She ached to smooth the lines from his forehead, the creases at the corners of his eyes from pain. “Does it hurt?”
His shoulders slumped. He dropped his chin but still wouldn’t look at her. “Not when I wear my shoes. Unless I have to walk a long distance. Or spend long periods standing.”
“This is why you don’t dance,” she murmured, thinking of what Georgia had said. “But you waltzed with me. At the masquerade ball.”
Slowly he turned his head, as though reluctant to look at her. He cupped her cheek with his left hand. “I wanted to hold you in my arms,” he said, barely audible. “Just once.”
She might have been insulted he found her an unpleasant dance partner, except for the look of yearning on his face. He caressed her cheek with his thumb.
Abruptly he dropped his hand.
She cleared her throat. “Your shoes!” She stood up and shook out her skirts. “I’m afraid thieves made off with them in the alley.”
He gave a harsh bark of laughter. “Joke’s on them. No one else will be able to wear them comfortably.” At her raised brow, he continued. “I have a talented cobbler who can make up for the difference in leg length. One shoe has a thicker sole on the inside.”
“That’s why you always wear trousers instead of breeches, even though—” she cut herself off before she could finish the comment about how good his muscular calves would look if he wore breeches. She busied herself pouring a cup of willow bark tea so he wouldn’t see her blush at the direction of her thoughts.
“My sisters are always trying to get me to dress more fashionably. Wear my hair in a more current style.”
She thought he shuddered in horror, but it was a shiver. He got into bed properly, propped up by pillows, and pulled the blankets up, wincing as he moved his right arm.
She held out the cup of tea. “This will help with the pain and your fever.”
He took a sip, grimaced, and tried to give back the cup.
“I thought you liked it. Maggie said you drank two cups.”
“Maggie added whiskey.”
Ashley raised her brows. “She did? Well, it’s time for you to have more anyway.” She poured some into the cup. He still held it out, so she added another splash.
He grimaced as he drank, and soon emptied the cup. She took it from him before he dropped it on his stomach. She prepared the cool water and witch hazel mixture for the compress. “Tell me if this makes you chilled.” She set the cloth over his left eye. “I can get you another blanket.”
His only response was to let out a deep breath, asleep again.
* * *
The candle on the bedside table had burned down to a stub when Ashley awakened at the sound of the bed creaking as Ravencroft lay back down. He’d flung the blankets back before getting up, and did not cover himself.
Ashley shrugged into her wrapper and tied the belt as she went to check on him. Sweat glistened on his face and torso. She lit a candle and held it high.
He winced and turned away from the light, but not before she saw his fever-bright eyes and flushed cheeks. She set down the candle and held the back of her hand to his forehead.
“You’re burning up.”
He grunted in reply but didn’t shy from her touch.
She added another scoop of coal to the fire and checked the clock. Time for another dose. She was generous with the splash of whiskey in the willow bark tea and helped him sit up enough to choke it down. She wrung out the cloth in the water and witch hazel mixture and gently wiped his face, careful of the bruises on his cheek, and began working her way down his neck to his shoulders, stopping often to rinse and wring out the cloth before continuing.
As before, she could tell the moment the alcohol hit him, as he relaxed and let out a little sigh. He let her lift his left arm to stroke the damp cloth all the way to his fingers and back up, under his arm, and down the side of his torso, lazily watching her the entire time.
She tried to remember how dispassionately Mrs. Rafferty had treated their patients at the academy infirmary, and not make it a caress as she wiped the cooling cloth across the earl’s naked, sweaty chest.
“Not even my mother knew.”
Ashley faltered in reaching toward his right shoulder. “I beg your pardon?”
Ravencroft slid his feet up on the bed, bending his knees, one leg slightly shorter than the other. His drawers bunched up, exposing more of his muscular thighs, and revealed a jagged scar on his right thigh. “She thought my limp was just from having broken my leg, months after it healed.” He tapped his knee. “My tailor recognized the problem. Brought in his brother, a cobbler. They helped hide my defect.”
