Again, he obeyed, easing his lids up, grateful when nothing swayed. The bed lay two steps to his right. He felt her gaze on his face, but when he glanced at her, she’d looked at the bed. He noticed her lips were set in a rather grim line.
She had a hand clamped to either side of his waist, with her arm banding his back; her palms felt like warm irons through the fine linen of his nightshirt, and regardless of all else, there was comfort in her touch. “Come on. Let’s get you settled again.”
She sounded like his childhood nurse. He supposed he deserved that. Regardless, he was far too heavy for her to steady if he actually fell; he raised his left arm and looped it around her, but mindful of the proprieties, he settled his hand on her shoulder rather than, as he would have preferred, at her waist.
Under his arm, she shuffled a touch closer, rendering the pair of them a fraction more stable. “Now…” Using the pressure of her hands and arm, she urged him toward the bed.
Two shambling steps got him to the bed’s side, and there they paused.
He looked down at her—just as she looked up at him.
Their gazes collided and locked. Time froze.
So did they, both captured by the moment.
The urge to kiss her—to taste her lips again—surged.
But her widening eyes, the comprehension and resistance he saw spiking there, had him reining back the impulse.
He rocked slightly with the effort, and she blinked and looked down, then eased away.
“Turn around.” Using her hands at his waist, she helped him shuffle around until he could sink onto the edge of the bed. As he did, she released him. Setting her palms to his shoulders, she pushed.
Obliging her, he fell and landed on his back on the sheet.
She stooped and slid an arm beneath his knees and, raising the covers, helped him swing his legs onto the bed.
He closed his eyes and shifted until he was lying straight. As she lowered and straightened the covers, he groaned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t imagine I would be that weak.”
She made a scoffing sound, but when he peeked through his lashes, he saw she was frowning, her expression declaring she was seriously concerned.
Sure enough, after resettling the covers, lips tight, she stepped to his side and slapped a hand to his forehead. After a second, she huffed. “Your fever’s rising. I should have checked earlier.”
She removed her hand, planted both hands on her hips, and bent an exasperated look on him. “I need to tell Mrs. Kemp so she can have Cook prepare you the right sort of broth.” She held his gaze, and there was not so much as a hint of encouragement in hers—just worry. “If I leave, will you remain in bed this time?”
Chastened, he simply said, “I promise.”
She gave vent to another huff, then lowered her arms and headed for the door. “I’ll be back in just a few minutes.” Before the door, she bent and picked up what he realized were the shears she’d gone to fetch. She set them on a nearby dresser, then opened the door and left.
Godfrey stared at the closed door for several minutes while their recent actions and reactions replayed in his mind. She was as attracted to him as he was to her—of that, he felt sure—yet for some reason, she was intent on holding him at arm’s length, metaphorically at least.
Why?
When all was said and done, he was not accustomed to such summary rejection from ladies of any age or station.
She returned within a few minutes. Judging by the tight set of her features, her temper had hardened.
So had his.
He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she halted beside the wing chair and, having retrieved her shears along the way, fixed him with a stern look. “Mr. Cavanaugh—”
“My given name is Godfrey.” The tone in which she’d spoken had been his last straw. “If you’re going to insist on pushing me into bed, then I believe it’s appropriate that we move to first name terms.”
He watched her intently—challengingly.
She returned his look through narrowing eyes, but then her features eased, and she stepped across the chair and sat down. “Very well. Godfrey. My given name is Eleanor, but everyone calls me Ellie.”
“Ellie.” It suited her, with her honey-colored hair and, he judged, usually cheerful and positive demeanor.
From the basket, she retrieved the garment she’d been mending and shook it out. “I hope when Cook sends up the broth, you’ll consent to drink it. Mrs. Kemp will have added a concoction of herbs that we hope will help reduce your fever. Because of the snow, there’s no chance of having the doctor visit, so the old remedies are the best we can offer.”
Now, he felt about five years old. He cleared his throat. “Of course. I’ll be grateful for any assistance that will get me out of this bed more quickly.”
He dipped his head and caught the upward twitch of her lips, but she schooled her expression to seriousness before glancing up.
“Good. That would be wise.”
He tried a smile of his own. From the easing of her expression, they’d got past their mutual spurt of temper and were on an even keel again. Seeking to further that state, he asked, “Tell me about the house and the household—given the storm, when I arrived, I didn’t get any view of the house. I have no idea of its size.”
“Well…” Her gaze once more on her stitching, she enumerated the denizens of Hinckley Hall, then went on to describe the building. “It was extensively remodeled in Elizabeth’s time into the classical three wings giving off a central spine. Because of the sheer number of rooms, one wing has been closed for…well, probably generations. Certainly for all of my life and, I believe, my father’s as well.”
It occurred to Godfrey that it was strange her father hadn’t come to see him, but questioning his host’s daughter about her father’s behavior seemed bordering on the impertinent. Instead, he listened, mentally creating a picture in his mind as she described the house’s attributes and outbuildings and included an outline of the estate as well. To him, the lands attached to the house seemed rather limited, but then the only estates with which he was familiar were those of the marquessates of Raventhorne and Albury—hardly comparable.
Still, from the sound of it, the estate’s farms should have been sufficient to meet the family’s needs; admittedly, he’d seen little beyond this room, but he would be surprised to discover the family lived extravagantly.
He wanted—very much—to learn what had prompted them to offer the Albertinelli to the gallery. Not that it would make any difference to his assessment, but he was forever curious about what led to the movement of artworks from one hand to another.
Still industriously stitching, she ended her recitation of the local amenities with the information that the family normally attended St. Andrew’s Church at Kirkby Malzeard for Sunday service. Pausing, she raised her head and, frowning slightly, stared across the room, then grimaced and looked down again. “I must remind Kemp that we’ll need to use the house’s chapel tomorrow.”
“The house has its own chapel?”
At his much-struck tone, she glanced at him, amused. “Yes. The Hall was one of the major houses in the area in Elizabeth’s day.”
He made a mental note to ensure he got a good look at the chapel. Who knew what treasures it might hold?