The Obsessions of Lord Godfrey - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,17

in his presence, she’d been aware of his attention—not just his gaze—locked on her.

While she couldn’t label him a rake, not on such short acquaintance and with no actual evidence of such a propensity, his style—clothes, manner, horses, and carriage—made him being a rake a distinct possibility.

He might think her physically perfect, and she would admit to feeling a compulsion like no other to draw nearer and explore what the strangely intense attraction flaring between them portended, but sating her burning curiosity wasn’t sufficient reason to allow him to lure her any closer.

As her aunt, Lady Camberford, had frequently warned her, succumbing to a handsome stranger’s practiced wiles rarely ended well.

Regardless of the snippets of information he’d shared, he was still very much a stranger to her, and his handsomeness should be neither here nor there.

In her mind, she saw him as she’d left him, propped against the pillows, his dark hair falling across his forehead, his hawk’s eyes fixed on her. After several seconds of dwelling on the vision, she dragged her wits away.

Clearly, she was going to have to work at holding herself to an acceptable line. She tipped her head, consulting her instincts; she felt fairly certain that he—no matter a handsome rake or not—wouldn’t step over that acceptable line, not unless she beckoned. While they were under her family’s roof, his honor—and again, she felt sure he had an abundance of that—would stand firmly in his way.

“Good.” All she had to do was adhere to proper behavior herself, and all would be well.

Reassured, she set out for the back parlor, where she last remembered using her shears.

Harry and Maggie would likely be there, whiling away the hours. They’d want to know about Cavanaugh, about anything she’d learned. A few minutes in their company, away from Cavanaugh, wouldn’t hurt.

Godfrey waited for his ministering angel to return.

How large was the house? How far away was the back parlor?

As the minutes ticked by, his fretfulness over simply lying there grew.

He realized he hadn’t coughed for some time; perhaps he was getting better.

Eventually, restlessness drove him to sit upright. Although his chest felt heavy, his breathing remained unobstructed, and no sense of giddiness assailed him.

Encouraged, he slowly swiveled until he was sitting on the edge of the bed with his legs hanging over the side. He looked at his clothes, folded and neatly piled on the dresser farther along the wall. The chair his angel had occupied sat to his right; there was no obstacle between him and his clothes—just several yards of polished board, partially covered by a rug.

He noticed the rug was, in fact, a Turkish kilim and rather fine. The thought of what else he might find in such an old house, just lying around, taken for granted by those who lived there, flitted through his brain.

He raised his head and fixed his gaze on his clothes; he would definitely feel more the thing if he got dressed.

He drew in a deeper breath, slid his feet to the floor, and slowly straightened.

The nightshirt draped about his legs, covering them to midcalf. He paused to draw in another breath and took one step.

The door opened, and he looked that way. He had an instant in which to take in Miss Hinckley’s shock at seeing him out of bed before the room swam.

His senses whirled; his head reeled. He made some garbled sound, closed his eyes, and groped behind him for the bed, but he must have turned…

Where is it?

He felt himself teetering…then small hands gripped him firmly about the waist.

“Stop.”

The word was a command, one he instinctively obeyed.

“Just stand still until it passes.”

A minute crawled by, and sure enough, the world stopped waltzing. He wondered how much of his returning steadiness had to do with the distraction she offered—her supple strength, the gripping of her fingers, the warmth of her palms striking through the fine linen, the subtle perfume that reached him as she stood so close beside him; her nearness bombarded his senses in myriad ways, dragging his awareness from everything else.

“Don’t move yet, but see if you can open your eyes.”

Again, he obeyed, easing his lids up, grateful when nothing swayed. The bed lay two steps to his right. He felt her gaze on his face, but when he glanced at her, she’d looked at the bed. He noticed her lips were set in a rather grim line.

She had a hand clamped to either side of his waist, with her arm banding his back; her palms