“It’s currently below freezing outside.”
“I was speaking metaphorically.” He raised his head to look at her—and promptly started coughing again.
This time, when the coughing fit passed and, somewhat sheepishly, he met her gaze, concern had seeped into her expression.
“You really must do everything possible to get well.” Ellie managed not to glare at him, but he made her feel anxious and exasperated—and just a touch helpless, which she liked even less. “Given we’re definitely snowed in and will be for some time, there’s no reason—no justifiable argument—for you to rush your recovery and risk developing lung fever.”
From his man’s comments and her own assessment, he was normally active and vital; just the thought of him brought even lower than he already was made her mind seize.
Rather than plead, she kept her tone brisk—businesslike. “Please think of this from my family’s point of view. Having you collapse and sink deeper into illness will not only delay the sale of the Albertinelli, we would view such an outcome as a…well, a stain on our honor. You are our guest, under our roof, essentially at our behest.” She hoped an appeal based on such grounds might sway him; judging by his clothes and horses, he hailed from a haut ton family, and she’d always understood that honor weighed heavily with them.
His eyes—mid-to-light brown with gold striations and a steadiness of gaze that forcibly reminded her of an eagle’s or a hawk’s imperious stare—rested on her for several moments, then he faintly grimaced and settled back on the pillows. “My apologies—I’m being tiresome. But I’m unused to being idle—I get bored rather easily.”
She wasn’t sure whether she was being led, but felt compelled to suggest, “Perhaps, then, we should work on distracting you.”
For a second, his eyes gleamed, and she fought down a blush at the thought of the opening she’d given him. But then his lashes veiled his eyes, and he murmured, “Will it bother you to talk while you sew?”
“No—not at all.”
“Then perhaps you might sit not so far away”—his gaze went to the wing chair by the fireplace—“and we can find topics to fill the silence.”
“That sounds an excellent idea.” Determined to remain in charge of any discussion, she walked to the chair and pushed and maneuvered it into position a yard from the bed, angled toward him.
Godfrey smiled encouragingly. He waited until she sat, ferreted about in the basket, lifted a length of fabric into her lap, and started to ply her needle, then said, “You’ve mentioned your family several times, and obviously, once I’m well, I’ll meet them. How many members are there?”
Her sewing gave her an excuse to keep her eyes down, and that, he hoped, would loosen any reins on her tongue.
“There’s my father and me—I’m the eldest. Then there’s Harry—he’s twenty and back home from Oxford—and the youngest is Maggie, who’s eighteen.” She paused to examine her stitches, then added, “Our mother died shortly after Maggie was born.”
“How old were you at that time?”
“Nine. Harry was two.”
“Hmm. I imagine you became something of a mother figure to your younger siblings.”
She lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug; ducking his head, he glimpsed a fond smile flirting about her lips. “When they were younger, to some degree, but they’re both grown now.”
He settled his head on the pillow. “I have a similar situation with my half brother. He’s eleven years older than me, and after our father died—I was thirteen at the time—Ryder became not so much a stand-in father but a very real presence as my big brother.”
She glanced up, and the smile in her eyes and on her lips was bright with understanding. “I can imagine.” After a second of studying him, she looked down again. “You’re fond of him.”
He nodded. “I am. I have two other older brothers and an older sister—I’m the youngest—but Ryder’s the eldest by several years, and despite being our half sibling, he stands in a special place for us all.”
With her looking down, he could indulge himself by staring at her—examining the way the soft winter light falling through the window shimmered on the rich gold of her hair.
Although he couldn’t presently see her face, he’d realized she was blessed—or was it cursed?—with a remarkably open expression. Her features and most of all her eyes reflected her thoughts and feelings. When she’d appealed to his understanding of honor to persuade him to remain abed, he’d seen—clearly, free of guile, and without the slightest veil—that his recovery truly mattered to her, that her insistence he get well was driven by emotion and not by any cool calculation over having her family’s painting favorably assessed.
He’d felt compelled to set aside his grumpiness and, instead, search for some way to learn more about her—the subject he found most distracting.
He cast about for avenues that might prove revealing. “Has your family always lived here?”
Without looking up, she nodded. “Since at least the time of Richard the Second. The list in the family Bible goes back that far.”
“So there were Hinckleys at Hinckley Hall since before the Wars of the Roses.”
“Our roots in the district run deep.” She glanced at him. “Obviously, you’re an expert in old paintings. Is it just paintings, or does your expertise extend to other types of artwork?”
“Paintings and sculptures are my primary interest, but I’m fascinated by art of all types—even tapestries and embroideries.” He caught her eye and smiled. “Most have a tale to tell. I imagine there would be all sorts of old embroideries and the like tucked away in a house such as this.”
She arched her brows. “I hadn’t thought of them as…bearing witness, if you like. I know where some of my grandmother’s and great-grandmother’s efforts hang—I must take a closer look.”
“As it seems I’ll be here for some time, even after I examine the Albertinelli, I wouldn’t mind taking a look at such works myself.”
“Once you’re better, we can hunt them out.”
Next topic. “Is there any village closer than Ripon?”
“Galphay is the nearest village, about a mile farther on along the lane, but it’s much smaller than Ripon, more like a hamlet. Another mile or so beyond Galphay is Kirkby Malzeard. That’s a decent-sized village with an inn and the usual shops.” She shot him a swift glance. “Are you a Londoner born and bred?”
“I’ve lived most of my life in London, but I was born in Wiltshire, and I frequently visit there and also at my brothers’ and sister’s houses, which are scattered about the country, so I’m not unaccustomed to country life, if that was what you were really asking.”
She smiled and looked back at her sewing. “It was. It helps to know you won’t have unrealistic expectations of life here, at the Hall.”
As to his expectations…
Even with a generous yard between them, he was conscious of the visceral tug drawing his senses in her direction. His focus was wholly on her, his attention transfixed in a way that was strange to him. While physical desire was there, it was only a part—and possibly not even the major part—of the attraction. The compulsion fixating him on her was novel, unique to her, leaving him curious and intent on further exploration. She was like a new form of artwork to him, fascinating and intriguing. “I promise not to be too demanding.”