The latch clicked shut behind her as Iyana padded back into the lamplight, the soft cotton of her nightgown brushing against her ankles.
She had planned on coaxing Vyan straight to the tub, but the scent of freshly heated stew tugged her attention to the small table he'd dragged to the window alcove. Steam curled lazily upward, lit gold by the single candle he'd set beside the bowls.
He, meanwhile, had made himself far too comfortable—black dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, top buttons stubbornly fastened as if daring her to undo them again. The discarded suit jacket and brocade vest were sprawled across the couch. In that simple shirt he looked less Grand Duke, more troublemaking philanderer, and she felt a scandalous prickle of heat that had nothing to do with the food.
Maybe she was the one who needed to take a dip in the tub...
And no, Vyan hadn't done so yet. He had insisted on eating together and didn't want to make her wait to eat after she had starved all day.
