Page 14 of When a Duke Loves a Woman
His last memory was of her clearing horse dung off doorsteps because some oaf was idiotic enough to ride his horse into a residence. The lout could have been any one of a dozen swells he’d known in his youth when he’d gone through a recalcitrant period of which he wasn’t particularly proud, rebelling against the strict restraints that had been placed on him at such an early age. He’d also been vying for attention, striving to elicit some emotion, other than dispassionate non-caring, from his mother. He’d welcomed the heat of her anger over her cold frost. This woman’s story made him even more ashamed of his rebellious past, grateful he’d been too exhausted, was too exhausted still, to reveal much about himself.
He opened his eyes to a room of shadows. She sat nearby, a lone lamp providing the light by which she worked a needle through material, her head bent over the task, her profile to him. He thought her hair, cropped short as it was, should have provided her with a masculine bent. Instead it gave her an elfin appearance, faerie-like. His grandmother had told him tales of faeries. Tiny delicate creatures who lived in the gardens. He wouldn’t describe this woman as delicate, but she was definitely feminine in her own unique way.
And she had ministered to him for hours. It had been years since anyone had paid him so much attention or seemed to care whether he lived. His mother was a demonstrably cold woman. His father had been warmer, but his expectations regarding proper behavior were such that the warmth was often lost in his rigid disciplinarian attitude, leaving Thorne to long for a closeness that had never truly existed. Odd to realize all that now. The possibility of death seemed to bring certain aspects of life into sharper focus. But he needed his damn spectacles to bring the woman sitting nearby into the precise clarity he yearned for. “What—”
Her head came up so quickly, he might have heard her neck pop.
“—have you there?”
She lifted what appeared to be a bundle of rags from her lap. “Your fever broke near dawn, after which you slept the day away. I was hopeful you might soon be in need of your clothing.” She seemed embarrassed to have been caught mending what remained of his attire. “Could you do with a bit of shepherd’s pie?”
“Probably more than a bit.” He’d never been so hungry.
She gave him a bright glorious smile that would have rocked him back on his heels had he been standing. “I’ll get it for you.” While coming to her feet, she set her bundle in the chair, a smooth graceful movement, made even more so by her willowy height.
Instead of immediately heading for the door, she stepped forward and placed her cool palm against his forehead. If he were more recovered, stronger, he might have placed his hand over hers and brought it to his lips to demonstrate his gratitude. A chaste kiss against her knuckles or palm.
Her hand lingered longer than he’d expected, then she curved it around to cup his cheek. “You’re in need of a shave,” she said wistfully before pulling her hand back as though his fever had returned and burned her. “But I haven’t a razor. I shan’t be long.”
She spun on her heel and quit the room, leaving him to wonder why he wasn’t ecstatic with the knowledge he would soon return to his world and his quest to find Lavinia, why it was he wished he could remain in this small, cramped space longer.
It wasn’t a need to escape his responsibilities. Nor was it that he didn’t appreciate the privilege into which he’d been born. Yet for some time now, a dissatisfaction had been harping at him, and he’d been unable to identify its exact cause. He’d thought it was his advancing age and lack of an heir. At thirty-six, he was past the time when he should have a wife and a son. But if he were honest with himself, which was becoming increasingly difficult of late, he’d been rather relieved to have been spared the exchange of vows when his bride never appeared.
His pride had been rather mortified. Hence his foray into the darker realms of London, where much to his surprise he’d discovered a ray of light.
Now his thoughts were turning pathetically poetic. He’d very nearly died.
Shifting his body, striving to push himself into a sitting position, reminded him quite forcefully of that fact as his wounds protested those particular portions of his anatomy being put back into use. With a great deal of effort that caused him to break out in a cold sweat, he finally managed to be upright, his back pressed against a mound of pillows.
It was only then he realized his exertions had not been accompanied by the unpleasant odor of illness, but rather the scent of her. A faint waft of vanilla. She’d bathed him, no doubt after his fever broke, when he was lost in a deep sleep. She’d also managed to change the bedding without disturbing him. Casting aside the crisp and fresh sheet, he noted the bandages protecting his thigh and side were pristine. He rather regretted he’d slept through her ministrations. He wondered if she’d blushed, if she did indeed blush. The room was more shadow than light, and he suddenly longed for the roof to crumble away and sunlight to stream in, longed to be in possession of his damned spectacles.
When she walked into the room, he almost asked her to wait at the threshold, to give him a moment to study her, to appreciate her features in sharper focus, but she’d no doubt believe the fever had addled his brain. Besides, his interest in her was probably a result of the close quarters, the intimacy of his being in her bed with only a sheet and blanket separating his skin from the air, and the attention with which she’d cared for him. Once he walked out of here, he was unlikely to give her any further thought. He had more important matters requiring his attention, matters directly affecting his holdings and his status and duties.
“I’m glad to see you found the strength to sit up,” she said as she set the tray on his lap. “Because you should give feeding yourself a try.”
Taking up the bundle of clothes, she sat in the chair and watched him, encouragement and hope reflected in her eyes. From this distance, within these shadows, they appeared brown. Strange how he had no desire to disappoint them.
Using the spoon, he gathered up some lamb, carrots, peas, and potatoes. His hand shook slightly, from weakness he supposed, as he carried the utensil to his mouth, acutely aware of her easing up in the chair, ready to assist if necessary. He’d rather die than continue to exhibit weakness in front of her. It was bad enough she’d had to tend to him, bathe him, keep him alive. But all his unhappy thoughts dissolved as the food hit his mouth. Never in his life had he tasted anything so good. His stomach fairly leaped up in an effort to get to it sooner, and he nearly groaned with pleasure. “You’re an excellent cook.”
“I’m a lousy cook.” Settling back in the chair, she smoothed out the trousers in her lap. “I retrieved it from the kitchen below. I have an excellent cook who works for me.”
“I’ve never known a woman to own a business.”
“I’m not the first.” She began sewing. “It took a bit of help from my brother, though.”
Her tone was telling. “You weren’t pleased about that.”
Her chin came up, her shoulders stiffened, her gaze never left the needle, which was suddenly moving with greater speed. “I’d have preferred to do it on my own, but I couldn’t get a loan from the bank.”
“How many brothers have you?”
“Four. And a sister.” She did look up then. “You?”
“None now. Illness took my brother and sister. And my father. All those deaths have made a wreck of my mother.”
“Had to be hard on you as well.”
“It made me appreciate that Death could visit at any time. I thought he was breathing down my neck the other night, swore I could see him hovering in the corner. But you wouldn’t let him have me.”
