“This is...” She stopped, started again. “This is not appropriate. You in my room, in the middle of the night—”
“I know that too.” Nathaniel rose to his feet, but still did not move toward the door. “Miss Collard, I want you to know... whatever is happening between us, whatever this is... I would never do anything to compromise you. To put you in an awkward position. Your reputation, your security—those are more important than—”
“Than what?” she asked, when he did not finish.
Than what I feel for you. Than what I want. Than the fact that I am falling in love with you and I have no idea what to do about it.
He could not say any of that. Not now. Not like this.
“Than anything,” he said instead. “Your well-being matters to me. More than I can explain.”
Miss Collard’s eyes were bright in the lamplight—too bright, he realised. As though she were fighting back tears.
“You are a good man, my lord,” she said quietly. “Whatever you believe about yourself, whatever failures you think you carry—you are a good man. I knew it the first day I arrived. I know it even more now.”
Nathaniel felt something crack open in his chest. “I am trying to be.”
“I know.” She smiled, and it was the saddest, most beautiful smile he had ever seen. “Now, please, go back to Rosie. She needs you more than I do.”
He wanted to argue. Wanted to say that Rosie was sleeping peacefully, that Miss Collard needed him too, that he could not bear to leave her alone in pain.
But he knew she was right. Knew that staying longer would only make things more complicated, more impossible, more painful for both of them.
“I shall check on you again before morning,” he said.
“That is not necessary—”
“I shall do it anyway.” He moved toward the door, then paused at the threshold. “Miss Collard?”
“Yes?”
“Is there anything else? Anything I can bring you, anything that would help?”
She seemed to consider the question. Then, very softly: “There are some rags in my washstand drawer. I shall need them before morning.”
Nathaniel felt his face flush, but he did not look away. “Should I bring you more? Is there a supply somewhere?”
“There is a closet at the end of the corridor. The maids keep linens there, and there should be some cloths that would serve.”
“I shall bring them.”
“My lord—”
“Miss Collard.” He met her eyes, willing himself not to feel embarrassed, not to treat this natural function of her body as something shameful. “You are in pain. You need supplies. I am perfectly capable of fetching linens from a closet, regardless of their intended purpose.”
She stared at him for a long moment. Then, incredibly, she laughed—a small, surprised sound that lit up her tired face.
“You are,” she said, “the most peculiar man I have ever met.”
“I shall take that as a compliment.”
“It was meant as one.”
He left before he could say anything else—before he could confess all the things building in his chest, all the feelings he did not know how to name or contain.
In the corridor, he paused and leaned against the wall, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.
What was he doing? What was he becoming?
