The Obsessions of Lord Godfrey - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,18

felt like warm irons through the fine linen of his nightshirt, and regardless of all else, there was comfort in her touch. “Come on. Let’s get you settled again.”

She sounded like his childhood nurse. He supposed he deserved that. Regardless, he was far too heavy for her to steady if he actually fell; he raised his left arm and looped it around her, but mindful of the proprieties, he settled his hand on her shoulder rather than, as he would have preferred, at her waist.

Under his arm, she shuffled a touch closer, rendering the pair of them a fraction more stable. “Now…” Using the pressure of her hands and arm, she urged him toward the bed.

Two shambling steps got him to the bed’s side, and there they paused.

He looked down at her—just as she looked up at him.

Their gazes collided and locked. Time froze.

So did they, both captured by the moment.

The urge to kiss her—to taste her lips again—surged.

But her widening eyes, the comprehension and resistance he saw spiking there, had him reining back the impulse.

He rocked slightly with the effort, and she blinked and looked down, then eased away.

“Turn around.” Using her hands at his waist, she helped him shuffle around until he could sink onto the edge of the bed. As he did, she released him. Setting her palms to his shoulders, she pushed.

Obliging her, he fell and landed on his back on the sheet.

She stooped and slid an arm beneath his knees and, raising the covers, helped him swing his legs onto the bed.

He closed his eyes and shifted until he was lying straight. As she lowered and straightened the covers, he groaned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t imagine I would be that weak.”

She made a scoffing sound, but when he peeked through his lashes, he saw she was frowning, her expression declaring she was seriously concerned.

Sure enough, after resettling the covers, lips tight, she stepped to his side and slapped a hand to his forehead. After a second, she huffed. “Your fever’s rising. I should have checked earlier.”

She removed her hand, planted both hands on her hips, and bent an exasperated look on him. “I need to tell Mrs. Kemp so she can have Cook prepare you the right sort of broth.” She held his gaze, and there was not so much as a hint of encouragement in hers—just worry. “If I leave, will you remain in bed this time?”

Chastened, he simply said, “I promise.”

She gave vent to another huff, then lowered her arms and headed for the door. “I’ll be back in just a few minutes.” Before the door, she bent and picked up what he realized were the shears she’d gone to fetch. She set them on a nearby dresser, then opened the door and left.

Godfrey stared at the closed door for several minutes while their recent actions and reactions replayed in his mind. She was as attracted to him as he was to her—of that, he felt sure—yet for some reason, she was intent on holding him at arm’s length, metaphorically at least.

Why?

When all was said and done, he was not accustomed to such summary rejection from ladies of any age or station.

She returned within a few minutes. Judging by the tight set of her features, her temper had hardened.

So had his.

He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she halted beside the wing chair and, having retrieved her shears along the way, fixed him with a stern look. “Mr. Cavanaugh—”

“My given name is Godfrey.” The tone in which she’d spoken had been his last straw. “If you’re going to insist on pushing me into bed, then I believe it’s appropriate that we move to first name terms.”

He watched her intently—challengingly.

She returned his look through narrowing eyes, but then her features eased, and she stepped across the chair and sat down. “Very well. Godfrey. My given name is Eleanor, but everyone calls me Ellie.”

“Ellie.” It suited her, with her honey-colored hair and, he judged, usually cheerful and positive demeanor.

From the basket, she retrieved the garment she’d been mending and shook it out. “I hope when Cook sends up the broth, you’ll consent to drink it. Mrs. Kemp will have added a concoction of herbs that we hope will help reduce your fever. Because of the snow, there’s no chance of having the doctor visit, so the old remedies are the best we can offer.”

Now, he felt about five years old. He cleared his throat. “Of course. I’ll be grateful for any assistance that