"I do not need a physician to tell me I am fine," he replied.
Alethea frowned, her gaze fixed upon the cut. It was not so terrible a wound, but the thought of him coming to harm turned her stomach in ways she had not expected.
"I would prefer the physician's opinion," she said quietly.
He studied her for a moment, as if considering how to reply. And then, with the same disarming certainty she recalled from that night at the ball, he reached up and cupped her cheek in his broad palm. The contact stole the air from her lungs.
His skin was warm, his thumb brushing the delicate hollow beneath her eye. Alethea's lashes fluttered, and she was certain he must feel the uneven pulse at her throat.
"My darling," he said, so gently she might have dreamt it, "you must not look so frightened."
The endearment unmoored her completely. She had never been anyone's darling. For an instant she thought she might weep from the sweetness of it.
"But you are bleeding," she whispered.
"Only a little." His smile grew, though it was tinged with fatigue. "If you fret so over a scratch, what will you do when I am old and grey?"
The words were teasing, but they settled into her heart with a hope she could not quite acknowledge. She tried to summon a reply, but all she could do was stare at him, feeling her composure unravel.
In earnest, she did not know how to react. His hand was so gentle upon her cheek, yet she felt as though she had been pinned in place. She could not have looked away from him if she tried. Oliver's thumb traced a tender line along the edge of her jaw.
This man makes me unable to breathe.
"Alethea," he murmured. "Thank you for worrying. But truly, I am fine."
He kissed her then, softly, as if to reassure her and himself. This kiss was nothing like the first one from the ball. It was slow and gentle. She let herself melt into the kiss, and when he pulled back she barely noticed. Oliver's dark eyes met hers with a tenderness that made her pulse race.
"I ought not have done that," he said quietly.
"No," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "But I am glad you did."
He did not seem to have a response ready for her but he seemed more at ease now, as though his defenses had been lowered.
"I should see to that cut," she managed, fighting to collect herself. "You must come into the kitchen."
He did not protest. Instead, he allowed her to take his hand and lead him down the corridor.
She lit a candle and filled a basin with water while he sat at the table. Kneeling in front of him, Alethea poured cool water over a clean cloth. Despite her fluttering nerves, she tried to focus on the task: gently dabbing the cloth to remove dirt from the scratch on his cheek.
"You needn't fuss."
"I am not fussing," she said primly, though her cheeks grew hot. "I am tending to my…" She faltered. Husband? Beloved? What was he to her, truly? "…to your injury," she finished.
He only inclined his head, as though he were too tired to contest it. She dipped the cloth in the basin and wrung it out, determined that her hands should not shake. But when she stepped closer, when she lifted her hand to press the damp linen to his cheek, she felt her composure shatter. His eyes were so close.
"Forgive me," she whispered as she touched the cloth to his skin.
"There is nothing to forgive."
Her heart fluttered. She dabbed carefully at the cut, watching as the last traces of dried blood disappeared. But she could not stop her thoughts from tumbling out.
"I do not know how to act around you," she confessed, "You…discompose me entirely."
His mouth curved, though his gaze did not waver.
"I rather think you discompose me as well."
The admission made her throat tighten. She set the cloth aside, bracing her hand lightly on his shoulder so she would not sway.
