The Obsessions of Lord Godfrey - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,33
Ellie.
Both Masterton and Morris had designs on her, and Godfrey wasn’t sure she knew.
He didn’t consider himself an impulsive man, but when she didn’t appear, the compulsion to get up, get dressed, and go and find her swelled to a level impossible to resist.
Had Morris or Masterton waylaid her?
Godfrey sat upright in the bed and considered how he felt. His head didn’t swim, and his bouts of coughing seemed less frequent. He suspected he still had a fever, but it was much less than on the previous day. All in all, he was definitely getting better.
The question was, was he strong enough to stand without assistance?
There was only one way to find out.
He swung his legs out from beneath the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. His head remained steady, and he felt entirely normal. Slowly, he pushed upright.
His legs held—at least, for now. Keeping one hand on the bed, he took a cautious step away from the side—and wobbled.
He froze, locking his knees—just as a light rap fell on the door.
Aghast, he looked across the room.
The door swung inward. “It’s only me,” Ellie sang. “I’m sorry I—”
She broke off and stared at him.
He tried to straighten, but a cough struck, and he wheezed and started to topple.
She raced toward him as, desperate, he lunged for the bed.
Her arms came around him, locking about his lower chest.
She tried to hold him up, but his weight was greater than hers, and in a flurry of limbs, hands, and skirts, they fell in a tangle half on and half off the bed.
He collapsed on his back, and she came down on her side beside him. Her arms were still about him, one trapped beneath his back.
With her warmth seeping through the fabric of his nightshirt, with her soft curves pressed against his side and the supple length of her legs stretched alongside his, he wasn’t at all sure he hadn’t somehow seized a gift he didn’t deserve.
“Oof!” Ellie half sat and brushed her hair, which had fallen forward, out of her face. It took her a second to remember how to breathe, then she glared at Godfrey. “You promised you would remain in bed!”
He frowned, only partly repentant. “I know, and I’m sorry. But when you didn’t arrive…I felt I had to make the effort and at least see what I’m capable of.”
She tried not to think about the way his deep voice reverberated through his chest, impinging on her trapped arm. Wrestling with her focus, she slapped a palm to his forehead. After a moment, she declared, “Your fever is still there, lingering.”
His hawkish eyes on her face, he arched his brows. “But it’s not as bad as it was, is it?”
She compressed her lips, but had to admit, “No. But it’s not gone yet, and we don’t want a relapse.”
The closeness of their bodies had flooded her senses, and she was fighting a losing battle to concentrate on the real issue—his health—rather than on the long, hard, male body stretched alongside hers.
No matter how much her senses wanted to wallow, she had to get up and put distance between them. Setting her jaw and clinging to her determination, she wriggled her arm, trying to slide it from beneath him; he grunted and rolled away, allowing her to pull free. She tried not to notice the smooth muscles her forearm and hand skimmed across or the long lean muscles of his back, buttocks, and thighs imperfectly concealed by the fine linen of his nightshirt.
It took even greater effort to push up and back and, trying not to look flustered, scramble to her feet.
Grimly, he rose on one elbow and levered himself back and around until he could slump on the pillows again. He reached for the covers, and she hurriedly helped him pull them up and over him.
“Well, that was a failure.”
She was still somewhat breathless, but at his morose tone, she observed, “You don’t seem to be coughing as much today.”
He thought, then arched his brows. “That’s true.” His eyes swung her way, and he looked at her hopefully.
But having tended Harry through various illnesses, she was immune to such wordless pleas. “You’re lucky you didn’t fall away from the bed—you might not have been able to get up by yourself, and lying on the cold floor until Wally or I came in and found you would almost certainly have caused a severe setback.”
He arranged his features into a contrite expression.