Emily’s breath caught in her throat as she took the letter from Penny’s outstretched hand. The parchment appeared worn and creased, as though someone had folded and refolded it many times. Her fingers trembled slightly as she unfolded it, her curiosity mingling with shame, for she knew it was wrong to invade his privacy. Despite the pang of guilt, she proceeded.
“My dear Nicolas,” she read softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I implore you to make haste to London. The matter is of utmost urgency, and your presence is required to—” She stopped, her breath catching. A dark stain obscured the rest of the letter, likely from the snow that had soaked through his clothing.
Emily’s heart lurched as recognition sank in. This was that Nicolas Winters, the rake whose name had graced more than a few scandal sheets. And now, he lay unconscious in her home, vulnerable and at her mercy.
“Penny,” Emily said, her voice tight with recognition. “I believe we are hosting none other than Mr. Nicolas Winters. Scandalous son of the Earl of Quintin.”
The maid’s eyes widened in shock. “The second son of the Earl?” she gasped. “Mr. Winters, the notorious rake that even servants whisper about?”
“Indeed,” Emily said, her gaze fixed on his face. The man before her bore a striking resemblance to the Earl of Quinton, but she had never imagined this to be that Nicolas Winters, the charming rogue whose escapades had fuelled many a scandal in London. The man in her guest room seemed so far removed from the lively figure described in society’s gossip—so vulnerable, so far from the carefree libertine she had heard about.
Penny looked at her, wide-eyed. “What shall we do, my lady?”
Emily straightened, her resolve hardening. “We shall continue to care for him, as we have been. Mr. Winters is in need of our help, and we shall provide it, regardless of his reputation. Besides, his father is an acquaintance of my late husband. It is our duty.”
Penny nodded, her face pale but composed. “Yes, my lady.”
As Penny quietly left the room, Emily returned to her seat by the bed. Her gaze lingered on Nicolas’s face, her thoughts spinning. She had never met him before—at least, not formally—but his reputation had preceded him. She had heard the whispers, the stories of his exploits in London, the tales of his charm and mischief. But now, as she looked at him, none of that seemed to matter. He was a man in need, nothing more.
And yet, there was something unsettling about the situation, something that made her heart race whenever she thought of the name Nicolas Winters. She had always prided herself on seeing the best in people, on offering kindness where others might judge. But this... this was different. She could not ignore the feeling that she was treading on dangerous ground.
“Oh, Mr. Winters,” she said as she pressed a cool cloth to his brow. “What trouble have you found yourself in this time?”
As if in response to her voice, his eyelids fluttered again. Emily held her breath, watching as his eyes slowly opened, unfocused and glazed with fever. He blinked several times, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of his surroundings.
“Where...” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. His gaze moved sluggishly from the fire to the tapestries on the walls before finally settling on her.
Emily’s heart quickened. She reached for the glass of water on the nightstand and leaned forward, her voice soft but steady. “You are in Gilford Manor, Mr. Winters. Here, sip some water. It will help.”
With care, she lifted his head and held the glass to his lips. He sipped, his gaze never leaving hers. When he had taken enough, she set the glass aside and gently lowered him back onto the pillows.
“Lady... Gilford?” he rasped, his voice stronger now, though still rough from disuse.
Emily offered him a small smile. “Indeed. It seems fate has brought you to my doorstep this December.”
He tried to push himself up, but Emily laid a hand on his shoulder, gently pressing him back. “No, you must rest. You have been through quite an ordeal, and your body needs time to recover.”
He frowned, confusion flickering in his eyes. “How... how did I come to be here?”
“Two of my footmen found you near the road,” Emily explained, settling back in her chair. “You were unconscious in a snowbank with a rather nasty bump on your head. A horse was nearby.”
Nicolas winced, raising a hand to his temple. His fingers brushed against the cool cloth, and he let out a soft groan of pain.
“Easy now,” Emily said, leaning forward once more. “You have had a terrible fall, but you are safe now. Your horse is in my stable and well cared for. You need only to rest.”
He nodded weakly, though a flicker of stubbornness remained in his captivating green eyes. “Thank you, Lady Gilford,” he said, his voice laced with the remnants of his charm as exhaustion took over. “It seems… I am… in your debt.”
Emily busied herself adjusting the blankets, her fingers working with practiced ease while her heart betrayed her with a traitorous flutter. She had heard many things about Nicolas Winters, most of them scandalous, but nothing had prepared her for the man himself.
“It was nothing,” she replied, her tone even. “I could not leave you at the mercy of the storm. You are fortunate my footmen found you when they did.”
He chuckled, though the sound was strained. “Fortunate indeed.” His eyes closed for a heartbeat before he added, “Though I confess… I remember very little.” He drew in a ragged breath. “I suppose I have you to thank for my care?”
Emily glanced at him, her expression softening. “You have my household to thank. Now you must rest until you have fully recovered.”
He sighed, the effort of conversation clearly draining him, though the man seemed too stubborn to care.
“I imagine you are quite curious as to how I came to be in such a state,” he said, his voice strained.
