The Taming of the Duke
Page 20

But there was no way Imogen was going to leave him alone in this state. "You need a bath," she said.
He was doubled over at the waist, gasping because he was retching so hard. Imogen felt a germ of panic.
"Perhaps it's too much to give up liquor all at once?" she said. "You could try cutting back first."
"Gabe says I have to get it out of my system," he said, grunting as he straightened up. "Imogen. I'm asking you. May I suffer through this humiliation on my own? I'm sure it will be over in the morning."
"No," Imogen said. "Definitely not. You need a bath."
"I am not calling the servants at this hour—"
"You have no need," she said. "I can't imagine why you haven't brought this chamber up-to-date, but my bedroom has a proper bathroom. The water in the pipes should still be hot enough." She took his arm. It was chilly and covered with sweat. "You're a mess."
"So leave me alone," he growled. "You shouldn't be in here, in the middle of the night."
"You're not going to seduce me, are you?" she said. "Because I'm nothing more than a wee, frail female and I might be overcome by the sight of your belly."
"God damn—" But he was retching again.
As soon as he was done she took his arm again. "Come on," she said bracingly. "Just down the hallway." She got him down the hall and into her room, though he protested every inch of the way. Then she went into the bathroom and turned on the faucets.
"Isn't this wonderful?" she said, watching as the hot water poured into the tub.
"I—" Rafe grunted. "Oh God—"
"Pail's in the other room," Imogen said. She had decided that the last thing Rafe needed was sympathy.
He wavered in the door of the bathroom a moment later, looking about to faint. She grabbed his arm. "I'm not taking a bath with you in here," he said, but his voice was losing strength.
"Nonsense," she said. "You'll do just as I please." She pushed him down into the bath, taking some pleasure in the fact that a man who topped six feet and was a good many stones heavier than she was would collapse at the press of her hand. His white towel billowed a little as he settled into the water, but it still covered his privates.
He didn't even look to see if he were decent, just leaned his head against the back of the tub with a groan.
"God almighty!" he said. It didn't sound like a prayer.
Imogen perched on the side of the tub. He was white as a sheet and sweating unattractively. But he couldn't be more than thirty-five, for all he'd turned himself into a dissipated brandy bottle. "So did you start drinking when your brother died?" she asked, just to make conversation.
He rolled his head against the marble. "What if I have to vomit?"
"Here's the basin," Imogen said. "When did your brother die?"
"Six years ago now," he said. "Six years."
"What was he like?"
"Argumentative," Rafe said, not opening his eyes. "He would argue till the sun came up and back down again. He had a born lawyer's tongue. He would talk me into circles and then talk himself into such a state that neither of us knew what the point was anymore." He smiled faintly.
"Did he have a degree?"
"No. Our father didn't think it was appropriate for the future Duke of Holbrook to go to university. Peter…" His voice trailed off and he started to look a bit green again.
Imogen perched on the edge of the bathtub and threw a little water over his chest. It was broad and muscled, for all that he did little more than drink. It must be because when he wasn't drunk, he was down at the stables. "Was your brother's name Peter?" she asked. She was thinking that he needed to be distracted. It couldn't be good to be so sick, so many times.
But he threw up again anyway, into the basin she held under his chin.
"I can't believe you're doing this," he said weakly, leaning back. "Quite the fastidious maiden, are you?"
"I've been married," Imogen reminded him.
"More fool you," he said.
Imogen narrowed her eyes. "Don't speak ill of Draven."
"I didn't," he pointed out. "I spoke ill of you."
"You've no call to speak anything of me," she said haughtily, rinsing out the basin in the sink.
"You were a fool to marry that puppy," he said, still with his eyes closed.
Imogen filled up the basin with cold water and dumped it over his head.
"Argh!" He sat straight up and glared at her, water dripping down his face.
Imogen started laughing. All that messy, brown hair of his was dripping with cold water, hanging over his face. "You look like some sort of water monster," she said, gurgling with laughter. "Green and weedy. You could frighten children."
"Shut up and give me the basin again," he snapped.
Afterward she rinsed out the bowl, and he opened one eye. "Don't throw any more water on me."
"Warm this time," she said. She emptied it over his head and then poured a handful of liquid soap into her hand.
"What are you doing now?" he asked suspiciously.
"Making you smell like lemons rather than vomit," she said. She slapped it on top of his head and then started to massage it about.
"You can't do that," he said, sounding really shocked. "It's entirely too intimate."
"What? And holding a basin to your mouth isn't intimate?" She laughed at him. "Just think of me as your old nanny come to nurse you through an illness."
"My nanny never wore a nightgown that turned transparent in the light," he said.
Imogen looked down at her white nightgown. "Really?"
He nodded. "Every time you walk in front of a candle, I can see everything you have to offer."
"That's extremely coarse," she said. "Not that it mat-ters because you don't care what I have to offer, and I certainly don't care about your offerings, if you have any—"
He growled, a deep masculine sound that almost made her giggle nervously, but instead she just kept rubbing the soap around his head. She had never washed anyone's hair. He had a beautifully shaped head with ears set back against his scalp. Bone-deep beauty. And his hair was long and surprisingly silky for a man. She wouldn't have thought men's hair felt soft.
Which made her think about Draven. Had his hair been soft? Draven had fine blond hair that he wore sleeked back in a style that accentuated his high cheekbones.
"What are you thinking about?" he demanded.
"Draven."
"What about him?"
"His hair." Then she added, "He had very soft hair."
"He was going to lose it," Rafe said dispassionately. "All those fair-headed men do. In a few years, he would have looked like one of those marble balls you find at the bottom of staircases."
"Whereas you will just get hairier and hairier," she said, sliding her fingers over his scalp again and again.
"God, that feels good," he said, leaning into her hands. "Did you do this for Draven?"