had him sweeping her an elegant bow.
A mistake. He felt his senses tip, then slide away as oblivion opened her arms and embraced him.
Aghast, Ellie stared at the man she’d mentally viewed as her family’s knight on a white charger—the bringer of hope for their future—as he crumpled to the wet tiles in a greatcoated heap at her feet.
For a second, shock held her immobile, then she crouched and brushed back the fall of dark hair that obscured his eyes; he didn’t react. “He’s unconscious.” That can’t be good. She glanced at Mrs. Kemp. “Is the best guest bedroom ready?”
“Yes, miss.” Mrs. Kemp turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll set the girls to filling hot-water bottles and preparing a bed-warmer.”
“Please.” Ellie looked at Kemp and Harry. “We need to get him upstairs and warm as quickly as we can.” She glanced at Henry, still supporting the second man—presumably Cavanaugh’s manservant—who, while still conscious, looked dazed and barely aware.
“I’ll take this one up and see to him, miss,” Henry volunteered.
She nodded, rose, and waved for Kemp and Harry to pick up the fallen man.
They heaved him up between them, then staggered toward the stairs. She started to follow, then remembered Masterton. She swung around, but with a faint smile, her father’s cousin waved her on. “I’ll manage. You should see to him.”
She didn’t always agree with Masterton, but with that, she had no argument. With a nod of acknowledgment, she turned and, lifting her skirts, hurried up the stairs.
Chapter 2
Godfrey opened his eyes and realized he was dreaming. A golden-haired angel—a glorious figment of his imagination—hovered over him, concern, curiosity, and interest lighting her woodland eyes as they slowly traced his features. Her heart-shaped face had been sculpted by a master, with a wide forehead, high cheekbones, straight nose, and tapered chin, and her coloring—porcelain complexion, blush-tinted lips, delicately arched brown brows, and long brown lashes—accentuated the divine vision.
He was reminded of a Botticelli angel; no doubt that was from where his ever-ready imagination had drawn its inspiration.
Her eyes rose and met his, and he smiled and allowed himself to fall into the green, hazel, and gold-flecked depths.
She blinked and tilted her head, as if uncertain whether to speak.
Did angels speak to mere mortals? Could they?
Smiling his most charming and reassuring smile, he raised one hand and, oh-so-delicately, ran the pads of his fingertips admiringly down the curve of her face, from temple to chin. He felt her startle and, turning his hand to slide his fingers beneath her chin, murmured, “You’re beautiful. Utterly perfect. I must have glimpsed you—or parts of you—countless times over the years, but I’ve never seen your features in toto before.”
His gaze sharpened as his critical faculties swam to the fore, and his attention fastened on her lips. Using the leverage of his fingers beneath her chin, he drew her closer, and she leaned nearer, allowing him to examine the absolute perfection of the lines of her lips.
“Flawless.” He shifted his hand to cruise his thumb over the plump swell of her lower lip. “Almost,” he breathed, “beyond my imagination.”
Because this was a dream and it seemed churlish not to pay due homage to a manifestation of such utter perfection, he raised his head and, lowering his lids, touched his lips to hers in a kiss of devotion—an appropriate tithe to such exquisite beauty.
Her lips were warm and soft under his—another level of perfection. Unable to resist, he explored the contours, lush and full and so very enticing.
She didn’t respond, but he hadn’t expected her to; she was only a figment of his rambling mind, after all.
Satisfied with the outcome of the dream, eyes now closed, he drew back from the kiss. He let his hand fall to the bed and, still smiling, allowed the waiting arms of Morpheus to envelop him again.
Ellie stepped back from the bed and stared at the sleeping man. Her heart was tripping, and she felt a blush steal into her cheeks. Instinctively, she raised her fingers to her lips, following the path he’d traced, feeling the tingling that still lingered in the wake of that wholly unexpected kiss.
“He was asleep,” she muttered. Speaking and flattering and kissing, yet nevertheless asleep.
She stood and stared at him and replayed his words. “He thought I was a figment of his imagination.”
And he thought I was perfect. Her heart gave a little kick.
She frowned and stepped away from the bed, then crossed to the washstand and straightened the towels folded on the shelf beneath the