Stephen stared, taken aback by her question. "I beg your pardon?"

"When I found you, you were clean-shaven. You're welcome to use my father's razor if you wish."

Stephen reached up and touched his jaw. The bristled hair felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable. In fact, the damned stuff itched abominably. A shave would certainly be welcome, but he could hardly admit that he'd never performed the task himself and had no clue how to go about it without rendering himself scarred for life. Tutors, after all, certainly didn't have valets to shave them.

"I would like to shave," he said carefully, "but I'm afraid my shoulder injury would make the procedure somewhat awkward. Obviously this is my perfect opportunity to try my hand at growing a beard." He turned his attention back to the books, convinced the matter was settled.

"Nonsense. If you're unable to do the job yourself, I'd be happy to do it for you."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm offering to shave you, if you like. I shaved my father many times and never so much as nicked him. I'm most experienced in these matters, I assure you."

Stephen looked at her, aware that amazement must be written all over his face. Shaved? By a woman? It was unheard of. No one other than his valet had ever taken a razor to him. It was unthinkable. His aristocratic upbringing rebelled. A marquess would never allow it. But I'm a tutor now, and I'd best remember that.

The more he thought of removing his itchy whiskers, the more welcome the thought became. "Are you certain you know how-"

"Positive. Come along, and you'll be beardless in no time." She walked from the room, and Stephen followed, not at all convinced but willing to see where she was headed.

"You've been staying in my father's room," she said over her shoulder as they approached the door to the bedchamber. "His shaving things are in his armoire. I'll fetch some water and be right back."

Without being exactly sure how it happened, Stephen soon found himself reclining in a massive chair, a sheet of linen protecting his clothes and Hayley standing over him, briskly whisking a shaving brush in a porcelain cup to create a thick lather. When he saw her pick up a straight-edged razor and run its edge over a leather strop, a sharp wave of doubt washed over him.

"Are you sure you know how to do this?" he asked, eyeing the razor with more than a little trepidation.

She smiled at him. "Yes. I promise I won't hurt you."

"But-"

"Mr. Barrettson. I went to a great deal of trouble to save your life. I'm not about to slash your throat and ruin all my hard work. Now, just close your eyes and relax."

With lingering reluctance, Stephen did as he was bid, finally deciding it would probably be better not to watch.

"What the hell is that?" he yelped, sitting bolt upright as something warm touched his face.

"It's merely a cloth soaked with warm water to soften your whiskers," she said, her amused exasperation evident. "Now I must request that you lie still, or I fear I may very well slice your throat. Quite by accident, you understand, but the results would prove no less painful."

Swallowing his doubts, Stephen lay back and allowed her to apply the warm, moist towel to his face. She replaced it several times, and Stephen had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that her ministrations felt good. All right, damn good.

He kept his eyes closed while she spread thick lather over his cheeks, jaw, and throat, enjoying the feel of the brush stroking his skin, and the clean scent of the soap.

"I'm ready to begin, Mr. Barrettson. Do you promise to hold perfectly still?"

"Do you promise not to cut my throat or slice off my ears, Miss Albright?" he countered. He opened his eyes and gazed directly into her luminous aquamarine depths.

"I promise if you do," she agreed with a smile.

Stephen closed his eyes again, feeling strangely soothed by her soft words and the warmth he read in her eyes. "I promise."

"Excellent."

Placing two fingers under his chin, she applied gentle pressure. Stephen obliged by stretching up his neck and turning his head slightly sideways.

She worked in silence, the quiet broken only by her soft instructions to move his head, and the soft shush from wiping the razor after each stroke.

The tension slowly left his body. After the first few swipes of the razor, it was clear that Miss Hayley Albright did indeed know how to shave a man, a fact he found oddly disturbing. Until this very moment he'd never realized what a personal, intimate act shaving was. Every time she leaned over him, he caught the soft scent of roses surrounding her. His valet Sigfried certainly didn't smell like flowers. Her lulling voice, her gentle hands, her sure strokes, left him relaxed and almost sleepy.

Until he opened his eyes.

Her face was only inches away from his, her brow furrowed with concentration as she carefully scraped the whiskers from his upper lip. Her full lower lip was caught between her white teeth, another obvious sign of her attention to the task at hand. Her warm breath touched his face and the fragrance of cinnamon surrounded him.

She reached across him to grab a clean towel, and her breasts pressed against his upper arm, eliciting an immediate quickening in his loins.

He tried to force his eyes closed, but could not. He was transfixed by the sight of her, the feel of her, the scent of her.

When she finished wiping the last of the lather from his face, their eyes met. She regarded him for a long moment with a steady expression that made him feel as if his skin was suddenly too small.

He cleared his throat. "Are you finished?"

She nodded and his gaze dropped to her mouth. She really had the most luscious mouth he'd ever seen. Those full, pouty lips seemed to beckon him, and he imagined himself leaning forward, covering her mouth with his own, touching his tongue to hers. His thoughts were interrupted when he felt her palm touch his now smooth cheek.

"You're extremely handsome," she whispered. Her fingertips glided gently over his face, like those of a blind person memorizing each feature.

Stephen watched her, entranced. Many women had complimented his looks in the past, but he always brushed off their flattery, knowing it was simply a way to attempt to wrap him around their feminine fingers. Or get something from him. Every touch he'd ever received from a female was practiced and calculated.

Until now.

He knew without a doubt that Hayley wasn't behaving flirtatiously. She had a look of near reverence in her gaze that humbled him. Her touch was sweet, gentle, and unpracticed. He'd noticed how generous she was with touching. The loving way she ruffled the boys' hair even as she scolded them. And the gentle way she brushed Callie's curls back from her forehead. He knew how to react to a sexual caress, but he found her innocent touch decidedly unsettling. She couldn't possibly know what it was doing to him.

Or could she?

Stephen's eyes narrowed. Perhaps Miss Hayley Albright wasn't as innocent as she seemed. Could any woman truly be so totally without guile? Stephen's experience told him such a thing was doubtful.

He broke the spell between them by sitting up and running his hands over his smooth face. "You find my face appealing?"

"Oh yes, Mr. Barrettson. I believe you're quite the handsomest man I've ever seen." A blush accompanied the smile tilting the corners of her mouth. "But I'm sure many people have told you that."

Stephen's eyes bored into hers, looking for the familiar signs of female deception. He found none. "Several, I suppose, but I never believed them."

"I always try to be truthful."

"Then you're the first person I've ever met who does."

"How sad for you, Mr. Barrettson. My parents taught us that honesty is extremely important… perhaps the most important quality a person can possess."

"Indeed? My parents, my father in particular, taught me to trust no one." A bitter edge crept into his voice. "And I cannot recall the word honesty ever passing his or my mother's lips."

Her eyes softened with obvious sympathy. She perched herself on the edge of his chair and touched his hand. "I'm so sorry. But surely you can see that you do trust people. Your parents' unkind teachings could not overshadow your better nature."

He attempted to hide the sardonic twist pulling at his lips. "How on earth did you arrive at that conclusion?"

"You trust your friend Mr. Mallory. And you trust me."

"I do?"

"Of course." A teasing gleam lit her eyes. "If you didn't trust me, would you have allowed me to hold a razor to your throat?"

How had she managed to turn a serious conversation into lighthearted banter? "That wasn't trust-it was desperation. Those whiskers itched like the devil." Stephen frowned as he spoke, but he was having a difficult time keeping a straight face.

She planted her hands on her hips and raised her brows. "So, you're saying you do not trust me?"

Stephen thought about teasing her, but he suddenly realized that in spite of her jesting tone, he detected a serious note in her voice. Did he trust her? Hell no! He didn't trust anyone. Well, except perhaps Justin. And Victoria. But Hayley? Why, he hardly knew her!

He opened his mouth, but immediately snapped his lips back together. She had saved his life. She had no idea who he was-she thought him a mere tutor without wealth or connections. She had no reason to help him other than the kindness and goodness of her heart. Certainly she did not stand to gain anything for herself. What was the word for such a person? He racked his brain and finally came up with the unfamiliar word he sought.