Jane looked at the clock. Dinner in an hour. She should dress. Unless… “I do not think I will join the others for dinner this evening. I do beg your pardon, Lillian. Perhaps you can coax Lord Devon into an amusing conversation.”
“Hmph.Not likely,” Lillian said, “and dining alone in your room will not help you make a decision.”
Jane had no intention of dining alone in her room.
“Suit yourself,” Lillian said, “but you’re only delaying the inevitable.” Lillian lurched to her feet, hugging her book to her chest. She took her leave with a small smile and wave.
Jane did not remain long in her bedroom. She headed straight for the kitchen. She’d see when cook planned to send the invalid his dinner, and Jane would take it to him herself.
Chapter 8
George lounged against the stack of pillows behind him, holding a book before him. He squeezed his eyes shut and counted each breath until he reached ten. No good. Head still felt trapped in a vice. He counted more, and at seventeen breaths, the headache began to recede. By twenty, it was nothing but a dull annoyance. He opened his eyes slowly, testing his brain. He focused on the words and read half a page. The headache stayed at bay. Excellent. Better than last time. He’d recover before Christmas if he had anything to say about it. Healing was the only thing he had to concentrate on at the moment, that and the book. Which he could only get through a half page at a time. He pushed down the rising frustration, and—
Someone banged on his door. He flinched and breathed through the pain. Must be the maid bringing his dinner. A distraction. Perfect. As long as she stopped making such an infernal racket.
“Come in,” he said, continuing to read.
The door did not open. Odd. He put the book aside and slowly swung his legs over the bed’s edge.
“I can’t. Can you open it, please?” a familiar muffled voice asked from the hallway.
“Jane?” He slammed his feet to the floor and strode to the door, tucking his shirt into the band of his trousers. He pulled the door open, and Jane dashed in, carting a large, covered silver platter and blowing a lock of rogue hair out of her eye.
“Thank you,” she said, surveying the room. “I had no idea how to knock while holding this thing. How do the maids manage it, do you think? I should speak with Mrs. Bradley and make sure the maids go about two at a time if necessary, so they need not perform torturous calisthenics to complete their duties. I ended up turning around and kicking the door with my heel. Clever, yes?”
“Very. What are you doing here?”
“Where should I put this?” She eyed the bed. “No. Too rumpled.” Her gaze swung to the table beside the bed. “Too small.” She tilted her head and studied the low table near the fire with a sigh. “That will have to work. Unless… would you prefer to eat your dinner in bed? Was that your plan?”
George did not move from the door. “What are you doing here, Lady Jane?”
“Where may I place this platter, Sir George?”
He waved at the small table near the fire. “When will you desist with that silly nickname? Anyone who hears it will think you’re insulting me. It’s Lord Abbington, as you well know. And I’m no knight in shining armor ready to slay your dragons.”
She bent over the table, placing the platter carefully at its center. “When you desist usingmytitle, I’ll desist using your nickname. And I don’t use it around anyone else, so there’s no chance of confusing others.And, perhaps most importantly, I think youarea slayer of dragons, just not the flying, fire-breathing kind.”
He put all the focus he had been putting into healing, into not staring at her rounded backside. Damn Edmund for poking at George’s purposefully unexamined discomfort around Jane. He hadn’t wanted to examine whatever that was, but now that he stared at her backside, he must. Otherwise, he’d never know what to do with it. It would be a rogue impulse, gathering force beyond his control. If he inspected it, as he must do so now, he could control it. And byit, did he mean her ass or his reaction to it? Both? He could not reflect on the one without the other.
Jane stood and whirled around, holding the platter’s domed lid at shoulder height and grinning. “I’ve brought your dinner.”
George whipped his gaze to her face. “You did not have to. But thank you. Why haveyoubrought me dinner?”
“I thought I’d join you. See?” She gestured toward the platter which held enough food for two.
“Hm.”
“Will you turn me away?”
He still hesitated. “It would not be proper.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m already ruined. And every gentleman here knows it. And yet here they are. I do not believe I pose any further damage to my reputation by having an evening meal with you.”
“In my bedroom.”
Her arm, holding the platter’s lid high, slumped to her side as the corners of her mouth drooped. “Please do not turn me away. There is something I wish to discuss with you. And I find food goes well with conversation.”
He walked toward her but left the door open. It would be more proper that way. “I would enjoy the company. I’ve been deadly bored all day long.”
