His heart beat next to hers. Her arms were full of his bare skin. She was half tempted to pat his bum, just to see his reaction and because she didn’t really remember what it felt like when she did it before. If indeed she had actually done so.
This hug was heavenly. He seemed to think so too, as he ran one hand up and down her spine, mumbling a barely audible, “Mmm.”
Heavenly, except for the fact that he was feverish, shivering, and Maggie and Sally were doing their best not to watch but failing miserably.
“You need—” Ashley’s voice cracked. “You need to get into bed.”
He dropped his arms and straightened, his expression hopeful. “Coming with me?”
Before Ashley could do more than blink in astonishment, her mouth gaping, he toppled backwards.
He landed on the bed, arms flung out to the side. Asleep.
Sally held her hands clasped together over her heart, a look of utter delight on her face.
“I’d go with ’im.” Maggie propped her hands on her hips. “Wouldn’t ‘ave to ask me twice.”
Ashley flapped her hands, trying to get her brain functioning again. “Help me get him the rest of the way into bed.”
They lifted his legs and pushed and tugged until he was properly situated on the bed and covered up. As she positioned his injured arm, Ashley noticed the bandage was damp. “The poultice is soaking through. I’m going to need more muslin so I can wrap the bandage with more layers.”
As they retrieved the items they had so hastily hidden in the dressing room and put them back where she needed them, Ashley assessed her supplies. “We also need more whiskey, and gin, and…” She sighed as she glanced at the clock. “I’ll make a list. You can visit the shops after your meeting with Gilroy. "
Sally and Maggie quickly retrieved their cloaks and bonnets, and Ashley handed over the shopping list as well as the note to be passed to Westbrook, with the promised update on Ravencroft’s condition.
“Are these more of the same things I bought before, miss?”
Ashley looked over Sally’s shoulder and skimmed the list. “More or less. This time you’ll be getting willow bark tea and witch hazel from the apothecary but no essential oils. And you might need to go to a second or even third bakery to find enough moldy bread.” She pulled money out of her reticule. “There’s enough here for a hackney so you don’t have to walk. Please hurry. I’d like you to be back before Uncle Edward and Aunt Eunice return. I expect they’ll be home well before dark.”
Maggie’s eyes opened wide. “A hackney just for us, miss?”
Ashley nodded. “Courtesy of our guest. These are his funds.”
They both muffled a squeal of delight and curtsied toward the bed. “Thank you, my lord,” they said to David’s unconscious form, grabbed the shopping basket, and left.
Alone, Ashley touched David’s face—checking his fever, definitely not a caress—and rested her palm on his chest to check his breathing. His fever didn’t seem any worse, though he had to be delirious to have hugged her like that and invite her to bed.
Perhaps it was the whiskey. She had heard that some men were prone to making inappropriate propositions when foxed. He hadn’t had much but given his nearly empty stomach perhaps the whiskey affected him more strongly. With his inhibitions loosened by the alcohol, he might desire her as a bed companion. And what girl hadn’t dreamed of a handsome man falling madly in love with her? But Ashley knew from her years at the academy that earls married higher than the daughter of a baron of modest means.
Dismissing youthful fantasies, she sat at her desk and composed the thank-you letter to Lady Mansfield and a note to Georgia. Yes, Mr. Westbrook had been most helpful in her research on mandolins, she wrote. She expressed her hope that the emergency at Ravencroft’s estate was not too serious and he would soon return, appease his sisters, and participate in rehearsals again. She looked forward to hearing the quintet sing again.
Letters folded and ready to drop in the outgoing tray downstairs, Ashley sat on the edge of the bed and mopped David’s brow. The swelling around his left eye was barely noticeable, and only a thin red line marked the split in his bottom lip. The bruises, while still purple, were already turning green at the edges.
“I had the strangest dream,” he murmured. “I was wearing a dress. Pink. With ruffles.” He stared up at the bed canopy. “Don’t think I’ve ever worn pink.”
“There is a pink gown in my dressing room.” She rinsed the cloth and placed it over his left eye and cheek. “It has ruffles at the bottom.”
He briefly opened his right eye. “Doubt it would fit me.”
She tried to picture him in a pink gown. Yes, his long hair could be styled effeminately, but with his chiseled jaw, pronounced Adam’s apple, and deep voice, no one would ever mistake him for a woman. “Perhaps you’ll get one tailored to fit, in case you tire of your Bogeyman costume.”
He laughed. A full-throated, deep, warm sound that went right through her.
“Why did you do it?” She fussed with the cloth over his face. “You could have been hurt.” They shared a wry grin. “Before this.”
“When I saw Rupert practically carrying you from the ballroom, I knew what he intended. If any man tried to force himself on Georgia, or any of my nieces or sisters, I’d castrate him.” He shrugged one shoulder. “You didn’t seem to have anyone around to protect you.”
“My uncle thought we would be safe in the ballroom, so he went to the card room with friends soon after we arrived.”
