She lifted the blanket to reveal a pink gown Bee normally wore to breakfast. "Your favorite muslin, Miss Belinda."
"Good." She couldn't nurse Alastair in an evening gown. "Unlace me."
"Miss?"
"Mary, I must be comfortable. Now undo this gown and get me out of these stays."
"But, Miss!"
"Mary, I know what I'm doing." The house was full of guests, all of society, all prone to gossip. If anyone surmised she was here, if they even breathed that she ministered to a man in his chambers, she'd be a laughing stock. Everything she worked for, every rightful word or action that she'd made in the past three years would be for naught if she were discovered here. No restitution of her family name would ever be possible. But then she was not willing to pay the price of losing Alastair to his darkness. "I won't ruin the gown. And as long as no one knows, I won't ruin my reputation, either."
Alastair groaned. Put his head in his hands. "Stop the noise!"
"Quickly," she mouthed to Mary, then turned her back and let the girl work on relieving her of her formal clothes.
When she closed the door upon her, she hurried back to Alastair who had taken to rocking in the chair. Silent, staring into space, he was a man beset by horrors Bee could not see. Might not ever understand. But she could sit with him, abide with him, relieve him of his shoes and his waistcoat, pull out the tails of his shirt from his breeches and wipe his brow.
The warm water the footman had brought her served its purpose to bathe Alastair's face and neck and soothe him. He breathed more slowly and he looked at her with more awareness.
"Might you wish to go to bed? It would be a good idea for you to rest. Perhaps you'd like to change into a nightshirt?"
She wouldn't do that for him, of course. He'd have to. But he responded by pointing toward the chest of drawers.
"I'll look."
A footman had assembled Alastair's stockings, small clothes, stocks and shirts neatly in the small drawers. Struggling in the dim starlight streaming through the windows, she opened one drawer after another. And in the second, she found a folio atop a garment that looked like a new muslin nightshirt. As she lifted it out, the contents of the folio spilled to the rug. Berating herself for her clumsiness, she picked up a piece of paper that made her gasp.
"Oh, Alastair," she murmured as she re-read the words. "You acquired a special license."
"I did," he said from across the room. "I did. I love you, Bee. Love you. I wanted you for my wife. Always wanted you."
She stared at him, talking to himself more than her, his private world the one in which she walked with him through his battles. Then, now, his declarations gave her joy that here was the love that refreshed him and saved him. Here was the man whom she had loved and would all her life.
She'd not refuse him any longer. Pride held no measure to love. Self-concern held no glories compared to what they might create together. Somehow she would explain it to Marjorie and Del, arrange matters so that they did not feel abandoned by her. She never wanted them to live alone, deserted by her, their only kin.
She replaced the license and removed his nightshirt from the drawer.
Then on the morrow, when he was recovered—please God that be so—she would accept his proposal and never more deny him or herself the benefits of a mutual love that could grant them both a life of joy.
Chapter 7
He rolled to one side and noted warmth that enticed him. The rest he'd enjoyed suffused him with mellow recognition that the heat next to him was human. And supple. He opened one eye. Another.
Bee.
Bee?How is this possible?Bee in a pretty pink confection, her dark hair a cloud over the white linen pillow, her lush lips open and oh, my, snoring.
He chuckled silently. He stilled, recalling how he'd fled the musicale, that scoundrel Carlson sniffing after Bee.
But here she was inhisbed.
How in hell had she gotten here?
He rose up on one elbow. A survey of his bedroom told him few tales. Pushing down the blanket and coverlet, he saw he still wore his breeches. Well that was a relief. He'd not ravished his beloved while he was half out of his mind.
She sighed, rolled over and snuggled against his arm.
Happy Bee. Darling Bee.
