At last all of the tangles were out. Reluctantly she set the brush on the bedside table and stood, retying the belt on her wrapper. Only then did he open his eyes.
“I’m going on a raid. Any requests?”
“Take no prisoners. Return triumphant.”
She smiled as she left. She tiptoed down the stairs, careful of the third one that creaked, and made her way through the dark hallways down to the kitchen, her knitted wool slippers keeping her footsteps silent. She couldn’t do any cooking, as the scullery maid was asleep on her pallet before the hearth. What food might Mrs. Gillespie and the cook have in the larder that was ready to eat?
Carrying a wicker basket filled with her bounty, she hurried back upstairs, quietly shut her door … and swallowed a pang of disappointment when she realized David had covered up and fallen asleep.
She emptied her basket on the table by the window. Though her stomach growled again, none of the food seemed appealing.
“Is there enough to share with the rest of the class, miss?”
Ashley nearly jumped a foot in the air at the low voice just inches from her ear. She whirled and found Ravencroft standingright there, even closer than when they had waltzed. She held her hand over her pounding heart, catching her breath.
He arched one eyebrow, his little grin letting her know he’d enjoyed startling her.
She was about to push him away until she realized his chest was naked because he had not put on his banyan. “Wretch.”
“Hungry wretch,” he agreed good-naturedly, poking through the food on the table. He picked up a tea cake and popped it in his mouth.
She lightly smacked his hand when he reached for another. “Have something of substance before you eat sweets.” She pointed at the cold roast beef.
He shivered.
Reflexively she reached up to feel his forehead, and he ducked to make it easier for her to reach. No fever. “Put on your banyan and go sit by the fire, or get back in bed.”
“Always ordering me to bed,” he muttered as he walked away, “but never comes with me.”
Her cheeks heated.
He tied the banyan’s belt as he came back to the table, where Ashley was piling food on a plate.
The only plate. She had forgotten to grab another.
“Let’s share.” He wrapped his left arm around her shoulders and steered her to the sofa, which had been slid back into place in front of the fire after her bath this morning. Sitting side by side, close so they could easily share the food, they ate cold roast beef and ham, walnuts and cheese, tea cakes, scones smeared with clotted cream, and drank wine from the same bottle because she’d remembered the corkscrew but forgot to get any glasses.
Periodically she reached up to play with his hair, lifting the soft strands. Checking to see how well it was drying, of course. Making sure it hadn’t gone flat in back when he’d lain down. Had nothing to do with the intimacy of sitting beside a handsome man while they were both clad only in their nightwear, or the amount and type of alcohol she’d consumed.
What she’d thought was claret to go with the beef turned out to be a bottle of port. Heady stuff. She was thirsty so she drank it anyway. He’d drank her chamomile tea and she’d been too distracted to put more on to brew.
Eventually she set the empty plate on the arm of the sofa with a contented sigh, the half-empty bottle at her feet on the floor. They sat together quietly contemplating the glowing coals, and she found herself leaning toward him. It felt natural for him to put his left arm around her shoulders and pull her close, and that spot on his chest just made for resting her cheek.
Beneath the scent of rosemary and lavender ointment, he smelled fresh and clean, of masculine shaving soap and barely-there exotic hair oil, and beneath that something even more elemental, something unique to Ravencroft. She could happily fall asleep right here, with her head on his chest, feeling him breathe, knowing he was healing.
It wouldn’t last, though. Snuggling with a man in her life was just a brief interlude. A fantasy, like dreaming while awake. In a few days he’d be strong enough to leave. They’d go back to behaving properly. Follow Society’s rules. Address each other formally. “I wonder if this is what husbands and wives do at the end of the day.”
“Maybe some of them,” he rumbled.
She startled, unaware she’d spoken the words out loud. “Too bad I’ll never find out.”
“Why? Isn’t that your goal in taking part in the Season? To find a husband?”
She shifted, searching for that perfect spot to lay her head on his chest again, and patted his hand where it rested on her shoulder. “My aunt and uncle’s goal. I no longer have delusions about finding a match. Before I go back to working at a school I just want to dance. With men.” She felt like purring as he stroked her upper arm. “I often helped with dance lessons, taking the man’s part so the girls could learn the steps.”
“Why is finding a match delusional?”
If her outer ear were stopped up, she could still follow his conversation, just from feeling the words rumbling in his chest. “Because I’m a bluestocking. Because I’m too old. I’m almost a spinster, you know.” Silly man. She traced the outline of the fading bruises on his right hand, so close to her the way he held his injured arm upright, against his chest. Would they hurt when he put on gloves? He’d have to wear gloves when he left, to hide the bruises. The scrapes.
