She must have fallen asleep at some point in the night, bent over his bed, her face pressed into the counterpane and her fingers tangled with his. When the sun roused her, she sat up stiffly and rubbed at the imprint of embroidery left on her cheek. She hoped she had not drooled.
She was busily examining the linens for telltale damp spots when Christian coughed, turned over, and clutched her hand.
She let out an undignified squeak and nearly pulled her hand away on startled reflex. Her gaze flew to his face. His eyes were a little heavy-lidded, shadowed beneath. He moistened his lips before he spoke.
“Matilda?” he said hoarsely. “You’re—are you—and Bea—”
She squeezed his fingers. “She’s all right. She’s perfectly well. She was in the house the whole time. I blame th-the cats.” The words caught in her emotion-tight throat.
Bea was safe. Christian was here, in bed, warm and dry andawake.
She reached up with her free hand and dashed away the tears that persisted in fogging her vision and dampening her cheeks.
“And you?” he said. “You’re well? I remember—the beach.”
“I’m fine. I was never in any danger. I found it all quite—quite—invigorating.”
He looked hard at her. The dark lashes fell over his gray eyes, and he leaned back into his pillow as though he might slip back into unconsciousness.
Matilda recognized that sudden weakness for what it was: relief.
She put her hand to his forehead, which was blessedly cool, and then leaned forward to check the rest of him. He had had a spectacularly bruised chest when his valet had undressed him the night before under Mrs. Perkins’s dour scrutiny, and she suspected his ribs would be horrendously painful for a few days. She tugged at the counterpane, revealing his plain white nightshirt and the tops of his bare legs.
“What the devil—” He yanked the counterpane out of her hands and pulled it back over himself, struggling into a seated position.
She blinked. “I am trying to check on your injuries, for heaven’s sake.”
He glowered at her. “I have no injuries.”
She straightened. “You have bruises the color of which I’ve never seen before. You might have cracked a rib. You were nearly frozen to death.”
“I feel fine.”
His gruff rasp belied his words. She scowled back at him. “Don’t be a dolt. If you like, I can call for Mrs. Perkins—”
“Yes,” he growled, “call for Mrs. Perkins.”
With a huff, she did. In the time it took for the housekeeper to make her way to the chamber, Matilda had muttered a number of imprecations under her breath aboutbuffleheaded menandgreat bearded nincompoops who would not know sense if it introduced itself to them on the street.
When Mrs. Perkins finally came in, her black dress crisp and neat despite the early hour—did she sleep upright, so she did not wrinkle?—she nodded gravely at Christian. “Your lordship? How can I—”
“Matilda,” he rasped.
Matilda looked at him in surprise, but he was not addressing her.
“I suspect she has not eaten and is too stubborn to request her own breakfast. Can you arrange for a tray? She likes eggs and toast. And chocolate.”
Something happened inside Matilda then. Some sweet, painful rearrangement of her insides, a confusion of surprise and tenderness and terrible hope.
Mrs. Perkins appeared to be wrestling against the smile that wanted to break out on her face. “Of course, my lord. Lady Beatrice is still asleep, but shall I send her in when she wakes?”
“Yes,” Christian said, “please.”
And then Mrs. Perkins was gone, and it was only the two of them, fingers still intertwined.
“Matilda,” he said grimly, “I am aware that I may have said some… disturbing things last night.”
“Oh,” she said. There was a plummeting, weightless feeling in her belly. Perhaps she had been wrong. Perhaps he wished he had not spoken so. Perhaps he wished she did not remember what he’d said on the beach. “Oh, no, I—I will not hold you to them, of course. You were delirious—”
