He was not entirely certain why he insisted—only that something in him baulked at delegating this task. Miss Collard was in pain. He wished to be the one who brought her some measure of comfort, however small.
It was irrational. Probably improper.
He did it regardless.
Ten minutes later, armed with a hot water bottle wrapped in a clean towel and a cup of raspberry leaf tea prepared under MrsMcConnor’s vigilant supervision, Nathaniel made his way back along the corridor.
He knocked again, more tentatively this time.
“It is Lord Greystone,” he said. “I have the bottle. And tea.”
A pause. Then the door opened a few inches.
Miss Collard peered out at him. She had exchanged her day dress for a nightgown and wrapper—plain, serviceable garments—and her hair had been taken down, falling in loose waves about her shoulders.
Nathaniel had never seen her thus. The sight lodged unexpectedly in his chest.
“You truly did it,” she said, sounding faintly incredulous. “You went to the kitchen in the midst of a storm to fetch me a hot water bottle.”
“I—I said I would.”
“I assumed you would come to your senses and dispatch a servant.”
“Mrs McConnor proposed much the same. I declined.” He held out the bottle and the cup. “May I come in? This strikes me as a singularly awkward mode of delivery.”
She studied him for a long moment. Then, with a small shake of her head—half disbelief, half resignation—she stepped aside and opened the door wider.
Nathaniel entered before he could reconsider.
The room was modest but comfortable: a brass bed with a faded yet cheerful quilt, a washstand in one corner, a chair by the window, a small writing desk. A single lamp burned upon the bedside table, casting a warm, subdued glow.
Miss Collard crossed to the bed and sat with evident care, her movements betraying the pain she strove to conceal. Nathaniel followed and offered the bottle.
“Mrs McConnor advised placing it at—” He gestured vaguely, colour rising to his cheeks. “At the affected area.”
“Thank you.” She accepted it, their fingers brushing briefly, and pressed it to her lower abdomen with a soft sigh. “That is… extremely helpful.”
“I am glad.” He set the teacup beside her, suddenly acutely conscious of where he stood. Her chamber. Late at night. While she wore her nightclothes.
This was, without question, the most improper situation of his life.
“The tea is raspberry leaf,” he said, because silence felt worse. “Mrs McConnor assured me it would assist with the—symptoms. I cannot pretend to understand the properties of raspberry leaves, but she spoke with conviction, and she knows infinitely more than I do, which is to say she knows something, whereas I know nothing, as must be abundantly clear—”
“My lord.”
He stopped, his mouth still half-open.
“You are rambling,” Miss Collard said, though there was warmth—almost fondness—in her tone.
“Yes. I am inclined to do so when nervous.”
“Are you nervous?”
He considered prevarication, then abandoned it.
“Extremely. I have no notion what I am doing. I have never found myself in circumstances remotely resembling these, and I am guided entirely by instinct—which, as we have established, is not always trustworthy.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I am likely making matters worse. I should go. I should certainly go.”
“My lord.”
