you ‘re an idiot, she concluded as she reached the floor on which the main bedchambers were located. As she started past the door to her patient’s room, she paused. Perhaps she should check on Kit.
Glad to have a responsible reason to indulge her cowardly desire to dawdle, she knocked on the door. When Kit’s valet, Peters, answered it, instead of standing aside to let her enter, he simply stood for a moment, jaw dropped, staring. “Cor, ma’am,” he breathed, finally remembering to step back, “but you do look fine.”
“T-thank you,” she stuttered, not sure whether to be alarmed or flattered.
“Who is it, Peters?”
“Mrs. Martin, master—I think.”
Kit Bradsleigh lay propped against his pillows, face pale and drawn. Only in the past two days had her patient been conscious and coherent enough to converse, though his lung ailment perforce limited speech. Still, she’d already come to appreciate the young man’s unpretentious charm.
As she approached, his pain-shadowed eyes brightened with interest. “Fine indeed! Excuse my bad manners … not rising … to kiss the hand … of a lovely lady.”
She smiled. “After all the hours Dr. MacDonovan and I have expended the last week to bring you to this evening, should you attempt so reckless a feat I’d be more tempted to bash you with the hand than let you kiss it.”
“Then I am safe.” He gave her a rueful grin. “Already attempted it … when Ellie stopped by. Found movement … most unwise. Must lie here … and admire from afar.”
“It is a lovely gown and I do thank her for it. Shall you fare well here? I feel somewhat guilty going down to join the company, leaving you alone but for Peter’s care.”
He waved a hand. “If anyone deserves … an evening off …'tis you, ma’am! Afraid I’ve not … been in right frame … to express appreciation … but I want—”
“None of that,” she interrupted. “Just praise heaven, as I do, that Dr. MacDonovan’s skill and your own strong constitution were sufficient to bring you through.”
He nodded, his thin face serious. “No more, then. But an evening … of Peter’s company … is small recompense … for my debt …” His words trailed off, lost in a fit of coughing. Concerned, Laura leaned to press firmly against his bandaged shoulder, trying to immobilize the wound until the coughing subsided.
“Hush, now,” she said when at last he took a gasping, cough-free breath. “Enough pretty speeches, though I do thank you for them. Peters, make sure he finishes the broth I send up, and no more conversation! You will call me on the instant if you feel I’m needed?”
“Aye, ma’am.”
“Good. I’ll bring up an herbal tea later.” She squeezed Kit’s hand. “’Twill ease your breathing and help you sleep.” After he nodded acknowledgment, she looked with reluctance to the door. “I suppose I must go down.”
She’d moved several steps away when his voice halted her. “Mustn’t … be afraid.”
Startled, she stopped short and turned back to him.
He managed an encouraging smile. “Beau intimidating … but kind. Ne ver … hurt anyone good.” He paused to put a hand to his chest, grimacing through another short cough. “Smile. You have … a lovely smile.” He fluttered his fingers at her in a gesture of farewell and then closed his eyes, slumping back against his pillows.
Laura descended the stairs, more pensive still. Was her agitation when around Lord Beaulieu so obvious? Or had Kit, knowing the reaction normally evoked in underlings by his lofty brother, merely been trying to encourage her?
Too late now to debate the wisdom of coming tonight. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the parlor door.
A din of massed voices rolled over her. Startled by the noise after years of self-imposed social isolation, Laura halted, alarm skittering across her nerves. Forestalling the butler from announcing her arrival with a short, negative shake of her head, she slipped in, her eyes scanning the room to identify the company.
Lady Winters sat in her customary spot, several neighborhood ladies gathered around her, Lady Elspeth and another guest on the sofa opposite. The squire and his son held forth by the sideboard, glasses of spirits in hand. By the window, surrounded by most of the men of the company, Lady Ardith sparkled in low-cut golden splendor.
A shiver passed through her as she recognized the tall figure toward which Lady Ardith was leaning her impressively bared bosom. The shiver magnified to a tremor as Lord Beaulieu, as if cued by some invisible prompter, turned toward the doorway and saw her.
His look of mild annoyance vanished and his body tensed. While she waited, unable to breathe, his gaze swiftly inspected her—his frankly admiring gaze. And then he smiled, a warm, intimate message of welcome, as if she were the one person for whom all evening he’d been waiting.
He thought she looked pretty. She tried to stifle her guilty pleasure at the realization and swiftly bent her head before he could see the answering smile that automatically sprang to her lips. Both gratified and alarmed, she hurried to Lady Elspeth’s comforting presence.
Beau shifted restlessly, a polite smile in place while he tuned out the drone of Lady Ardith’s speech as effectively as he blocked out the quite attractive but entirely untempting display of cleavage she insisted on continually thrusting beneath his nose. Blast, did the woman think him blind?
Had this whole evening been for naught? Despite his sister’s assurances and Kit’s offer to help if necessary, would Laura Martin fail to appear?
Just as, reining in his raveling temper with an effort, he was about to come to that conclusion, he felt a change in the room, a rush of cool air.
He turned toward the door—and saw her. For a moment he quite literally forgot to breathe.
Her thick auburn hair, twisted at the top of her head into a mass of ringlets, was obscured from his awed glance by only the smallest of lace caps. And to his enthralled eyes, Ellie’s luscious green gown revealed with vivid clarity every curve and even more of the glorious ivory skin he recalled from lovingly tended memory of the Vision.
Her restive glance finally collided with his in a connection that was almost palpable. For a timeless moment they simply stared at each other, oblivious to the other occupants of the room.
He wanted her at his side, where she belonged. At the last moment sanity returned and he stopped himself from calling out to her. Instead he smiled, trying to imbue in that silent gesture all his unspoken urgency. Come to me.
But though her eyes widened and her lips responded with a smile she quickly bent to hide, she turned to walk not to him, but to his sister.
Beau gritted his teeth to keep from gnashing them in frustration. Go easy, he cautioned himself. He must not crowd her in front of this crowd of people. Not make her nervous by singling her out, or conspicuous by drawing down on her the rancor Lady Ardith would surely display if that calculating lightskirt decided the richest potential lover present was taking undue notice of some other lady.
He must wait, in short. And so he would. But sometime, somehow, he vowed, before this evening ended he would find a way to steal her to himself.
