“Did you need something, Lady Ashley?” he asked, eyes half-lidded.
“No, she did not,” Maddie said firmly, trying not to sound breathless as she tugged her friend toward the door. “Sorry to disturb you. You need rest.”
He grunted something unintelligible as she hauled Ashley from the room and gently pulled the door shut behind them.
But not before Maddie cast one last glance back.
His head had rolled to the side, mouth parted slightly, one hand sprawled over the linens, the other across his ribs.
Nothing like the infuriating, sharp-tongued sparring partner she’d argued with at dinner. He looked… vulnerable. Disarmed. Raw.
He looked like a man who needed someone.
And that shouldn’t have made her heart ache.
Breakable.
She frowned.
If he knew she’d thought him pitiful, he’d be furious.
Not that it mattered. She was fairly certain his opinion of her wasn’t particularly glowing either.
With one last look, Maddie slipped from the room.
They stepped into the corridor, the door clicking softly shut behind them.
“Thomas wants him at the wedding,” Ashley said, casting a glance back. “But he looks like he’s going to have a funeral at the chapel instead.”
Maddie sniffed. “He does not. He has a cold.”
“A theatrical one.”
“I’ve been sicker than that and still attended my pianoforte lesson.”
Ashley arched a brow. “You also boiled herbs like a hedge witch and drank things that smelled of shoe polish.”
“Yes, and I recovered within the week.”
Ashley looped her arm through Maddie’s. “Which is why you should help him. For Thomas.”
Maddie hesitated.
Then lifted her chin. “I will,” she said.
But not for Thomas.
Chapter Seven
The sun hadjust risen over Elysian Fields, casting a soft, pinkish-orange glow over the freshly fallen snow. Sebastian groaned as he pulled his scarf over his riding gear, already regretting every decision that had led to this exact moment. His boots were polished, his coat pressed, and his bones aching. He knew Thomas wouldn’t let him skip the morning’s activities—not without reading disapproval into his absence. And if there was one thing Sebastian despised more than social obligation, it was being misunderstood.
Especially now, when he didn’t even understand himself.
Sick as a dog, his misery felt prophetic. His head was heavy, his mouth dry from sleeping with it open, and his nose—well, better not to speak of it.
The cook’s black tea had done little to soothe the raw sting in the back of his throat. Black tea, no matter how elegantly poured, couldn’t hold a candle to the minty, lemon-laced magic Miss Madeleine had left for him the day before.
He hadn’t tasted anything so gentle in years. Or been looked after quite like that, either.
