He gave a rakish grin. “Undress me.”
Shock punched through her, along with more of that liquid heat. Oh, she had undressed a man before, but only with one purpose in mind. And that was not—she could not—
“Nothing too scandalous,” he hastened to reassure her. “I would do it myself, but my arm is too great an impediment.” His grin didn’t reach his eyes, and she realised suddenly that he was probably in a great deal of pain. After his ride through the snow yesterday, he had likely jostled his arm, and now it would be feeling all the worse for it.
“What would you like me to remove?” she asked dubiously.
“Merely my shirt. I have another ready, courtesy of our hosts.” He nodded at his truckle bed. “All you need do is draw it over my arm in a manner that doesn’t cause me to collapse on the groundin a mess of tears and expletives. I would, of course, be most grateful.”
Yes, in the absence of Mr Chambers, the next logical person to help him would be her. And it wasn’t as though she had never seen a male body before. Her fingers tingled, and she curled them into fists.
This was a practical matter. Nothing more.
He raised his gaze to her, half self-deprecating, half amused. “I know there is nothing you would like to do less, but I am prepared to beg you in order to remove this monstrosity from my body.”
“Itisa little rumpled,” she allowed.
“Never has such an understatement been uttered in my life. I have never been so attired, Emily, and it is harming my ego to no end. The things I have endured in this shirt are not to be spoken of again, and I must wear something clean for the sake of my dignity if nothing else.”
Emily pressed a hand to her mouth, suppressing a laugh. “How dramatic you are. Very well. Come here.” She beckoned to him, and he came closer, shuffling until he sat beside her, his legs dangling over the edge of the bed, his face turned in her direction. His broken arm had been strapped to his torso, underneath his shirt, and he held himself stiffly.
“This may hurt,” she warned.
“I’m ready.”
She reached down to the hem of his shirt, which lay untucked. Her knuckles grazed the material of his breeches, and she exhaled before easing it up over his stomach.
Skin. She did her best not to notice, but that was almost impossible when he was so close, heat soaking into her. With her other hand, she reached around him a little, ensuring the shirt didn’t catch on his arm as she continued to draw it up.
He remained utterly still, not even seeming to breathe as she reached his shoulders. The muscles of his stomach were tense, she saw as she glanced down, and there was a tantalising line of hair leading down into his breeches.
She swallowed.
The last man she had seen divested of his clothes had been Marlbury, but they had both been seventeen, just coming into adulthood. This was very different—Oliver had left boyhood behind, and she had not known how very different a man would be. Slightly more filled out, though Oliver was by no means as bulky as some men could be.
He reached his hand out and gripped the shirt, tugging it free of his head. Emily jumped, relinquishing her hold, and flushed. She had been staring. Like some kind of lovestruck fool, she had been gawping at this poor man when all he wanted was her assistance.
“I—” She cleared her throat. “Do you need anything else? How is your arm?”
“Uncomfortable, but it’s well secured.” He rose, the shirt in one fist, and she glimpsed his back—the dip of his spine and the shifting muscles of his shoulder blades. Her mouth was dry, her heart pounding too fast. “I’m sorry,” he said, not facing her.
“No, no. Do you need me to—”
“No,” he said quickly, his back still to her as he picked up the new shirt and shook it out. “I can manage.”
Well, shehadhardly helped. It was hardly surprising he didn’t want her to stare at him any longer. How humiliating—she had always assumed she was better than this, but this morning she had been so utterly unprepared for a man in her space. A man, moreover, requiring her to take off his shirt.
With some visible difficulty, he wiggled into the shirt and tucked it into his breeches—Emily averted her gaze for that—and eventually stood mostly decent again.
“I’ll ask Mrs Chambers to bring you some breakfast,” he said, finally turning, a slight flush on his cheekbones. So she had embarrassed him too. Wonderful. “Until later.” He gave an oddly formal bow and left the room.
Emily put her head in her hands.
Oliver stood with his back against the door, breathing slowly.
What had happened to the shrew he had been so unwilling to consider marrying? Nothing about her had changed, but waking to the sound of her soft breaths had been akin to torture, and she hadn’t flinched at the prospect of removing his shirt.
No, if anything . . .
