Kissing Comfort (11 page)

“Hardly.”

She wondered if he was sincere. There was no inflection in his voice and no expression on his face to guide her.

“You're the only woman I know who works.” He knew immediately that he'd said something wrong. Comfort Kennedy had her hackles up. Before he could determine what made her bristle, she was letting him know all about it.

“That's not true. In this house alone there is Mrs. Deltry, Mrs. Patrick, Mrs. Eversly, and no less than seven girls employed as housemaids and kitchen help. And dare I mention your mother? She'd have something to say, I'm sure.”

Bode was equally sure that was true. He cleared his throat and made an attempt at looking contrite. Apologies did not come as swiftly to his lips as they did to his brother's. “Allow me to amend that. I was trying to say that you're the only woman I know who works outside of her home—or anyone else's for that matter.”

She conceded the point, and she didn't want to make another using dance hall greeters, actresses, pretty waiter girls, and whores as further examples. Comfort inclined her head, acknowledging his correction. “Men seem to have a difficult time recognizing the contributions of women.”

“I never thought of myself as one of those men,” Bode said. “Until now. Consider me corrected.” He finished his tea and held out the cup and saucer for Comfort to take. The awkward stretch put his back into spasm again. He swore softly as the saucer slid from his nerveless fingers and the teacup followed.

Comfort caught the saucer in her free hand and the cup on the toe of her shoe. Pretending she didn't see Bode's look of astonishment, she carefully set her own cup and saucer on the tray and then added his saucer. She bent forward and removed his teacup from the tip of her kid boot.

“What do you do when you're asked for an encore?”

She made a dismissive gesture that was at odds with the amusement playing about her mouth. “I had to make the attempt,” she said. “That is your great-grandmother's china.”

“I know. I didn't realize you did.”

Comfort shrugged lightly. “Your mother's shared stories on occasion. She remembers the tea service from when she was a little girl.”

“She really does like you, doesn't she?”

“I hope so. You seem surprised.”

Not surprised precisely. Alexandra had said much the same thing to him. What he was, he thought, was suspicious. He remained quiet on that count. It was simpler to accept Comfort's statement than to explain his differences with it.

Comfort couldn't surmise the direction of his thoughts, but she recognized that he was in considerable pain. Because she couldn't be sure how much her actions on the dance floor had exacerbated his injury, she felt compelled to offer him some relief even if he didn't entirely deserve it.

“Lie on the floor,” she directed without explanation.

Bode stared at her.

Comfort repeated herself, but this time with a deliberate pause between each word.

“I heard you,” he said. “I even understood. What I don't know is why you want me to do it.”

“You'll have to trust that I mean to help.” Her eyebrows lifted a notch. She said, “Well?”

Bode recognized the challenge in her expression. What he honestly didn't know was whether or not he was up to it. Until Comfort arrived, Travers had attended him throughout the day, bearing some of his weight as he hobbled to the bathing room to see to his morning ablutions and personal needs. Travers suggested that he remain in the borrowed nightclothes, robe, and slippers while he recuperated, but he insisted on dressing because he'd woken up with a plan already fully formed that would bring Comfort around.

Setting his jaw to keep from grimacing, Bode pushed himself as upright as he could manage and swung his legs over the side of the chaise. He caught Comfort staring at his feet.

“You really should remove your shoes,” she said. “Shall I help you?”

“I'd rather keep them on.”

“All right.” She tucked her smile on the inside of her mouth. How many times, she wondered, had Bram told her that his brother could be fastidious? Is this what he'd meant? Whether it was a demonstration of manners or modesty, or simply that he didn't want to reveal a hole in one of his socks, Comfort found it an unexpectedly appealing aspect of his character. Then again, perhaps it was only that he meant to be difficult.

Bode got on the floor by sliding off the chaise and going straight to his knees. He began to lean back, but Comfort put out an arm to stop him.

“You'll have to take off your jacket,” she told him. “That's not negotiable. And lie on your stomach. I'll find a towel for your head.”

Bode watched as she stood and disappeared into the adjoining bath. She never looked back, obviously expecting that he wouldn't make any sort of protest. He didn't. In a careful series of shrugs, he managed to push his black frock coat over his shoulders so that it was hanging loosely at his elbows by the time Comfort returned. Without asking his permission, she freed his trapped arms and put the jacket on the chaise.

“Your vest,” she said. “Come on. In for a penny, in for a pound.”

“Spoken like a banker.”

She didn't believe he meant it as a compliment, so she didn't thank him, and since his fingers had begun to fiddle with the buttons on his gray silk vest, she didn't goad him to do the job more quickly. Judging where his head would be when he stretched out on the carpet, Comfort folded the towel and then placed it on the floor.

“Walk forward using your hands for support,” she told him, taking his vest away.

Bode couldn't come up with a single good reason to do what she said. “I don't think I—” Out of the corner of his eye he saw her skirts flutter. She was actually beating a tattoo against the floor with the toe of her boot. He glanced up. Sure enough, her impatience was also visible in the flat line of her mouth and in the tight fold of her arms across her chest. “Is it generally known that you have tendencies toward the tyrannical?”

Comfort unfolded her arms and let them fall to her sides, but her mouth did not soften appreciably. “I am only discovering it myself.”

Bode didn't miss the hint of accusation in her tone. Apparently he was responsible for revealing this unpleasant facet of her nature. It almost made the ridiculousness of his position palatable. He began easing forward exactly as instructed.

Comfort perched on one arm of the wing chair and began unlacing her boots while Bode made his painful way to the floor. He would never return to his offices tomorrow, she thought, not without intervention. No matter that he wanted to believe it could be accomplished by sheer force of will, she knew better. She removed her boots.

“Turn your head so you can rest your face on your cheek,” she said. “But move your arms to your sides.”

He did as he was told, because, really, what choice did he have at this juncture?

Comfort regarded the stiff line of his long frame and shook her head. It wouldn't do. “Try to relax.” This had no appreciable impact. She sighed. “Begin by closing your eyes.” Since she could only see his swollen one, she had to trust that he was doing as she asked. “Imagine a stream of clear, cool water flowing under your skin. Imagine the sound of it as it slips over muscle and sinew. You can only hear the sound of the water and the sound of my voice, and they become one, a single quiet current that lifts tension and carries it away.”

Her voice became incrementally softer as she went on, and also more insistent. “You feel the water at the back of your neck, cool rivulets running over your skin. The water is pooling across your back. Your shoulders are pleasantly heavy under the weight of the water. You feel some of it trickle down your spine. There is no part of you that is untouched by it. The water is everywhere. It lies against your back, your legs, the soles of your feet. You feel it slipping along your arms, across your palms, and between your fingertips. You cannot stir it. It stirs you.”

Comfort lifted the hem of her dress as she moved to Bode's side. “The water is a satisfying weight. You don't fight it. You don't want to.” She stepped onto his back. “You accept it.” Her toes curled into the muscles on either side of his spine. She moved slowly, carefully, her skirts brushing Bode's arms as she walked the length of his backbone. Her steps were small, her carriage balanced, and she moved with the grace and confidence of a tightrope performer. Her voice remained quiet and steady, and exactly as she'd told him it would be, at one with the current.

Her toes worked especially hard at the base of his spine where his muscles were so tight it was like standing on a board. Or in Bode's case, at the edge of a gangplank. She bent her knees slightly, pressing more deeply, looking for the spring in the board. She thought of the water, her form, and the power of her dive, and then she pushed off.

Even before she heard his soft grunt and the subsequent blissful moan, Comfort knew she'd found and released the pinched source of his pain.

Landing lightly on the balls of her feet, she pulled her skirt clear of him and turned away so she could sit in the wing chair. She picked up one of her boots, loosened the laces a bit more, and started to slip her foot inside. It was not surprising that Bode hadn't yet said a word. When she did the same thing for Tuck, he often napped right where he lay.

She didn't glance at Bode until she'd finished lacing both boots. He hadn't opened the one eye he could, but she could tell from the faint twitching of his fingers that he hadn't fallen asleep.

“You don't have to move,” she said.

“I don't think I can.” Even as he said it, he knew it wasn't accurate. He didn't
want
to move, and for the moment he appreciated the difference. “What did you do to me?”

“I can't properly pronounce it, but you can inquire of almost any Chinaman and he will be able to tell you. Not every Chinaman can do it, though, so you should be careful not to let just anyone make the walk.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

Comfort looked around the wing chair to the clock. “I should go. You've had your fill of company, I think, and I prefer to be elsewhere when your mother and Bram return home.”

“Why? There's nothing improper about you paying a sick call.” Now he opened his eye and gave her an inquiring look. “Unless, that is, you mean to tell them how you came to be here.”

“I don't believe I'll mention it, although Mr. Hitchens might say something. Before I understood what was going on, I told him I'd been invited by Mrs. DeLong.”

“Let me deal with Hitchens.”

Bode would have to, Comfort thought. She certainly had no intention of doing it. She got to her feet.

“Stay,” he said.

“I'm quite certain I'm expected at home soon. And I walked, Mr. DeLong, so I have to account for the time it will take to walk back.”

“I'll arrange for a carriage.”

“You're treading dangerously close to petulance.”

Was he? Probably. “Are you always so forthright?”

“No. No one is any one thing always.”

Bode got his hands under his shoulders and pushed himself up. He drew in his knees and then sprang from that position to his full height. All of it was accomplished without the slightest twinge of pain. “Amazing,” he said under his breath. Even more softly, he said, “Witch.”

Comfort was already at the foot of the bed retrieving her jacket from the chest. She pretended she hadn't heard. The characterization did not displease her, though, and she suspected that was because she'd had her fill recently of being called sensible.

Bode came up beside her and held out his hand for her jacket. She gave it to him and turned so he could help her into it.

“Thank you,” she said, her hands gliding over the buttons. “I can manage the rest.” When he didn't step back, she slipped sideways, taking her gloves and bonnet with her. She couldn't have said what made her uncomfortable. She was fine . . . until she wasn't. “Good day, Mr. DeLong.”

He smiled narrowly at her. “You've called me Bode before.”

She had, but she couldn't remember why. She didn't want to call him Bode now. Comfort inclined her head politely. “Good day.”

Bode didn't reply. He watched as she secured her bonnet, wondering if she would be clumsy with the ribbons. She wasn't. She did equally well with her gloves, pulling them on smoothly and managing the buttons with the deft precision of one who did not always wait for the assistance of a maid. He grabbed his waistcoat as they passed the chaise and put it on while he escorted her to the door.

“You don't have to see me out. I know the way.”

“I realize that, but I'd like to test the limits of that correction you made to my back.”

“Unless you throw yourself off the landing, or try to somersault down the stairs, you'll be fine.” She shrugged when he kept pace with her. “But please yourself.”

Bode gave Comfort the banister side of the staircase. There wasn't a step that he took that made him want to reach for her or reach around her for support. He was almost sorry for that. Almost.

Hitchens came hurrying into the entrance hall when Bode and Comfort arrived. Bode waved him off. “It's all right, Mr. Hitchens. I'm walking Miss Kennedy out.”

“But your frock coat . . . your back . . .” He frowned more deeply. “Your hat.”

“I can't tell if your concern is for my health or my wardrobe.” Beside him, he heard Comfort laugh softly. “It's fine,” he told the butler. “I'm only going as far as the street.”