“Fitzwilliam will not tolerate this blemish on your character or this—all night in a bachelor’s residence.”
“How did you know where I was?”
“I was at the club. Fitzwilliam was there. Said he sent regrets to the Morelands. He wasn’t of a mood to attend their affair with you at home nursing a headache. A headache. Of all things. You’ve never suffered so much as a sniffle. When I returned home and discovered you were not about, I confronted the carriage driver. He confessed to bringing you here. What sort of madness is this? Without your reputation, you have nothing.”
She stepped forward and touched his cheek. “I saved Sebastian once before. I can do it again.”
Winslow glared at Tristan. Tristan merely shrugged. “I tried to convince her to leave, my lord. She’s rather set on staying. One of the female servants is with her. I can send them all up if it’ll put your mind at ease. We owe her our lives. We would never take advantage of Mary.”
“It doesn’t matter if you do or not. The gossips will have a field day with this.”
“I’ll explain to Fitzwilliam,” Mary offered. “He’ll understand.”
“Don’t count on it, my girl. And then what? No other man will have you. Men do not fancy spoiled goods.”
“She’s not spoiled,” Tristan ground out.
“In the eyes of Society she will be.”
“Only if you say anything,” Mary said quietly. “If you back my story that I was abed with a migraine, no one need know differently.”
Tristan watched Lord Winslow struggle with his decision. He could only hope he never had any daughters. They appeared to be a great deal of bother.
Finally, Winslow nodded. “The matter of your presence here is to stay between us. I’ll have your word on that, Lord Tristan.”
“You have it.”
“All right then. When you can return home, Mary, you do so by cover of night.”
Instead of answering, she stepped forward, hugged her father, and whispered, “Thank you.”
Then she was scampering back up the stairs to care for her patient.
“She’s a brave girl, Winslow,” Tristan said somberly.
“That will be little consolation, my lord, if word of her presence here does get out.”
His arm was dead. Yet he would not move because to do so would be to awaken her.
She was in a precarious position much worse than a kiss in a garden. She was in his bed, her head nestled on his shoulder, and although he couldn’t quite feel it, he knew his arm held her near. It didn’t matter that she was fully clothed.
She was in his bed.
How long had she been here? How long had the fever raged? His side ached, was tender. He remembered fleeting images: the physician, Tristan. Rafe. Briefly. Once.Don’t you dare leave me again. Or was that a dream? Mary. Cool water trickling down his throat. Cool cloth on his brow. Gentle reassurances, soft voice. Mary’s voice. Always Mary. Tender touches. Mary. Encouragement. Mary. Awful-tasting broth. Mary. The fading scent of orchids. Mary.
Her hair had escaped the ribbon she’d been using to hold it back while she nursed him. So thick. So curly. However did she manage to pile it all on her head as she did? With the arm that still had feeling, he sifted his fingers through the strands that appeared to be coarse but felt like silk. Just like that night when he’d thrust his hand into her hair, thrust his tongue into her mouth. Barbarian. For a few moments, lost in her, he’d been able to leave behind the decisions that haunted him, the scars that marred—
With a jerk, he touched his face. Dammit! Where was the patch?
He twisted. On the far table. He couldn’t reach it, pinned beneath her weight as he was.
She moaned, sighed, and he realized that his movements had disturbed her. Thank God, she was nestled on his good side. He could save her the grotesqueness. Although it was a bit late to spare her completely.
She lifted her head, squinted. “Relax. That side is in shadow.”
Her voice was that of a woman roused from slumber, and something in his belly tightened as he imagined her rousing from slumber after a night of passionate lovemaking.
A night with Fitzwilliam.
