Angelika Frankenstein Makes Her Match(9)

“You’ve become rather quiet,” the man behind her said. She turned on the staircase and saw he was only on the second stair, struggling to raise each leg.

“It’s difficult?” She went to his side and put his arm around her shoulder. “I’ll help you. Lean on me.”

“I think I’m dying.” He was matter-of-fact about it. “I’m turning blue.” He resisted her help for as long as he could, but then grew heavier against her, until the remaining stairs seemed to Angelika to stretch upward like a mountain summit. Not once did he complain, and she was in awe of his sheer strength of will.

Now that they were pressed together, she could hear a wheeze in his lungs. I did this to him, she told herself in a daze. I have put him through this terrible agony, and for what? To have a handsome man around the house to have afternoon tea with? What was I playing at?

“I’m so sorry about this. My brother is a bad influence on me.”

Up and up they toiled, until they halted, puffing with exertion, on the landing, beneath the portrait of Angelika’s mother. The expression of the painting changed, depending on the angle and circumstance.

Right now, Caroline Frankenstein was deeply unimpressed.

“I’m clearly doing my best, Mama,” Angelika said up at the frame. “Come now.” She steered the man left. “My bedchamber is at the end; we just need to make it that far.”

“Your brother might not approve.”

“A man in my bathtub will not be the strangest thing happening today.”

His body leaned into hers, like it wanted her feel and scent. Against her hip, his member retained its rigidity. “Why does my body keep doing this?” He pulled back with distaste in his features and pushed at himself with his palm. “I want you to know, from the neck down, this is not me.”

He was completely correct, but it still hurt her feelings.

“My hands want to touch you, but I don’t want to, and my—” He focused downward again. “Everything is different. I have no memories, but I know this isn’t me. What did you do?”

At the end of the hall, Mary appeared with swinging buckets, blessedly breaking the moment. She snapped, “Finally. You’ve been an age. Get him in. Don’t waste my hard work.” She marched off, grumbling.

The man watched her depart. “Should I help her?”

“As I said, you’re my guest.” Angelika marveled at his thoughtfulness as she led him into her bedroom, but he balked in the doorway. “Come on, you’ll feel so much better.”

He was assessing the room with a crease on his brow. He took in the four-poster bed smothered in fine silks and the jewels strewn on the dresser. He noticed the embroidered chinoiserie dressing screen, the 250-year-old Persian rugs, and the alcove by the window filled with a copper tub and potted ferns. “You’re rich,” he said in an accusing tone.

“Yes.”

“You live alone here, with only your brother? Remind me of your name,” he commanded.

“Angelika Frankenstein. It is Latin for ‘angelic.’ But my name is spelled with a k, not a c. Mama wanted to be creative, but I wish she hadn’t bothered.” She went to her bathroom and found a tin of salts. As she stirred them into the tub, she said, “You are right; I am a wealthy heiress, and an orphan. We lost both our parents very fast, one after the other, when I was thirteen.” She coughed to clear her tight throat. “After that, Victor did his best to raise me, so my faults are his doing. These salts are from Paris. They may sting your stitches but will help you heal.”

“Why do I even have stitches?” He could not resist the steam and came closer, his teeth still chattering. “I really shouldn’t be in here.”

“We’ll tell Mary to clear out the guest room next. Victor has one of Lizzie’s theater costumes lying on the bed. It’s a big brown bear.”

He was too overwhelmed to be interested in that. When he put his foot into the water, he let out a yowl. “It’s too hot, it’s agony, agony,” he repeated grimly, even as he lowered himself downward. He lay back and looked up at the ceiling with genuine suffering in his eyes. They cut to Angelika, now in that same battle-fierce stare she had glimpsed in the morgue.

“If you did this to me, I hate you.”

“Then I suppose you hate me.” She went to the shelf to get a fresh bar of soap and a nailbrush. “That didn’t take long. Perhaps it is my new record.”

Mary had reentered, and this time her hearing had not failed her. “You hate her, eh?” She sloshed a bucket of water onto his face with no regard. “You’d prefer to be dead in the ground, dinner for worms? You’re soaking like a lord in a manor house. One of the richest women in England wants to scrub your fingernails. Get a grip on yourself,” Mary scolded him, and with effort heaved the second bucket onto him. “Count yourself lucky she hasn’t sent you back where you came from.”

Her words had an effect. When Angelika pulled up a stool beside the tub and held up the nailbrush, he gave her his hand with a contrite blink.

“I really was dead?”

“Yes. I found you in the morgue. We think you died yesterday.” She began to scrub his fingernails. “Are you feeling any better, my love?”

He was reeling from this news. “Why do you call me that? Did we know each other before?”