After some time, her voice began to tire. She finished the poem, placing a silk bookmark between the pages before setting the book aside. Her gaze lingered on Mr. Winters, taking in the sheen of perspiration on his brow.
“I believe it is time to refresh your compress.” She reached for the cloth. As she gently dabbed his forehead, she could not help but notice the way his gaze followed her every movement. There was something in his expression—something beyond his usual charm and wit—that made her breath catch.
She leaned in closer, her voice low, soothing. “You must rest now in order to regain your strength.” Her warm breath ghosted across his cheek, causing a slight shiver to run through him. “I shall return later with your supper.”
He offered a roguish grin, despite his fevered state. “Promise me it will not be gruel, my lady. I fear I might expire from boredom if subjected to such bland fare.”
A soft chuckle escaped her lips. “I assure you, sir, our cook takes great pride in her invalid dishes. You will find supper both nourishing and palatable.”
“Ah, but will the feast be as delightful as your company?” he said, his voice roughened by fatigue but still carrying that teasing lilt.
She felt a blush creep up her neck. “I am certain you will survive the brief interlude without my presence, Mr. Winters,” she said, her tone admonishing but tinged with amusement.
As she rose from her chair, Emily’s movements were fluid and graceful. She smoothed her skirts, acutely aware of his gaze following her.
“Until later,” she said, offering a small curtsy. “Do try to get some rest.”
He nodded, his eyes already beginning to droop. “I shall dream of poetry and kind-hearted widows,” he teased, a ghost of a smile flirting at the edge of his lips.
Emily paused at the door, her hand on the latch. She glanced back, taking in the sight of him, his dark hair tousled against the pillow, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. A warmth spread through her, tinged with the quiet thrill of having spent time with him again.
With a gentle click, she closed the door behind her, her thoughts swirling with conflicting emotions. It had been far too long since she had kept company with a man. Since a man had made her blush and long for more…
Her footsteps echoed against the carpeted corridor as she made her way back to her sitting room. Her mind wandered to the gentle cadence of his voice, the way he remained lighthearted, even through his illness. She shook her head, trying to dispel the longing that spread through her at the memory.
This is folly, she thought, her fingers absently tracing the pattern on the wallpaper as she walked. He was not for her.
As she rounded the corner, she nearly collided with her housekeeper.
“Oh! My apologies, Mrs. Thatcher.” Emily startled from her reverie.
The older woman’s gaze twinkled knowingly. “No harm done, my lady. I trust Mr. Winters is resting comfortably?”
Emily nodded, fighting to keep her expression neutral. “Yes, quite. Though I fear his appetite for teasing remains undiminished by his illness.”
Mrs. Thatcher chuckled. “Aye, that one’s a charmer, no doubt. Reminds me of my late husband, God rest his soul. I do believe Mr. Winters is a refreshing distraction, my lady.”
“Mrs. Thatcher,” Emily said, “surely you are not suggesting?—”
“I’m suggesting nothing, my lady.” The housekeeper grinned. “Merely observing that a bit of laughter does wonders for the spirit, especially during trying times.”
Emily sighed, her resolve wavering. “Perhaps, but a respectable widow such as myself?—”
“—deserves happiness,” Mrs. Thatcher finished firmly. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but I’ve known you since you were a girl. You’ve carried your burdens with grace, but even the strongest shoulders need rest.”
Emily’s eyes stung with unexpected tears. “Thank you, Mrs. Thatcher,” she said softly. “Your kindness means more than you know.”
As the housekeeper bustled away, Emily continued her walk, her thoughts a tumultuous mix of longing and propriety. Mr. Winters was a rogue, yes, but there was a gentleness beneath his rakish exterior that called to her. Still, she had responsibilities—to her son, to her reputation, to the memory of her late husband.
There could be no future with Mr. Winters, she reminded herself. And yet, no matter how often she told herself that, her traitorous heart whispered of possibilities.
Five
The door creaked open as Emily stepped into Nicolas’s chamber, a servant carrying a tray laden with steaming broth, hearty stew, freshly baked bread, and a strawberry tart behind her. The comforting aroma of the food mingled with the scents of beeswax and firewood enveloping the room.
Propped against the pillows, his hair neatly combed, Mr. Winters looked better than he had since he’d arrived at Gilford Manor. His eyes, though weary, gleamed with determination, and the flush of fever had left his face.
“I trust you are feeling better this evening?” Emily inquired, offering a gentle smile as she placed her hand on his forehead. “I daresay the fever has broken.”
