Page 43 of It's a British Christmas

“I will. Good night, Mama.”

An hour later, still sitting at the table, Eve rubbed her eyes as she closed the book she’d been reading. The candle burned low, and she didn’t want to light another one. Candles were expensive, and a rector’s living didn’t reach far.

She stood and stretched as she heard a slight moan. Tilting her head to one side, she paused for a moment, then moving toward the small bedroom off the kitchen, she leaned her ear against the wooden door. Yes, a definite moan.

Slowly, she opened the door and leaned her head in. The scent of clean soap, laudanum, and illness greeted her. Lord Manchester thrashed about on the cot, the bed linens entangled in his legs, leaving his chest bare. She held up what was left of the candle and moved closer, and took in a sharp breath. Now she understood why Papa told her to leave the room before, when they had to remove the lord’s clothes.

His body was immense in the small bed, his chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. Fine dark hairs covered his golden skin, with a definite streak of thicker hair running down the center in a straight line toward the top of his breeches, where it disappeared. As he moved on the bed, his stomach muscles shifted and rippled. This was no fine lord who never did more than drink and attend balls, as she thought most did.

Fascinated by the display before her, she had to shake her head to clear it. Good heavens, she was staring like a love-sick fool at a man who was in obvious distress. Sweat covered his brow, and with his thrashing about, he most likely had a fever. Hurrying back to the kitchen, she pulled out a large pan and pumped cool water into it. She grabbed a few old cloths and returned to the room.

The thought occurred to her that she should wake Mama, because Papa would not be happy to know she had touched a half-naked man, even if he was suffering from a raging fever. She eased her conscience with the thought that Mama worked hard and needed her rest.

Then she sent up a prayer for her own soul.

Smoothing the cool, damp cloth over his skin seemed to settle his fevered body and ease his thrashing. His eyelids fluttered open and he gave her a soft smile. “Angel?”

Was that someone dear to him? Someone named Angel? He said he had no wife, but there could be a sweetheart. “No. My name is Miss Eve Allen, remember?”

“Ah, yes, I do recall. Adam and Eve. But I still think of you as my angel.”

Her cheeks heated at his words, then she dismissed them, not even sure what he meant. Even in ill health, men of his class flirted. She shook her head in disgust and continued her ministrations, trying very hard to ignore the warm flesh under her hands and how the cloth slid over his skin.

His hand reached out and he grabbed her wrist, surprising her with the strength of his grip. “May I have a glass of water?” He barely got the words out, his voice raspy.

“Of course, my lord.” She dropped the cloth into the basin, and returned to the kitchen, startled to see how her hand shook as she filled the glass. No one had ever affected her like this, and she didn’t care for the feeling. She felt vulnerable and threatened. Despite her wish to dismiss the man and her reaction to him, her body hummed with energy she hadn’t felt before. Then she chastised herself for being a fool.

They would help Lord Manchester recover from his injuries, and then he would be on his way. Back to his home, to his life. Both of which were far, far away from her, in more ways than one, which was precisely where she wanted him.

Adam watched his angel leave the room. The gentle sway of her hips fascinated him. More so than any of the silk and satin clad derrières of the ton ladies he’d viewed over the years. Those movements, like everything else in his world, were always calculated. To either entice a man into their bed, or drag him to the altar. Eve’s movements were smooth and feminine, with no guile.

He hated being so taken with a woman while on the verge of offering for another. Bloody hell, after years of rejecting one woman after another, why did one who captivated him show up now? And him flat on his back?

Not that he could do anything about his attraction once he was well, anyway. She was a rector’s daughter, and he a duke. Mistress was totally out of the question, and as far as anything permanent, even if he got past the censure of the ton—which would be slight, since as a duke he could fairly well do what he wanted—there was the small matter of Lady Ann and her father waiting for his signature on marriage contracts.

He laughed at where his thoughts had taken him. He barely knew Eve—in thinking of her, and addressing her as Miss Allen, to show his respect. For all he knew, she could be betrothed, or have a man waiting on tenterhooks for her to accept his offer. Had he been the one to offer for her, he would be quite anxious to hear a ‘yes’. She was certainly comely enough to have any man she chose.

Large hazel eyes looked out at the world from a face that made visible her every thought. Her dark brown hair was thick and shiny, and cried out for a man to undo the heavy braid down her back and run his fingers through the silky strands.

The laudanum must be playing tricks with his mind to be so enraptured with the miss. The door opened and she returned to his bedside. “Here, I will hold the glass while you sip. You should not take too much since your stomach is quite empty.”

She reached under his head and raised it up a bit. How he hated being so helpless before her. An encouraging smile lit up her face as he sipped and studied her over the rim of the glass. Her thick eyelashes opened and closed as he watched her. The devil take it! She had him mesmerized like an untried youth. He needed to gather himself together before he made a complete ninnyhammer out of himself.

He leaned back. “That is enough. Thank you.”

Once she placed the glass on the table next to the bed, she picked up the pan of water and dipped the cloth in. Again, she began to wipe him down. He watched her every move, and she was well aware of it. Her hands shook, her breathing increased, and a light flush covered her delightful cheeks.

Yes, he affected her. It was nice to know he was not the only one who felt this attraction. Not that he could do anything about it, of course. But at least he was not alone in his fascination. She put the bowl down, and drew the sheets up to cover his chest. She seemed to relax once he was covered, which amused him further.

“I will leave you to sleep now. I would offer you more of the laudanum, but I know you have concerns about it.”

“I do. But I believe my fever has gone down, so hopefully, I will be able to sleep and ignore the pain.” He shifted, trying very hard not to disturb the bandages Mrs. Allen had placed on his wound. “Please don’t tell me you will remain awake all night?”

She shook her head. “No, I was just finishing up a book and was headed to bed when I heard you moaning.”

“I do not moan.” He grinned at her. Actually, he did moan, and he would love to show her what he could do to make her moan. “What are you reading?”

“The History of Lady Barton, by Mrs. Griffith.”