“I can do that,” he said, the flirtatious lilt to his voice still intact, or so Eliza thought.
Finally, the waistcoat joined the coat in a pile on the nearby chair. Eliza eyed his shirt and trousers. The shirt she could leave, it was loose enough to sleep in. The trousers were more problematic, but there was absolutely no universe in which she was going to attempt to remove them. His boots, however, had to go.
She knelt before him, reaching for the first boot. Morgan looked down at her, his expression softening into something almost tender.
“You’re kneeling,” he said quietly. “You shouldn’t kneel for anyone, Ellie. You’re a pirate, remember?”
Her throat tightened. “I’m only removing your boots, Your Grace. Then, I will leave you to your rest.”
She tugged off the first boot, then the second, setting them aside. The Duke fell backward onto the bed with a groan, one arm thrown over his eyes.
“Would you fetch me some water, please? I think my valet has left some over there.”
“Right away,” Eliza straightened, looking down at him with concern.
She glanced around the room and spotted a tray on the bedside table, a carafe of water, two glasses, and a plate with several slices of plain toast. The valet must prepare it every time Morgan went out for the evening.
Smart man. He must be used to caring for the rakish duke and his wild ways.
“Don’t move,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
She brought the tray over, setting it on the table beside the bed. Then, gently, she helped him sit up, propping pillows behind his back.
“Here, Your Grace,” she said, pouring water into a glass.
Morgan took the glass and sipped.
He took a bite of toast then, chewing slowly. She noticed that his eyes never left her face. The intensity of his gaze made her nervous, made her want to look away, but she forced herself to remain calm. Professional, even in such an impossible encounter.
“You’re so much nicer than Cecilia,” he said suddenly, his voice soft and slightly slurred.
Eliza’s hand stilled on the water carafe. “Cecilia?”
“Mmm.” Morgan took another bite of toast, still watching her. “She never took care of me. Not really. She said she did, but she didn’t mean it. You mean it. I can tell.”
“Your Grace…”
“I need to lie down properly and rest,” he said then, as if he had a momentary lapse in judgment, sharing such mysterious insights with her.
She helped him shift onto his side, arranging the pillows so he was comfortable.
She retrieved the bucket from the corner of the room and placed it beside the bed where he could reach it easily.
“There’s a bucket here if you need it,” she said, pointing. “And the water and toast are on the table. Can you see them?”
“I will be fine,” he said.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Eliza said as she looked toward the door, measuring the distance, calculating her escape. But his hand was still loosely holding hers, and his eyes were following her every movement with an expression that was almost reverent.
She sighed. There was a chair near the bed, the same one where she’d laid his coat. She moved it closer and sat down, her hand still caught in his.
“I’m going to tell you a story,” she said softly. “And you’re going to close your eyes and rest, all right?”
“What kind of story?”
“The kind my nurse used to tell me when I was ill and couldn’t sleep.”
Morgan’s eyes were already starting to drift closed. “All right.”
