“You look cold,” Persephone said. Why did conversation between them have to be so awkward?
“I am freezing.”
“You should change. Something warm and dry.”
“Harry—”
“Mr. Johns will see to Harry.”
“Are you to be my voice of reason, then?” Adam asked, almost chuckling. He reached out a hand and briefly touched her cheek.
It was so unexpected, Persephone involuntarily flinched. Adam pulled his hand away on the spot, his mouth tightening to a tense line.
“Your hand was cold,” Persephone said, wishing he would reach for her again.
“My apologies,” he said rather formally. “If you will excuse me, I have been told that I ought to change out of my cold, wet clothes.”
“I am glad you have returned, Adam,” Persephone said as he stepped past her. She laid her hand on the cheek he’d touched.
It was the first time in a month that anyone, other than the stable hands who helped her mount, had intentionally touched her. She hadn’t realized until that moment how deeply she’d craved human contact, how much she’d missed the simple gesture of being touched.
Adam had been so gentle, so kind, in that brief moment. If only, she thought to herself, he could be that way more often.
Chapter Seventeen
Adam flung his damp cravat toward his valet. The boots had been the first thing to come off. Adam vaguely remembered a pair of woolen stockings his nurse would put him in on cold winter mornings. Whatever had happened to Nurse “Robbie?” He hadn’t thought of her in years. She used to sing some ridiculous song to him about a boy the size of a thistle. He used to ask her to sing it over and over, and she always did.
What had brought back that memory? Adam wondered, buttoning up a clean waistcoat. It was a far more sentimental thought than he usually indulged in.
Adam shook it off. His valet approached with a claret-colored jacket, one Weston had been particularly proud of. He often wore that jacket in Town. It was the latest cut and fashion, and deucedly uncomfortable. Generally speaking, he willingly endured the minimized range of movement required to cut an impressive figure—impressions were everything in society. But in that moment, for the first time in memory, Adam cared not at all how impressive he looked.
“Not the claret, Hansen.” He nearly smiled at the look of shock on the face of the man who’d been his valet for ten years. “The brown wool.”
Hansen’s eyes doubled in size. Adam actually did smile at that. At the sight of Adam smiling, Hansen’s jaw dropped. Adam shook his head, holding back a chuckle. “Harry doesn’t care what I’m wearing,” Adam said, unsure why he was explaining himself. “And the wool will be warmer.”
Hansen nodded mutely and returned to the wardrobe to seek out the usually overlooked jacket.
Walking down the corridor to Harry’s chamber, Adam felt excessively pleased with his choice. He might actually thaw out from the hours-long drive to retrieve his one and only friend.
“He looks remarkably ill.” Persephone’s voice floated out Harry’s bedchamber.
Adam approached slowly. In the back of his mind the memory surfaced of Persephone standing at the top of the staircase, obviously relieved to see him.
“Mr. Windover will recover easily enough,” Mr. Johns said. “I’ve sent Cook instructions for a tisane.”
Adam stood in the doorway of Harry’s bedchamber, watching Persephone.
“Then I am certain he will be fine,” Persephone said. “My husband has expressed his confidence in your abilities. Just this morning, in fact, he spoke quite highly of your competency.”
“Did he, indeed?” Mr. Johns sounded genuinely surprised by the praise.
Adam was a little surprised by it as well. He may have expressed his confidence in the apothecary to Persephone but had hardly expected her to reiterate his words.
“That means a great deal.” Mr. Johns still sounded a bit taken aback. “His Grace is not known to be extravagant in his praise.”
“No, he is not,” Persephone confirmed.
“Hm,” Mr. Johns said, something between a chuckle and an expression of surprise.
