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Six

Rose Bedchamber

Fernleigh House

Four days later—early morning

Her limbs oddly heavy, Georgine slowly opened her eyes.

Where am I?

For a second, she didn’t recognize the bedchamber, and alarm pelted through her. A moment later, last night’s events tumbled into her memory. She remembered falling asleep while Robyn read to her, but she could not recall a dashed thing after that.

Had she slept through the night then?

The first time since she had been shot, although from the house’s hushed stillness, she would guess dawn had not yet arrived.

Doctor Tinsdale’s insistence that she take a dose of laudanum seemed to have worked. She hadn’t even roused when her bandages and poultices required changing.

Perhaps she had turned a corner for the better.

She felt almost her old self again—though her hunger raged unchecked.

At that precise instant, her stomach growled so fiercely it seemed as if her belly button were gnawing at her spine. She instinctively flattened her palm on her belly. Hopefully, the doctor would permit her something heartier than bone broth, milk toast, and gruel now.

“You are awake. Thank God.”

Relief, edged with desperation, coarsened his voice to a gravelly rasp.

Robyn?

Slowly, fearing any sudden movement would cause agony to her wound, Georgine turned her head.

Elbows resting on his knees, he sat in the same chair he had last night. However, the man looked, in a word, wretched. Dark stubble roughened his jaw, while purplish shadows and lines of fatigue framed his eyes.

He truly looked fit for Bedlam.

Guilt for causing him another sleepless night assailed her.

Perhaps he was desperate to use the necessary and had been afraid to leave her, given the doctor’s orders.

For heaven’s sake. Why hadn’t he rung for a servant if nature demanded immediate attention?

After glancing at the heavy, drawn draperies and assuring herself that no light filtered inside at the edges, Georgine puckered her forehead.

“It’s not even dawn, Robyn.”

A raspy chuckle escaped him, and he plowed a hand through his dark blond hair, something he had done often, given the strands stuck out in all directions. He had removed his neckcloth and waistcoat, rolled his shirtsleeves, and unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, revealing an enticing glimpse of curly, dark blond hair.

She took his measure again. “Are you quite well?”

This was the first time she could recall seeing him disheveled and unkempt. Not that Robyn could be called a dandy by any means, but he did present himself as a gentleman, and the rumpled man beside her would be hard-pressed to pass as such.

What could only be described as a tender smile arched his full mouth, and his eyes glinted with amusement. Already handsome, when he smiled, he nearly blinded her. Not that he would ever know that silly fact.

Sensible misses—and Georgine was above all else sensible—did not act like ninnyhammers when men, particularly ruggedly handsome men, bestowed smiles upon them.

Their eyes locked, and for the life of her, Georgine could not tear her gaze away from Robyn’s. A scintillating current buzzed between them, tangible and powerful, mesmerizing, and slightly disturbing too.