The Duke Before Christmas - Bianca Blythe Page 0,40

room.

Jonesie and Niles jumped up. They were suspiciously near each other, and Colin wondered just why they’d been alone in the dark.

“We’ve—er—come to help you undress,” Niles said.

“You needn’t wait in the dark,” Colin said.

“It’s good to be economical,” Niles said.

“Though I’m certain our hosts appreciate that urge, I doubt they require it. Vernon is a duke with many estates.”

“Is that so?” Niles asked innocently, even though Colin was certain he’d known all along. “Well, next time.”

“I’ll help you undress, miss.” Jonesie led Portia to the screen.

Colin pretended not to imagine what was happening there.

He tried not to imagine buttons unbuttoning. He tried not to imagine a chemise. He tried not to imagine soft skin.

“I’ll assist you, Your Grace,” Niles said.

Niles helped him undress. Finally, Jonesie and Niles departed, and Colin and Portia were alone.

Light from the candle Colin held threw a golden glow over the too-romantic room. The bed seemed soft and tempting, and Colin fought to restrain himself from flinging her over the bed.

“I’ll prepare my bed,” Colin said, removing a blanket and laying it on the floor. He tried not to shiver. That was the sort of action that might make Portia feel sorry for him, and that was the last thing he desired.

“It’s all prepared,” Colin said.

“Splendid,” Portia said.

Heavens.

Her voice truly did sound angelic.

Then Colin lay on the floor and pretended everything was fine.

PORTIA SMILED BRIGHTLY, as if it were perfectly normal to be in a room alone with a man, and as if her heart were not beating at a worrisome speed.

This is not awkward.

She certainly wasn’t focusing on Colin’s presence on the floor beside the bed. That would be unnecessary.

She wasn’t focusing on the fact he was wearing a nightshirt, and that his feet were bare. That wouldn’t be a ladylike thing to notice after all, and Portia did, in general, strive to achieve the ladylike values lauded by her finishing school.

Colin’s nightshirt moved, and she could swear she noticed blond curls creeping from his chest. An odd urge to touch them overcame her, and she drew her fingers toward her lest she become overcome with temptation.

Portia’s own hair was straight, but Colin’s hair curled in a most fascinating manner. Still, that chest hair had seemed even curlier.

“What are you thinking about?” Colin asked.

“Me?” Her skin heated, and she shook her head furiously, perhaps partly in the hope the vivid movement would mask the red that most certainly must be spreading on her cheeks. “I—er—don’t think.”

“No?” Colin chuckled, and the warmth heightened in temperature, as if the demons had just piled another cart of coal into the fires of Hades. “I hope my presence does not frighten you.”

“Frighten?” Her eyes widened. “Should I be frightened?”

This time, Colin’s cheeks had taken on a rosy hue. Perhaps the temperature in this room was simply inconsistent.

“Of course you shouldn’t be frightened,” Colin said.

“Well then, I’m not.” Portia sat in the bed and slid her feet from her slippers.

For some reason, Colin had decided to quickly examine the carpentry of the night table.

Men, Portia decided, were most odd. Even the ones who didn’t need to build their own furniture seemed forever interested in their construction. It was as if every man thought it possible he might be forced to become a carpenter and was studying the craft now in anticipation of such a moment.

“I’ll blow out the candle,” Portia said.

“Good idea.” Colin’s voice seemed to have taken on an odd husky quality, and Portia frowned.

“I hope you’re not catching a cold.”

“No, no.”

Portia refrained from blowing out the candle. Instead, she leaned over the bed. Colin’s face seemed to grow red, and Portia frowned. Redness was a sign of fever. He might be more ill than she’d realized.

Portia extended her hand, and Colin licked his lips. Did the poor man have a parched throat as well? How dreadful.

“Let me feel your forehead,” Portia ordered.

“Why?” Colin swallowed hard.

“I want to see if you have a fever.”

“I do not have a fever.” Colin scrambled up. His nightshirt revealed his neck and throat, and this time, Portia swallowed. She put her hand as matter-of-factly as she could on his forehead, hoping her fingers wouldn’t tremble. She drew her hand back rapidly.

He stared at her. “Is something wrong?”

Heavens, his eyes were so wide.

“No. You don’t have a fever.”

“Good,” Colin said.

“Yes.”

“Are you going to blow out the candle now?”

“O-of course,” Portia said, and did just that, cursing her nervousness.

Colin wasn’t going to touch her, after all. That had been the first thing he’d said.