Page 91 of The Marriage Method

Like.

Like.

Not I want you desperately. Not I’m mad for you. Not any of the passionate nonsense he’d uttered to her over the last two days. But like.

Yet, she’d spoken of their kissing again. Or rather, of their practicing kissing.

Miles would be a fool to believe any of it. She’d been suffering the aftereffects of a painful ordeal, both physically and emotionally. Not to mention the fact that she’d taken a generous dose of laudanum. If she remembered even half of what she’d said—or what they’d done—he’d be amazed.

“It’s early,” he said. “How’s your shoulder?”

“Sore.”

“And your head?”

She squinted at him from beneath her bare arm. “Splitting.”

“That’s to be expected.” He set the heavy tray down on the mattress beside her. “It’s the laudanum. You’ll feel better once you’ve had breakfast.”

Horus rose from his place beside her with a languorous stretch. He sharpened his claws on the counterpane.

Nell turned her face back into her pillow. “I couldn’t eat a morsel.”

“You will,” Miles assured. He nudged the shapely curve of her hip. “Can you sit up?”

Another groan. “Miles…”

“Cook’s gone to tremendous effort. I’d hate to return your tray untouched.”

Nell made a soft sound of complaint. “Oh, very well,” she grumbled. “For Cook’s sake.”

Folding her right arm protectively against her bosom, she struggled to a sitting position. The coverlet slid to her waist. Her long-lashed eyes were sleepy, and her unbound hair adorably rumpled. The short sleeves of her muslin chemise drooped low, exposing a tantalizing expanse of creamy porcelain skin.

But it wasn’t that which commanded Miles’s attention. It was the enormous bruise blooming where Silas’s fist had struck her.

Miles’s muscles tightened with cold fury to see it.

Garrick had warned him not to act. That to exact any form of vengeance on Silas would impede justice for Cowgill and Miss Brent. But in that moment, Miles didn’t care about his late gossip reporter, or even about the little orphan girl.

Turning abruptly, he strode out of Nell’s room through the connecting door to the bathing room and from there into his own darkened bedchamber. Absalom and Virgil were sleeping soundly on his bed. Miles passed them without a word, heading for his wardrobe.

He extracted one of his plain white linen shirts from inside. Twisting it into a semblance of a sling, he knotted the ends of it. Mrs. Bright would have likely come up with a more elegant solution, but Miles had no interest in involving the servants any more than was necessary. It was doubtless counterproductive given the circumstances, and very probably ill-advised, but he felt a fierce possessiveness toward Nell. If anyone was going to look after her while she recovered, it was going to be him.

Returning to her room, he found her nibbling a morsel of one of the honey cakes, her hair tumbling about her shoulders in a chaos of flaxen waves. Horus stood over her breakfast tray, tail twitching as he presumptuously sniffed the plate of smoked herring. Nell made no move to discourage him.

Miles picked up the cat and unceremoniously dropped him onto the floor. Horus stalked off across the carpet with offended dignity. “You shouldn’t permit his impudence.”

“I daren’t do otherwise,” Nell replied as she popped a crumb of cake into her mouth. “He’s been in residence far longer than I have.”

“You’re mistress here now,” Miles said. “It’s your home, as well as his.” He lifted the makeshift sling. “If I may?”

She gave it a dubious look. “Is that one of your shirts?”

“It is.”

An endless pause. “Well,” she said. “I expect it will do.”

She held herself still as a statue while he placed it over her neck, wincing only once as he carefully settled her bent arm in the cradle of the sling.