Page 21 of When the Marquess Was Mine
Chapter 8
She tapped at the sickroom door, and opened it at a muffled call to enter. Then she stopped short, mouth hanging open. Westmorland was out of bed.
He was clinging to the bedpost, pale and shaky in a blue banyan, but his face lit with a smile of fierce triumph when he saw her. “Good morning, my dear.”
“You cut his hair,” she said stupidly, looking at Angus.
Westmorland ran one hand over his head. “It was a nightmare. Easier to cut it off.”
Georgiana felt an odd sinking feeling in her chest. When his hair was long and scraped back from his face in a queue, it emphasized the hard lines of his jaw and nose. He looked predatory and cold with it long, like one of Lucifer’s angels. Cut shorter, it fell over his brow with a slight wave and made him look younger and more approachable.
And merciful heavens, he was taller than she’d remembered.
With broader shoulders.
“Do you not like it?” he asked as she stood staring like an idiot.
She shook herself. It shouldn’t matter if he cut his hair, got a pirate’s hoop in one ear, or started wearing doublet and hose like Henry VIII. He was still the same, she told herself, hoping it was actually true. “It’s different,” she said vaguely. “And why are you out of bed? Dr. Elton—”
“Bother him.” The marquess took a deep breath and flexed his hand, then released the bedpost, standing unsteadily but unaided. “I had to get up before I went mad.”
As if he weren’t enough trouble when confined to bed. She thrust the clothing she held at Angus. “They told me you wanted to get dressed, but I don’t think you’re well enough to get out of bed. You can barely stand without holding the bedpost.”
“Probably not,” Westmorland agreed.
“Please get back in bed, then, before you fall and injure yourself again.”
His lips thinned. “I’m going mad,” he repeated. “I can make it to the garden and sit there for a bit.” Seeing her face, his mouth crooked. “Please, darling.”
She looked to Angus, who carefully avoided her gaze. Everyone was deferring to her because they thought she was his future wife. “If you wish,” she said with a huff, and left.
When the door opened again, he was shaved and fully dressed. He should have appeared more like the arrogant Malicious Marquess she knew from London, but instead he looked, if possible, less like that person than ever. He flashed her a tentative smile. “Look a bit better now?”
Even pale and still bruised from his ordeal, he looked much better. He was, she thought grudgingly, decidedly handsome. “You should be in bed,” she said again, feeling peevish.
He grinned. “I’m dreadfully inconvenient, aren’t I?”
You have no idea, she thought. “I don’t think you ought to go outside.”
“Just for a few minutes,” he cajoled. One arm braced on the wall, he reached out and took her hand, bringing it to his lips. “Come with me, if you’re worried. I promise to behave, Georgiana.”
At that moment, Kitty came around the corner. At the sight of them, apparently in intimate conversation, she smiled broadly.
Caught, Georgiana smiled awkwardly and let Westmorland kiss her hand. It was a very sweet kiss, she had to admit; he held her fingers lightly and released them promptly. “How can I refuse when you ask so gallantly?”
“It’s wonderful to see you on your feet again, Lord Sterling.” Kitty joined them.
Something flickered across his face, but he replied politely. “Thank you, ma’am, for your hospitality. I do apologize for the trouble I’ve put everyone to. In fact, I was hoping to enjoy your gardens for a bit. I’ve always been happier out of doors than in.”
Georgiana glanced at him from beneath her lashes. The marquess preferred the outdoors? How curious. She’d have sworn he was a creature of ballrooms and gaming hells, routinely sleeping the day away so he could prowl the city by night.
“Of course,” Kitty was saying warmly. “Georgiana has long been the same! Let Angus assist you.”
He hesitated. “Perhaps Lady Georgiana might lend me her arm.”
“I’m sure she will,” Kitty said with a laugh. “She’s been quite devoted, you know!”
Georgiana wished Kitty would go back to rocking her baby or planning the menu or anything other than pushing her at Westmorland.Robert, she told herself.Rob.As much as it made her writhe to call him by name, it was much better than accidentally blurting out his real identity.
