“I am,” Emily admitted, her tone measured. “But that is a tale for another time. You must regain your strength first.”
His gaze lingered on her face, a hint of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. “And here I thought Lady Gilford would be more demanding.”
Emily could not suppress a smile. His reputation for charm was well-earned, it seemed. “I have plenty of questions, Mr. Winters, but they can wait. For now, you must rest.”
His eyelids fluttered again, the weight of exhaustion pulling him back toward sleep. “As you wish,” he said, his voice fading as he drifted into slumber.
Emily remained at his bedside long after he had fallen asleep, her mind filled with thoughts of the scandalous rake now lying in her guest room. He had a reputation, certainly, but beneath the gossip and the scandal, she sensed there was more to him than met the eye.
Eventually, she rose from the chair, her movements quiet as she left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
As she walked down the hall, the familiar weight of duty settled over her, but this time, a whisper of something new accompanied it. Something unsettling. Her life had been orderly, predictable—but now, with Nicolas Winters under her roof, she could not shake the feeling that it was about to change irrevocably.
Four
The following day, Emily sat at her mahogany writing desk, the soft scratch of quill on parchment filling the air as she reviewed the menus for her son’s upcoming school break. The afternoon sunlight streamed through the leaded-glass windows, illuminating the gentle curves of her face.
Cook’s roast pheasant with chestnut stuffing, she thought, a soft smile playing on her lips. Mathew always adored that dish. Her heart fluttered with anticipation as she imagined her son’s delight upon returning home to his favorite meals.
As Emily continued to pen her notes, her thoughts drifted to Mr. Winters. She wondered about his culinary preferences, her quill hovering above the parchment as she contemplated.
Perhaps he favors hearty stews, she mused, then shook her head with a soft laugh. Oh, Emily, you must not pry into the affairs of your guests.
Yet, as she returned her attention to the menus, she could not quite shake the image of Mr. Winters’ teasing eyes and the way they seemed to dance with amusement whenever they conversed. A faint blush rose to her cheeks as she recalled their last encounter. His humor persisted, even as he struggled through his fever.
It would be remiss of her not to ensure his comfort, Emily reasoned, attempting to justify her curiosity. After all, a proper hostess should attend to her guests’ needs.
She tapped her quill against her chin, lost in thought. But would it be too forward to inquire directly? Did it matter, given his reputation?
A gentle knock at the door interrupted Emily’s internal debate. “My lady,” came the voice of her housekeeper. “I have brought you some tea.”
“Thank you,” Emily replied, grateful for the distraction. As the older woman entered with a silver tray, Emily’s gaze fell upon the steaming pot of tea and delicate china cups. An idea struck her.
“Mrs. Thatcher,” she began, her tone carefully measured, “I was wondering if you might have noticed any particular preferences Mr. Winters has shown regarding his meals?”
The housekeeper’s eyebrows raised slightly, but she answered without hesitation. “Why yes, my lady. The gentleman seems quite partial to Cook’s beef Wellington and has praised her apple tarts most enthusiastically.”
Emily smiled at this newfound information. “How fortuitous. Thank you, Mrs. Thatcher. You have been most helpful.”
As the housekeeper curtsied and left the room, Emily turned back to her planning with renewed vigor. Her quill flew across the parchment, adding Mr. Winters’ favorites alongside Mathew’s preferred dishes.
“There,” she said, satisfaction evident in her voice. “A menu to please both my dear son and our unexpected guest.” That is, if Mr. Winters remained for Christmas.
Emily’s cheeks warmed at the thought, and she chided herself for such improper musings. Yet, as she glanced out the window at the snow-covered grounds, she could not help but feel a ripple of anticipation for the days to come.
She rose from her desk, her fingers grazing the spine of a leather-bound volume of Shakespearean sonnets. With a decisive nod, she plucked the book from its resting place and cradled it against her chest before grabbing another. The weight of the books steadied her resolve as she made her way toward Mr. Winters’ chamber.
As she traversed the corridor, her mind whirred with conflicting thoughts. What if he had remembered why he was traveling? Her pace slowed as she mulled it over. Or worse, what if he had not? How long could she justify withholding the letter? Would he make a hasty departure once he remembered? The carpet muffled her footsteps, but her heartbeat seemed to echo in the quiet hallway.
She paused before his door, drawing a deep breath. “Come now, Emily,” she chided herself softly. She was simply checking on an ill guest. Nothing more. Yet, as she raised her hand to knock, she could not ignore the flutter in her stomach.
Her knuckles barely grazed the wood when a muffled voice called out, “Enter, if you must,” came the reply, full of mock suffering. “Though I fear I am a lost cause today.”
Her lips curved into an involuntary smile at his playful tone. She pushed the door open, stepping into the warm, fire-lit room. “I do hope I am not disturbing your theatrical musings, Mr. Winters.” Her gaze moved to his form, propped up against a mound of pillows.
“Lady Gilford,” His eyes twinkling with mischief despite his pallor. “you could never be a disturbance. Though I must say, your timing is impeccable. I was just about to pen a sonnet about the abject misery of convalescence.”
Emily chuckled, settling into the chair beside his bed. “Well, we cannot have that. I have brought something that might lift your spirits and save us all from your poetic lamentations.”
