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HENRY

Henry cracked one eye open and went to rub his face, only to bump a viciously tender spot near his temple. He hissed through his teeth and explored the knot with a few gentle touches. He’d taken a nasty blow to the head. If only he could remember when and how it had happened.

More importantly…Where was he?

The shabby room was small, with only a double bed, a wardrobe, and a chair beside the fireplace. A stand with a pitcher stood in one corner. On it was a vial of dark liquid labeled laudanum and a glass of water.

That will do wonders for this wretched headache. He swung his feet out from the cozy warmth of the bedclothes and, naked, took two strides⁠—

His foot landed upon something soft and solid. A high-pitched yelp reminded him of the pretty widow.

Mrs. Longwood. Henry’s last coherent thought as he went sprawling, a seemingly endless fall during which her wide-eyed shock and parted lips as she clutched the thin blanket she was sleeping under was indelibly etched into his memory. Through a feat of agility born of pure desperation, he caught himself just before crushing her. At least enough not to kill her.

He blinked. His wrist ached where he’d landed too hard on it, but that didn’t matter. He was acutely aware of her curves pressing into his body. Her thighs were trapped beneath his, her hips at an awkward angle, and her breasts burned through the flimsy fabric.

“Sir,” she said with breathless censure. “Get off me at once.”

“What are you doing on the floor, Mrs. Longwood?”

“What are you doing out of bed?” she countered.

“I was going to take another dose of laudanum.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” She peered at him with suspicion. “It can become a habit, you know.”

“I hardly think two doses in the span of one night will tumble me into the throes of an addiction.” He could, however, easily become addicted to her lush curves. Her eyes were a lovely soft gray, the color of a storm cloud on the horizon, framed by long dark lashes. A pert nose turned up slightly at the tip, and her delicate chin was balanced by lips too plump to be strictly beautiful. She was sensually handsome rather than a great beauty. Despite her penchant for propriety, there was a playful carnality about her.

Fascinating.

She tented her fingertips on his bare shoulders and swallowed. The light from the dying fire played along the column of her throat, licked the flaring hollows at the base and glowed upon the twin swells of her breasts. Henry was abruptly, excruciatingly aware of their position.

He was fairly sure that the faint tinge of red on her cheeks and chest wasn’t a trick of the light.

“True.” She sighed. “If you will allow me up, Henry, I shall prepare the tonic for you.”

“No need,” he said, without moving. “I am perfectly capable of putting a few drops into a glass of water.”

“It’s watered brandy, actually,” she said. “Masks the taste somewhat.”

“I see.”

“Yet you are still lying on top of me, most inappropriately.”

“I seem to find myself in a predicament, Mrs. Longwood.”

“Artemisia. It’s only fair that you call me by my given name, considering I’ve been using yours.”

“That’s rather a mouthful.”

“My sister calls me Artie. So do my cousins, aunt, and parents. My late husband called me Misia.” She pronounced it mee-sha. Henry found this iteration of her name adorable, but he didn’t think she was inviting him to adopt it. He should get up. But that would mean revealing the extent of his…nudity.

Specifically, the part of him that was rudely, juttingly aware of his hostess. He was going to have to steal her blanket to conceal that troublesome appendage, which would be appallingly discourteous.

Conundrum.

“Artemisia,” he said, sidestepping the tricky issue of pet names for the time being, “I am going to get up now. I need you to close your eyes.”