolt.

The dressing room was small and warm, with a stone floor and a black night window.

A single candle burned on the wash-stand.

The tub was big enough for two if they sat close.

Rosalind pulled her nightgown over her head.

Lysander lay in the steaming water with his dark hair stuck to his neck.

His arms rested on the copper rim, and he did not look away.

"That is not for medical reasons," he said.

"No."

"Good. I was hoping."

She climbed in behind him.

The water slid over her thighs, warm and silky.

She settled with her knees on either side of his hips and drew him back against her chest.

His shoulders fit under her collarbones, and his head came to rest on her shoulder.

The scars on his arms looked pale under the water.

"Better?" she said into his ear.

"I have not been warm in two years," he said. "Not once. Not even by the fire."

She kissed the side of his neck.

He shivered, though the water was warm.

"Rosalind," he said slowly. "Are you frightened of tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"I thought you might say you weren't."

"I'm terrified. I'm a nurse in a house with a murderer in it, and I've been awake for two days."

"I am sorry."

"Don't be. Lie back and let me wash you."

She took the soap in her palm and ran it down his chest.

The lather slid over his ribs and the hollow of his belly.

He sighed, long and deep, and let his head fall back against her.

Her hands wandered.

She traced the line of his hips, and the long muscle of his thighs, and she heard the water lap as he stirred.

"You're getting hard again," she said, pleased.

"It is your fault."

"I'll accept the blame."

She slid her soapy hand along his cock under the water, one slow stroke, then another.

He drew a breath that caught.

His hands, on the rim, gripped the copper.

"Don't lift your hips," she murmured. "Let the water hold you."

"The water is the only reason I am still sitting up."

She laughed softly against his shoulder.

She stroked him until he was fully hard in her fist, hot and slick under the surface.

He turned his head and found her mouth.

The kiss was long and deep and unhurried.

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