Page 15
She possessed a refreshing, unpretentious allure.
Like a summer wildflower-filled meadow.
Yes, indeed. Miss Lilibet Granger resembled an overlooked wildflower.
A bluebell, or perhaps a campion, or a poppy.
Egads, man.
You are as frail as a flower petal yourself, and yet you are indulging in flights of fancy over a woman you have known mere hours?
He summoned what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
Or at least he tried to.
His still-healing, scabbed-over mouth did not permit a genuine smile, and he suspected he must rather resemble a gargoyle on Osterley Park House.
“You need not look so chagrined, Miss Granger.”
With some effort, he levered himself into a sitting position. “Were I in your position, I would err on the side of caution too.”
“I am sorry, but prudence must dictate.” Giving a small nod, she ventured a few feet nearer the bed. “I know nothing about you, and until I do…” She lifted one shoulder. “Surely you understand.”
Her gaze held compassion but also unwavering determination.
“I assure you, I am not offended because you have decided to lock the door.” He grimaced as a rib protested his movements. “Though, I might go out of my mind with boredom.”
“I can offer an extensive selection of books if you feel up to reading,” she said. “I also subscribe to The Times, but delivery is delayed three days. We are always a tad behind on recent events and news.”
That minor detail raised her another notch in his estimation. Most women had no interest in news sheets, preferring gossip rags such as La Belle Assemblée, Le Beau Monde-Literary and Fashionable Magazine, or High Life in London.
How the bloody hell do I know the names of women’s periodicals?
“Although…” A frown creased Miss Granger’s normally smooth forehead. “You should take care to get sufficient rest so you do not prolong your recovery.”
A polite way of saying, she did not want him convalescing at her children’s home for months. And by God, he did not want to, either. He was every bit as eager as she to discover who he was and be on his way.
“Something to read would be appreciated.” In truth, he was not positive he was up to the task just yet. Even this brief conversation had taken a toll and, exhaustion weighing his eyelids, he slumped into the pillows.
As she had done this morning, she rested her hand atop the footboard. A few ink stains marred her fingertips.
“Perhaps, I should get a pen and paper, so you can jot down any thoughts or memories that come to mind that may be useful.” Hesitating, she ran her keen regard over him. “Or, I can do it if you are not feeling quite the thing, just yet.”
Miss Granger had noticed his failing strength.
He gave a slow nod, careful not to jostle his head.
Thank God the pulsating agony of this morning had passed and now a dull throbbing ache encircled his skull.
“I have just recalled something about Osterley Park House.” He stifled a yawn.
“Hmm, that might be rather useful.” Attention focused on her hands, she scrunched her pert nose in concentration. “If I recall correctly, Osterley Park House is owned by the Earl of Jersey.”
She raised her inquisitive gaze to meet his. “Yes?”
He could not prevent his eyebrows from shooting high on his forehead in surprise at her knowledge. “Yes, indeed.”
“I am somewhat of an architectural buff.” Miss Granger stared out the window, a hint of forlornness shadowing her features. “Had my circumstances been different, and had I been born a male, I should have liked to have pursued a career in architecture.”
