Of course, exploringthe estate’s issues was a minor distraction from Alex’s other all-consuming thought—
Lady Charlotte Whitaker.
Or, rather, Cousin Lottie.
Over the following week—once she genuinely believed his apology—a tentative friendship grew between them.
He found her a fascinating conundrum.
Heart-stoppingly beautiful and fiercely intellectual.
Quick to be his angelic caretaker, but just as ready to slice his logic with her wit.
Eager to read a French fairy tale or argue Greek sophistry.
And as her ladyship spent a good portion of her waking hours at his bedside—discussing philosophy, telling stories—it made thoughts of her rather difficult to corral.
“Is that better?” Lady Charlotte asked one afternoon a week later as she helped him adjust the pillow beneath his leg.
Alex was sitting upright and was dressed in a waistcoat and loosely-tied neckcloth. His clothing had finally arrived from Edinburgh with a lovingly chastising letter from Catriona. Alex was so grateful, he had only smiled at her cross words. Moreover, McNeal had not disappointed and sent a long letter, detailing every patient and their current course of treatment, as well as ending with an injunction to “stop fussing over us all like a mother hen.”
Alex’s leg had begun to heal in earnest. The dull aching pain had subsided, along with most of the swelling. There was still no trace of heat or fever, so Alex was hopeful that it would, thankfully, heal perfectly.
Even better, the starched bandages allowed more freedom of movement. He could now sit up unaided. But the stiff splint was heavy, and malaise from sitting so long in bed had set in. His back ached, and he feared he was developing pressure sores from being forced to remain in the same position. Alex wanted out of this bed, but his leg needed at least another week of healing before he attempted the Gooch-designed splint.
Until then, he had footmen place sheepskins underneath his sheets, as he had found the soft wool helped to wick away moisture and provide softer cushioning.
But sometimes the strain on one particular place began to feel like too much.
“A wee bit higher, if ye can,” Alex murmured, pressing his hands into the mattress and lifting his weight upward.
Cousin Lottie moved the pillows beneath his knee, relieving pressure on his leg muscles. Alex tried very hard not to think of her fine-boned hands just inches from his thigh, about the jolt that would scour him were she to inadvertently touch him.
“Is that better?” She stood upright.
Alex relaxed back, testing the position.
He nodded. “Thank ye.”
Cousin Lottie walked around the large tester bed and sat on the corner opposite from Alex, her back resting against the bedpost, her legs curled underneath her. It was a shockingly casual pose and one that suited Lottie enormously.
She wore a lavender gown that magnified the blue of her eyes. Alex surmised it was a favorite gown as it showed signs of wear. An equally worn Paisley shawl wrapped around her shoulders. The cloth of both was expensive—the cut immaculate—but the garments were obviously well-loved, the fabric rubbed to a soft nap. Items that spoke of comfort, not vanity.
Lottie sat on his bed because, in her words, it was something she had often done with Cousin Gabriel, and it felt cozy when winter raged outside.
Alex did not point out that they were well into February now and winter was on the wane.
Moreover, Lottie clearly thought of Gabriel as more of a brother, so sitting onGabriel’sbed was not beyond the pale.
Alex, however, did not fall into quite the same category of close cousin. He was fairly certain that sitting onhisbed was not entirely proper.
But he enjoyed Lottie’s company too much to say anything. And they both ensured that the door to the bedchamber remained open.
Vividly, the lingering weight of Lottie’s hand resting on his, days before, flitted through his mind. Had she touched Gabriel so casually?
Mmmm, it seemed likely.
The thought that her feelings for him were similarly platonic rankled.
