She reached for the basin at the bedside table at the same time he did. Their hands submerged together in the chilled water, fingers tangling beneath the surface.
Neither moved away, savoring the heat of their contact despite the cold.
“Please. Allow me,” he whispered, his thumb trailing over the back of her hand before he withdrew to wring out the cloth. “You’ve been holding him for some time now. Your back must be aching at this point. It is my turn.”
“Perhaps, but it is a good ache,” she replied, her voice dropping to a low, intimate register. “I would hold him until the sun died if it meant he’d breathe easier.”
“Imogen,” Ambrose paused, the damp cloth hovering. “You care for them. Truly. Don’t you?”
“How could I not? They are the brightest things in this house, in my life really.” She looked at him pointedly. “Perhaps the only people in this house that don’t care about titles or decorum.”
Ambrose let out a short, dry breath that might have been a laugh if he were not so clearly exhausted. “A subtle jab,Miss Lewis?”
“I am never subtle,Your Grace. I thought you had realized that by now.”
He moved closer, easing Philip back onto the pillows as the boy’s coughing finally subsided. They adjusted the lighter quilts around his chin, and in doing so, their heads brushed together in an awkward, accidental collision. A faint smile tugged at Imogen’s lips, and Ambrose’s eyes softened at the moment’s clumsiness.
Time seemed to freeze. Ambrose didn’t pull back. For that, Imogen could have gotten on her knees and thanked the Lord. He stayed there, frozen in time, his forehead touching hers.
“Thank you,” he breathed as he finally pulled back, which she followed. They looked at each other from opposite sides of the bed.
“For what?”
“For being here.”
“There is no place I would rather be. I enjoy my position in this household, in sickness and in health.”
“Most governesses would have left such grunt work to the household servants to handle; it is beyond schooling and basic care.”
“I am not most governesses, nor am I most people.”
“I am painfully aware of that,” he said as he ran his hand along his bearded jaw, looking at her with a hunger she could not name.
“Painfully?”
“Oh, most certainly,” he said as he raised an eyebrow. “Well, what now?”
“We wait.”
And so, they both sat at opposite ends of the room in cushioned chairs, watching carefully as Philip slept.
Chapter Seventeen
By four, a miracle occurred.
Philip’s skin turned from frightening scarlet to dewy pink. His breathing leveled into the heavy, honest rhythm of dream-filled sleep. The boy would need several days of rest, but he would surely be all right.
In the morning, Imogen knew that the physician would come to check on him to be sure. Down the hall, Arthur let out a soft snore, tucked deep into his own dreams.
Ambrose leaned forward in his chair, his shirt damp and clinging to his chest in the candlelight. He looked at Imogen, who was leaning her head against the wall, her eyes closed in a moment of sheer exhaustion.
“He’s through it,” he whispered, the words sounding like a prayer. “Look at his skin.”
Imogen opened her eyes, a tired, beautiful smile spreading across her face. “He is. He’ll be asking for a massive breakfast by noon, I suspect.”
Ambrose got up from his chair and walked toward her, his hand hesitating before he finally rested it on the back of her chair. It was a grounding, heavyweight that made her tremble.
“Go to bed, Imogen. That is an order from your employer.”
