As she held up the book of sonnets, Emily studied his face, searching for any sign of recollection or distress. But his expression remained open and amused, betraying nothing of his mysterious arrival on her property. She bit her lower lip, wondering once more if she should give him the letter.
“Ah, the Bard himself,” he said, eyeing the book. “Come to rescue me from my own inferior verses. How kind of you, my lady.”
Emily’s fingers tightened on the book, her internal debate raging. Should she mention the letter? He was regaining strength, but the roads remained treacherous and he was far from recovered. The moment stretched taut with unspoken words.
Her hesitation was cut short as she noticed a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. Concern overtook her conflicted thoughts, and she set the book aside.
“Mr. Winters, you are burning up,” she said, her voice laced with worry. She reached for the basin of cool water on the nightstand, wringing out a fresh cloth.
“Am I?” he asked, his eyelids drooping. “And here I thought your radiant presence simply overwhelmed me.”
She shook her head, a mix of exasperation and amusement coloring her features. Even in his weakened state, the man’s charm seemed irrepressible. She leaned forward, pressing the cool cloth to his forehead.
“I daresay your fever has addled your wits, sir,” she said, her tone softening as she tended to him, “but I see your humor is as intact as ever.”
His eyes fluttered open at her touch, and a playful smile tugged at the corners of his lips. “On the contrary, my lady,” he said, his voice a near whisper. “I find my spirits quite buoyed by your attentions.”
Emily felt a warmth creep into her cheeks that had nothing to do with the fire crackling in the hearth. She fussed over the cloth, hoping it would calm both his fever and her own racing heart.
She chided herself for allowing her thoughts to wander. A respectable widow had no business entertaining such notions—yet here she was, her heart betraying her reason with every glance in his direction. It would not do to encourage such flirtations, no matter how charming the man might be.
“You flatter me, Mr. Winters,” she said, her voice steady despite her inner turmoil. “But your recovery should be your primary concern.”
Emily settled into the chair beside his bed, smoothing her skirts as she sought to regain her composure. She reached for the book she had brought, her fingers tracing the embossed leather cover.
“Perhaps some reading might aid your recovery.” She held the books up. “I have brought Wordsworth’s ‘Lyrical Ballads,’ along with Shakespeare’s sonnets. I find poetry quite soothing.”
Mr. Winters’ eyebrows arched playfully. “My dear Lady Gilford, your melodious voice would be far more effective in lulling me to health than mere words on a page.”
Emily felt her cheeks warm once more, but she refused to be flustered. “I see your silver tongue remains unaffected by your ailment,” she said, a hint of amusement in her voice. “One might think you were trying to charm the entire household.”
“Only the parts of it that matter.” He winked, then grimaced slightly.
Concern overtook Emily’s features. She leaned forward, adjusting the cloth on his forehead. “Come now, Mr. Winters. Let us set aside this banter for the moment. Your health is of paramount importance. You really must be serious.”
Determined to regain her composure, she cleared her throat and opened the book.
As she did so, she could not help but wonder how long it would be until he remembered something, or everything, about his mysterious arrival. Surely, if he already had, he would have mentioned it. She pushed the thought aside, focusing instead on the task at hand.
“We shall begin with ‘Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey’,” she said, her voice taking on a soothing cadence as she read aloud.
Emily’s voice filled the room, the soothing words of Wordsworth’s poetry flowing from her lips like honey. As she read, her gaze flicked occasionally from the page to Mr. Winters’ face, noting the rapt attention with which he listened. His gaze, more often than not dancing with mischief, was now fixed upon her with an intensity that sent a nervous thrill down her spine.
“Five years have passed; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters. And again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur...”
He shifted his gaze to Emily’s face. “You read beautifully,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “I can almost feel the cool mist of the river on my skin.”
As his gaze held hers, a sudden tension passed between them, one that went beyond the surface flirtation. Her pulse quickened, and for a moment, she forgot the lines she had intended to read.
A small smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I am glad you are finding it so immersive. Poetry has always been a balm for my soul in times of distress.”
She continued reading, her voice painting vivid pictures of the natural world. As she spoke of “steep and lofty cliffs” and “wild secluded scenes,” Emily found herself transported as well, memories of peaceful walks through the estate’s grounds flooding her mind.
