The princess sighed heavily. “And after what my sisters have so recently escaped in Boritania under our uncle’s spurious rule, I would never again place either of them in harm. Thank you for your wise counsel, Miss Brett. I can always count on your excellent knowledge of theton. Your advice is indispensable. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Eleanora smiled, pleased to know the princess considered her such a vital part of the household. Her circumstances were always tenuous at best, but Princess Anastasia and Mr. Tierney were the kindest employers she had yet known. They listened to her opinions, treated her with the utmost respect, and best of all, Mr. Tierney was madly in love with his wife. Eleanora didn’t have to contend with wandering eyes or hands, and it was a welcome relief. Indeed, she felt, for the first time in as long as she could recall, comfortable.
Which was why she was also fearful that at any moment this idyll might end. Experience suggested it would.
“You need not thank me, Your Royal Highness,” she said modestly. “I am merely performing the duty you have hired me for. It is my honor to attend Princess Emmaline and Princess Annalise and to act as a guide in whatever capacity I may offer.”
“I do wish you might call me Stasia,” the princess said wistfully.
It was not the first time the princess had made such a request. But Eleanora was keenly aware of the vast disparity in their social standings. And she had come to understand that it was of the utmost importance that she refrain from becomingtoo friendly with her employers. The invisible division between them must remain.
“You honor me, Your Royal Highness, but I dare not,” she demurred, trying to keep her voice gentle.
“Of course not. You are a paragon of virtue, Miss Brett.” Princess Anastasia chuckled, standing. “Quite unlike myself. I applaud you for it. And now, I suppose I must let you retire to your chamber for a spot of rest after your shopping expedition with my sisters.”
Eleanora rose as well, relieved by the princess’s understanding.
She offered a curtsy. “Thank you, Your Royal Highness.”
But as Eleanora took her leave of the drawing room and ascended the stairs, it wasn’t her own chamber she found herself visiting. Her feet, quite of their own accord, took her to another’s.
CHAPTER 7
Nando was beginning to despair that he had truly died the day he’d been wounded, and that, given his sinful nature and depraved past, he’d been consigned to his fate—a hell consisting of lying in bed like an invalid, presided over by a scowling Bruno and the occasional maidservant who delivered him trays of broth and gruel.
It was, in a word, mind-numbingly horrid.
No, he reckoned that was two words.
Anyway, he was weary unto death of looking at Bruno and the maid, who rather resembled a mouse in both her countenance and her bearing and refused to meet his eye when she delivered the slop he was meant to eat.
He had been lying abed long enough.
Grimly, Nando threw back the bedclothes with his uninjured arm and swung his legs to the side. He was wearing a dressing gown—not for his sake, but for that of the mousy maid—and nothing else. But he didn’t give a damn. Nude was his preferred state, and he didn’t care if the damned maid arrived with the next tray of swill and the sight of his bare feet and calves made her swoon. He was getting out of this cursed bed.
Now.
Bruno, as predicted, hastened to his side, his expression one of stark worry. “Your Royal Highness, you must rest. What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” he grumbled, feeling rather like a raging bull who had been made to remain still and silent in a barn. “I’m standing up.”
“But your wound.”
“I need to take a piss,” he snapped. “Would you like to hold my prick whilst I do it?”
Bruno paled. “O-of course not, Your Royal Highness. That is, unless Your Royal Highness would prefer me to do so?”
“Deus,” Nando grumbled. “No. Get out of my way and leave me in peace to do what I must.”
Bruno, looking crestfallen, nodded. “It is my fault you were wounded, Your Royal Highness. If I had but been more vigilant, none of this would have happened.”
He took pity on the mammoth man, who looked as impossibly out of place in this gilded and overwrought chamber as Nando felt. “The fault lies in whoever shot me, Bruno. But I still wish to be alone. Go to the kitchens while you wait and see if you can procure me something other than the vile broth that little mouse has been delivering to me, won’t you?”
Bruno nodded, tugged at his forelock in a show of respect, and bowed before hastily taking his leave of the chamber.
Nando knew a moment of guilt for his vulgarity and animosity. But it quickly faded when he was reminded of how his bodyguard had conspired with Tierney to keep him trapped here under the guise of healing. The sole reason he had allowed himself to linger after it had become apparent that he wouldn’t die after all—much to the dismay of the bastard who’d shot him, no doubt—was because he wanted to see more of Eleanora. But his delectable spinster hadn’t appeared since she had slipped from his room in the midst of the night. And he was rather crosswith her for staying away. Cross with anyone responsible for keeping her from him.
That included bloody Bruno.
