“I’m not likely to forget.” She pushed gently at his shoulders. “Now have a care for your wellbeing. You need to rest, and you need some sustenance. At least a bit.”
He allowed her to guide him back into the mound of pillows she’d arranged for him. He doubted she realized that her ministrations put the temptation of her beautiful bosom practically at eye level. The urge to press his face into the seductive swell was strong, but he rallied his self-control and refrained.
“I don’t want breakfast.” He settled for resting his hands on her waist. “Come, sit with me, won’t you?”
She eyed him warily. “I don’t think a man in your condition ought to…”
Her words trailed off, a sweet pink flush staining her high cheekbones. Damn, but she truly was an innocent. An innocent that he would happily debauch at the first possible opportunity now that she was his.
“You needn’t worry on that account,” he assured her. “When I bed you, it will be with my full strength. I merely want your company now.”
She hesitated, perhaps weighing her options. Or how much she trusted him against how black a reputation he possessed. “Won’t you eat something first, my lord? And then I shall sit with you to your heart’s content.”
If she was attempting to rout him, she would have to try harder than that. He had the determination of an entire army when sufficiently motivated. And Clara was certainly ample motivation. But he excelled at games of chance, and he knew sometimes a risk predicated a great reward.
And so he capitulated, releasing her. “What would you have me eat, love? Not theoeufs cocottes, if you please. The mere notion of eggs makes the bile rise in my throat.”
She straightened and stepped away from him with a swiftness that suggested she wasn’t as unaffected as she pretended. Her aquamarine morning skirt swished as she strode to examine the contents of the tray. “Perhaps some Bayonne ham and some bread would be more the thing, then? Would you care for tea as well?”
Some devil within him toyed with the notion of asking her to feed it to him, but he knew he didn’t dare press his luck. No one had ever waited upon him in such a manner who wasn’t a servant. The ladies of his past acquaintance would never have dreamed of taking on such a role, as it would have been beneath them. Likely, Clara’s equanimity was down to her American origins. Lesser women would have fled from the sight of a bleeding man. Lesser women would have fainted, called for a servant. Lesser women would never have shown the undeserved dedication she gave him now.
His appreciation for her grew by the second. “That will be sufficient,” he said through a throat gone suddenly thick with an emotion he didn’t care to question.
Silence descended upon the chamber as she removed the unwanted eggs, kidneys, and whatever else had been sent up, placing all on the table with care. At last, she lifted the tray and turned back to him. He studied the symmetry of her face and thought she would make a fine muse for an artist. Hers was a rare brand of beauty, the classical blended with the original. Cupid’s bow lips and blue eyes set apart by a decadent fringe of lashes, cheekbones exotic slashes. Her forehead was high, that errant eyebrow of hers a mark of endearment.
She placed the tray gently upon his lap. “Here you are, my lord.”
No, he was having none of that. His hands closed over hers on the handles of the silver tray. “Julian.”
Her gaze met his then, and he felt as if a spark settled deep into his gut. “Julian.”
He smiled, liking the way his name sounded in her drawl, wilder and more lush than it had ever sounded upon anyone else’s tongue. The dizziness was mercifully absent. Even the aching in his head had lessened. He released her again although the loss of touching her left him momentarily bereft.
But he was determined not to rush or press her. She would be worth the wait. “Sit with me, Clara?”
Her lips pressed together for a beat, and he feared she’d deny him. But then she nodded. “Of course.” She grabbed fistfuls of her skirts and hiked them up before sidling on his bed rump first.
The act was not meant to be sexual in the least, but his cock hadn’t softened since the bloody hall. Watching her scoot toward him made him even harder. She was very much in his territory now, on his bed at his side. Her musky orange scent enveloped him. As she slid her legs on the bed, he caught a glimpse of her trim, stocking-clad ankles and calves.
She attempted to settle herself with prim decorum at a safe distance from him but wound up being drawn closer by the sheer mechanics of his larger body sinking deeper into the bed. Soft, warm, delicious-smelling woman pressed to his side.
Ah, perfection.
“Forgive my lack of grace, if you please.” She glanced at him, cheeks tinged more red now than ever. The growling of her stomach punctuated her apology with comical timing.
He recalled that when he’d come upon her earlier, she’d been inundated with questions from his irrepressible sisters. She had yet to break her fast. She must be starving. And yet she’d not had a care for herself. Only for him.
Julian’s arm went around her waist, hauling her even closer. His hip brushed hers, the only barrier inhibiting him the crinoline cage that gave her skirts their fashionable shape. “You must be famished. Share breakfast with me. There’s enough here to feed a family.”
In anticipation of Clara’s arrival at his home, he’d hired the best cook he could find. The fellow was French and damned expensive, but worth the price. Along with Julian’s careful decoration of her chamber, it was the only expenditure he’d approved since signing the marriage contract that guaranteed him a tidy fortune. Using the funds hadn’t felt right. Not, at least, until Clara would reap their benefits as well.
“It is you who concerns me now, my lord.” She pressed a fork into his hand. “You need sustenance.”
The chamber swirled about him in an eerie dance just then, giving credence to her words. He was still weak. His mind still jumbled. His fingers tightened over the hilt of the fork. Yes, perhaps she was right, this persistent American wife of his, and he ought to eat after all. He’d need his strength if he was going to discover precisely who the hell it was that wanted him dead.
ady Ravenscroft.”
Clara looked up from the characters for domestics she’d been poring over, still startled to find herself the object of address. Whenever she heardLady Ravenscroft, she half expected someone else to take her place. Someone who’d been born and raised to the position of countess. A true lady, of noble blood, rather than a native Virginian with a rebellious streak a country mile wide.
