Dedicated Villain by Patricia Veryan Page A

girl!”
    â€œI know! I am! I am! But—is it not hard to change what weare? I do try, I assure you, but Papa despairs of me, alas! Come—sit here like a good boy, and I will do as best I can.”
    He might have made another attempt at flirtation, but he was tired and his sensibilities were ruffled, so he sat down, feeling decidedly hardly done by.
    Miss Bradford poured hot water into the bowl and sprinkled yellow powder into it.
    â€œWhat’s that stuff?” enquired Mathieson, without enthusiasm.
    â€œMustard. You were very wet, dear sir. I cannot have you catching a cold on top of all else.”
    She stood before him, holding the bowl and trying not very successfully to look grave. He likely did present a ludicrous picture, wrapped in his blanket and without his boots. Small wonder he had failed to entice her, and the more fool he, for having attempted it! He resigned himself and prepared to inhale the wretched vapours, only to be attacked by a gargantuan sneeze.
    â€œThere!” she said. “You see?”
    He mopped an end of the blanket at his eyes, then gave a gasp as Miss Bradford knelt and seized his leg. Perhaps he was not so ludicrous after all! “What are you about, naughty chit?” he enquired hopefully.
    â€œYou cannot put your foot in with your stockings on, foolish creature!”
    Put his foot in …? Of all the revolting suggestions! “I have not the remotest intention—” he began, starting up.
    His intentions were foiled. Miss Bradford had already been so immodest as to roll down one of his stockings and she gave a tug at his undamaged ankle in the same instant that he attempted to stand. Caught off balance, he fell back into the chair and sneezed violently once more. Momentarily, he was helpless and quite unable to foil the two small hands which firmly grasped his foot and popped it into near boiling water.
    With a howl, Mathieson whipped it out again.
    â€œToo hot?” She clicked her tongue and poured some coldwater into the bowl while her patient eyed her smoulderingly. She tested the water with her elbow, pulling up the frill of her chemise sleeve and bending over the bowl in a no-nonsense fashion. From this angle Mathieson had an excellent view of her bosom which was so delicious that he was absorbed and raised no objection when she requested that he replace his feet in the bowl.
    Still kneeling, Miss Bradford observed this procedure critically.
    She really did mean well, and certainly had not intended either that he fall in the flood or that the little cat take such a violent dislike to him. Besides, it was the first time he had been fussed over since his mother’s gentle spirit had winged its way heavenward. Repenting his ill humour, Mathieson lowered his voice, leaned towards her, and murmured at his most seductive, “You are very kind, Miss— May I call you … Fiona?” He stroked her long hair which was almost dry and a pretty shade of light brown enlivened by russet highlights where the light from the candles shone on it. His hand rested on her shoulder then drifted lower.
    Miss Bradford glanced up, that glowing look in her bright eyes. “Of course you may,” she said, taking his hand and patting it kindly.
    He pressed a kiss on her palm, then allowed his lips to slide softly up the inside of her wrist—a sure shiver-getter—while telling her in a hushed and intimate voice that he was indeed a very lucky man tonight.
    â€œOh, yes,” she agreed. “But your toenails want cutting.”
    It was quite the most unkind remark that had ever been made to him in a boudoir. He snatched his hand back and said a curt, “Thank you.” He also curled his toes under.
    Oblivious of her offense, Miss Bradford instructed, “Now just sit here quietly, and I will fetch you a hot posset.”
    Beyond a vague knowledge that hot possets had to do with illness, he was ignorant, and he asked stiffly what