“How in heaven’s name did you manage shards to both your chest and back?” she asked, frowning with genuine alarm.
He gave a short, rueful laugh. “By falling twice.”
Her eyes widened. “Twice?”
His dark green eyes gleamed with amusement, and a touch of something more elusive, richer. “I tried to right the cabinet after it fell,” he said, his mouth twitching. “It overbalanced again. Took me with it a second time.”
She swallowed and knelt before him so she could see the injury properly. It was near his ribs. A sliver of glass protruded, glinting faintly in the candlelight. She reached for her tools, then braced her arm against his thigh for balance—
And froze.
The sensation startled her. Beneath her fingertips, his muscles tensed, warm and firm through his trousers. She became acutely aware of the quiet intimacy between them, the stillness of the room, the steady heat of his body, and the clean, earthy scent of him that filled the air. Not soap. Not cologne. Just… the viscount.
Her gaze flicked up and met his. He was already watching her. Something was unsettling in his expression. Not overtly improper, not entirely chaste. He wasn’t leering, nor was there any coarse invitation in his stare. But there was heat there, coiled and resting beneath the surface, cloaked in civility. A look that was, in itself, a contradiction. Civilized restraint and something else—wicked, knowing, and far too unreadable.
Another sensation, warm and unsettling, unfurled low in her belly, a pulsing heat that made her breath catch. It was unfamiliar, unnerving, and yet she did not recoil from it. Her hand trembled slightly, and she pressed her palm to her middle as if she might quiet the fluttering within.
Oh God. What is this?
CHAPTER 7
Maryann’s heart gave a startled skip, but she schooled her features into a mask of calm indifference. “I… I must remove the shard,” she said, her voice soft, her throat curiously dry.
He inclined his head. “Do as you must, Miss Winton.”
Carefully, she took the tweezers in hand, and with his breath warm above her crown, she leaned in. Maryann adjusted the tweezers in her fingers, her movements slower now, more cautious. His skin was warm and stretched over the hard planes of muscle that seemed to have been carved rather than formed. Another peculiar heat pulsed beneath her collar, and she could not deny the flicker of feminine admiration that curled through her belly. His chest rose with each breath, and she watched, momentarily mesmerized by the rhythm, by the strong lines of his body and the faint trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers.
Her fingers trembled.
No.
She clenched them tighter around the tweezers and forced herself to focus, but her hand shook at the precise moment she touched the glass. It shifted. He hissed through his teeth.
Maryann gasped, horrified. “I’m so sorry!” she breathed, her cheeks flooding with color. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” he said, his voice a little strained.
But she dared a glance up and faltered into stillness. He was still watching her. His head was tilted slightly downward, his green gaze lowered in a way that did something alarmingly to her insides. The air between them changed, the silence no longer companionable, but charged.
If she lifted her mouth just a few inches… hers would press against his.
The thought was wild. Improper.Impossible.
And yet it struck her so swiftly, so vividly, that her breath came short. She tore her gaze away, appalled with herself. Had she lost her senses? She’d not even known she was capable of imagining such… boldness.
Steadying herself, she drew in a quiet breath and resumed her task. Carefully, she eased the glass free and reached for the magnifying lens to ensure there were no remaining fragments. When satisfied, she took a fresh cloth, soaked it in brandy, and dabbed at the wound with firm but gentle care, all the while avoiding his gaze.
He remained perfectly still beneath her ministrations. Too still. She could feel the tension in his frame, as though he, too, was grappling with something unspoken. At last, she wrapped a clean linen around the injury, tying it off with a soft tug.
“There,” she whispered, standing. But the movement pulled too quickly on her leg, and pain shot through her calf like fire. She cried out, stumbling forward as a cramp seized the muscle.
He reached out instantly, catching her by the waist. “What is it?”
“My leg,” she gasped, biting back another cry. “A cramp—my calf—”
Without waiting for protest, he bent and swept her into his arms, cradling her against him as though she weighed nothing. He crossed the room in a few unhurried strides and gently lowered her onto the sofa.
“You did not need to lift me, my lord. The sofa was quite near.”
