Against all of her common sense, Amelia followed the sound, stopping here and there to wait for another guiding noise.
At length, she arrived outside the library and pressed her ear to the door. From within came soft, sad sounds, like someone struggling through great pain or straining through the dreams of delirium. She had not been mistaken; therewassomeone in trouble, so why had the cook told her to pay it no mind?
Carefully, she opened the door and peered inside.
A figure lay on the rug by the fireplace, a rolled-up blanket beneath his head. Another blanket had twisted around him, as he thrashed and twitched in his sleep. The sounds were quieter, but his face was a mask of agony; his jaw clenched, flashing gritted teeth, his brow furrowed into deep creases, his eyes scrunched, while the cords bulged out of his neck.
“Lionel?” Amelia whispered, alarmed.
A choking noise croaked from his throat.
She ran toward him, sinking to her knees at his side. Panicking that he had swallowed something or that he had something stuck in his throat, she grabbed him by his broad shoulders and shook him gently.
“Lionel, wake up!” she urged. “Lionel!”
His eyes flew open, his hand shooting out to grab her around the arm. His breaths came in ragged gasps, and the look in his eyes was so frightening, so terrifying, so filled with pain that Amelia, too, found herself struggling to breathe. It was like he did not recognize her at all, his eyes seeing a stranger.
“Lionel,” she said nervously. “I… think you were having a nightmare.”
He closed his eyes until his breathing settled, his hand still gripped around her arm. “You should not have come here.”
“To… the library or to… your manor?” she replied, braced for yet another blow to her hopes of developingsomeform of relationship with her husband.
He opened his eyes. “To the library. You should not have come here.” His voice darkened. “Why are you not in your chambers?The hour is late; you should not be wandering abroad in the middle of the night.”
For a moment, his gaze flitted to her nightgown, visible beneath the open sides of her housecoat. She had not thought to button the housecoat in her rush to seek out the peculiar sound, and guessed she was about to receive a scolding for her state of undress.
“It is winter, Amelia,” he said, turning his gaze away. “You will catch your death if you do not wear appropriate attire. I will see to it that a winter housecoat is purchased for you… though youstillshould not be wandering at night.”
Amelia blinked in confusion.Was that it?
As scoldings went, that might have been the mildest she had ever heard. Indeed, it almost sounded like it came from a place of concern, rather than shame or anger.
Encouraged by his tone, she sat back on her haunches. “And it is appropriate for the Lord of this house to sleep in a library? I imagine you have a perfectly acceptable bedchamber somewhere in this manor.”
As he sat up and the twisted blanket fell away from him, she nearly gasped out loud at the glimpse of bare, muscled skin: sun browned and sculpted, though scattered with the same silvery scars that covered his hands.
His shirt was open to the navel, allowing her to view more of him than she had ever thought she would. Most of the scars were small, but there was a particularly large one that began to the left of his abdomen and disappeared into the bunching of his shirt, where it was tucked into a pair of unusual trousers. She had read of these ‘mogul’s breeches,’ and knew they were some sort of foreign nightwear—loose and comfortable, but not too common.
“What happened to you?” she whispered, almost to herself, reaching out to touch the scars like a woman possessed. She could not stop herself; she was not even fully aware that she was doing it until Lionel’s hand caught hers, just before she could touch his skin.
“I am Lord of this manor, as you said,” he murmured, holding her gaze. “I can sleep where I please, and I do not sleep well in a bed. I do not know why.”
She tried to withdraw her hand out of sheer embarrassment, but he held onto it for a moment longer.
“Do you… have these nightmares often?” she asked, realizing how warm and rough his hand felt against hers. He had the sort of calloused palms that one did not tend to expect from Earls.
He let go of her hand and rose to his feet, retreating to the reading chair by the window. He sat down with a weary sigh, running his fingers through his dark brown hair.
“The nightmares are something I cannot avoid,” he replied vaguely. “But they should be no concern of yours. Please, returnto your room. It appears you have warm milk to drink. You should finish it before it cools.”
In her hurry, she had forgotten about the warm milk, which now sat beside the makeshift bed that he had abandoned. Staring at the rolled-up blanket and the thin rug, she wondered how he could bear it. Was it not terribly uncomfortable?
She considered asking him, but before she could, he repeated his command. “Return to your room, Amelia. It is not a request.”
“Perhaps I wish to read something,” she protested, not yet ready to leave him alone again. What she had seen made herneverwant to leave him alone again.
“Perhaps you do,” he replied, gesturing to the door. “So, take a book and go back to your bedchamber with it. My sister and grandmother will be arriving tomorrow, so you will need your rest.”
