He began to unbutton his shirt.
Patience nodded, the scene before her leaving her speechless. Gathering her courage around her shredded dignity, she asked, “What shall we tell the others?”
Bryce ignored her question as he peeled off the bloodied shirt and threw it into the fire. She watched mesmerized while he emptied the basin water out the window, poured fresh water, and started cleaning off the dried blood.
The shadows of the dancing fire played across the sinewy ridges of his muscular chest and arms. She let her study of him continue down his black breeches, fashionably tight against the lean contours of his waist, thighs, and buttocks. What she would not give to be a lot closer to this magnificent form, forgetting the ache in her arm as heat filled her cheeks and dampened other maidenly places.
Water slurped from the basin as he splashed the liquid over his nearly hairless chest. When she raised her eyes to his face, she saw him watching her with an intrigued look and a smug smile.
“If you continue to look at me in that way, I may be hard-pressed to return you to your room,” he told her in amusement.
Patience quickly looked away and gulped. Every time she saw him, she wanted to see more. Much more.
Finally, clothed in his dressing gown, he sat on the side of the bed, careful not to disturb her arm.
“I will inform everyone that you are indisposed for the next few days, until your arm feels better.” He cocked his head, watching her closely, his face enigmatic.
“If you will turn your back…I shall endeavor…to—” She spoke, wanting to vacate his room immediately and restore her senses, alone in her room.
He shook his head. “Although I do enjoy the sight of you in my bed, I fear neither of us would get much sleep.” He leaned over and carefully lifted her head and shoulders, wrapping the sheet around her. Then, to her astonishment, he scooped her into his arms, placed her injured arm gently across her body, and easily carried her out the door and up the stairs to her bedroom as she directed him. If she had any energy left, she would not have given in to the temptation to rest her head on his strong shoulder. But the night’s events had caught up with her, and she reluctantly embraced Morpheus’s dreams, feeling protected and safe in his arms.
When he had laid Patience on the bed, Bryce drew the faded coverlet over her slumbering form, and placed her spectacles on the nearby table. He stared down at her as one creamy breast threatened to slip from its confines from beneath the sheet that had slipped when placing her on the narrow bed. He gently pulled up the sheet to cover her and quietly left her room. He had found his vision, and she had a name. Patience. He vowed soon to uncover all her secrets.
A quiet knock on the door awakened Patience’s restless slumber. Judging by the sunlight streaming through her window, she surmised it must be midday. A piercing thread of pain shot through her arm, quickly restoring her memory of the night before.
Her heart beat fast as she called out a greeting. She was definitely not prepared for another encounter with the earl. When she heard Colette’s soft-accented reply, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Enter” brought the French maid into the room.
“Ma chérie, I was most concerned for you. His lordship explains that you are not well and shall remain in bed a few days. You are ill?” Colette set a tray of food on the opposite bed and turned to inspect Patience for herself.
Patience bore her scrutiny well. She did not quite feel up to answering questions or explaining last night’s adventures to anyone. “Thank you for your concern. I injured my arm last night, and his lordship kindly administered relief. He decided I need to rest for a short time.”
Colette pursed her lips while leaning over Patience to inspect her bandaged limb atop the counterpane. “His lordship seems quite concerned over your well-being. He asked me to bring you this tray.” She hesitated. “Are you sure there is nothing more for you to add, concerning the master and you? I do feel responsible for you here.”
Patience’s eyes widened in shock at the maid’s audacious questioning, and struggled with her good hand into a sitting position. “There is no cause for you to ask me such. His lordship only helped me as a master would a servant. Everything remains the same as before.”
Colette listened before smiling. “That is good. His lordship is quite handsome, it would not be difficult to harbor feelings for him other than the hatred you have shared with me. My mistress seeks only a kind word from his lordship, but to no avail. He forgets she is here, and I fear she grows restless. He has not been to her bed since she arrived earlier from Town. I believe she is weary from the chase. The countess and her cousin talk of returning to London, and for me, I must follow.”
Suddenly, Patience longed to be finished with her masquerade. Longed for Rupert to be free. Wished to return to her brothers she missed and to her home.
But things had changed; she had changed. She now understood that she wanted something more, yearned deep in her soul for a new life. Perhaps when she returned home, she could persuade Louis to take her to London. Inconceivable to return to her past life.
Colette interrupted her musings. “I have been told Mrs. Knockersmith has arranged for new dresses to be delivered to you later today.” The maid rose from Patience’s bed and turned to go. “I must return to the countess or she will wonder where I am. I will return later for your tray.”
The click of the door reminded Patience how alone she was in a place where she could not be herself and with someone who knew her secret. How could she continue this charade as his lordship had requested—or, rather, commanded? She thrust aside the counterpane and tried to rise from the bed. The sudden movement brought a pounding to her head that forced her to return to a prone position. Exhaustion, worry, and pain caught her consciousness and drew her rapidly into a bearable forgetfulness.
Colette looked up from ironing the countess’s morning dress when Captain Kilkennen entered the apartments.
Immediately on her guard, remembering the antagonism between the countess and this man, she asked, “What do you here? This is a ladies’ boudoir.”
Kilkennen cocked one eyebrow in doubt as he sauntered around the room. “You call the shrew, Countess Isabella, a lady?”
“Captain, you offend me when you dishonor my lady.” Although Colette held no love for her employer, perhaps he would leave if she was rude to him.
A wing chair near Colette’s table provided Kilkennen a perch from which to watch her.
“The countess is not here. I must ask you to leave. It is not proper.” Colette did not tolerate well the idle English. Furthermore, he interfered with her work.
His sharp green eyes assessed her. “Are you ordering me to leave?” he asked with a grin.
Colette hesitated before replying, “No, I would consider it more of a request.”
“A request,” he repeated to himself softly. “Where is her highness? I mean, the countess?” he asked, ignoring Colette’s icy glare.
“I believe she and Mr. Sansouche went visiting.”
“Ah, visiting. Perhaps with other French loyalists?” His tone held more than a casual interest.
Colette stopped her ironing and stated emphatically,
