else’s business.
Mary carried the tray to his bedside. ‘But what harm...?’
‘The matter is not up for debate. It does not concern you.’ Lucas was not about to discuss his reasons for banning children with a virtual stranger, particularly one as adept as Mary at keeping her own secrets. ‘Where have you been, Mary?’
Mary stilled, her eyes guarded. ‘What do you mean—where have I been?’
She placed the tray on Lucas’s lap.
‘Aaarrrgh!’ Pain speared his thigh. ‘Mary!’
The crockery clattered as Mary snatched the tray away. ‘Oh, no! I am so sorry! I didn’t think.’
As the pain subsided to a throb, Lucas smiled ruefully. ‘I cannot blame you, Mary, for I didn’t anticipate that either. A lesson for us both, I think?’
‘Yes, indeed. I shall take more care in future.’ Mary placed the tray gently on the bed. ‘There, although I fear it might prove more awkward for you.’
‘I have you to help with what I cannot manage for myself, though, do I not?’ Lucas grinned at the easily construed suspicion in Mary’s eyes. ‘So, I shall ask again, Mary. Where have you been, since yesterday, when I awoke.’
‘Oh, since yesterday. Sleeping, for the most part,’ she said.
‘All day? Until now?’
‘Well, not quite until now. I did eat. Speaking of which—’ she removed the cover from the bowl on the tray ‘—you should eat this before it gets cold.’
Lucas peered at the contents of the bowl and grimaced. ‘You must have been very tired.’ He picked up the spoon with little enthusiasm.
‘I cannot deny it was a relief to sleep in a bed again.’ Mary cast a meaningful look at the chair by the side of his bed.
Remorse nudged Lucas. Hadn’t Trant said that Mary had barely left his side whilst he had been ill? He had been lying here, frustrated by her absence, without a thought as to what she and the rest of his household had been through.
‘How often did you sit with me, Mary?’
‘Every night, my lord.’
‘For pity’s sake, stop “my lord”-ing me. You are not a servant.’
‘What should I call you then, my l...sir?’
‘I should prefer Lucas, but I have no doubt you will deem it improper, Sensible Mary. And, in that case, sir will do.’
‘Yes...sir,’ she said, her lids lowering, but not before he glimpsed her expression. She clearly didn’t appreciate the nickname as it wasn’t the first time she had shown resentment at his use of it. But he had more pressing issues on his mind.
‘You stayed here for four nights running? All night? With no relief?’ he growled, vexed to think his servants would take such advantage.
‘It was my idea to sit with you during the night,’ she blurted out, with an anxious glance that piqued his curiosity.
Why was she suddenly on edge? Was she worried about his reaction to her answers? He knew she was not timid. What had he said to prompt this change?
As he watched she visibly took control of her emotions, drawing an audible breath before saying in a firm voice: ‘It was the least I could do, with everyone else so busy every day. You are not to blame Mrs Lindley or the others, for I insisted.’
He raised a brow. Come, this is a bit more feisty. Good for you, Mary.
‘And did you not sleep—in a bed—during the day?’
‘I find it impossible to sleep in the daytime.’
Her lids drooped, concealing her thoughts again. Lucas suppressed his frustration. He could not fathom her lightning changes in mood. Why was she so guarded?
He turned his attention to his food. ‘Do I really have to eat this...this...stuff?’ He poked at the gruel with the spoon.
‘The doctor said gruel is all you’re allowed. For now,’ she added quickly as she sent another anxious glance in his direction.
Why did she react as though she expected him to fly into a rage at any moment? What, or who, had caused her to view him with such trepidation? Had the servants warned her that his mood was, at times, on a knife’s edge?
And can I blame them if they have? He was aware his temper had been unpredictable of late, despite his best efforts to conceal his worries.
Lucas forced the scowl from his brow and relaxed his jaw, determined to coax Mary into a more relaxed frame of mind.
He eyed the bowl of gruel again, then looked at Mary, raising a brow as he smiled his best winning smile. Mary returned his look, her suspicion again clear.
‘It is too difficult to feed myself. I haven’t enough strength,’ he said, his voice a weak croak. ‘Please help me, dearest Mary.’
Mary pursed her lips, regarding him with narrowed eyes, then huffed a sigh as she sat on the edge of the bed and took the spoon from his slack grasp. Her wariness had vanished. His strategy had worked.
She dipped the spoon into the gruel and lifted it towards his mouth. Swiftly, he captured her hand, registering the tremor of her slender fingers as he did so.
‘Take care, Mary,’ he chided. ‘You almost spilt some. I will steady your hand.’
He retained his hold as he guided the spoon to his mouth, relishing the sensation. As his lips closed around the bowl of the spoon, he looked at her, pleased with the success of his strategy as he saw the hint of a blush stain her cheeks and a smile hover on those luscious lips, although he still read caution in her beautiful blue eyes: caution and the merest hint of desire that promptly set his pulse soaring. He forced the gruel down, tearing his eyes from hers in an attempt to dampen his wayward urges once more.
Mary’s blood quickened as she fought to control her reaction to Rothley’s touch. She felt the colour rise into her cheeks as her eyes met his and she was afraid he would read the desire the mere touch of his fingers had awakened deep within her.
She watched as he swallowed the gruel. The moment he released her hand, she snatched it away and replaced the spoon in the bowl.
‘Perhaps if I hold the bowl for you?’ she suggested, lifting it and holding it level with his chest.
Her eyes kept straying to the dark curls just visible in the open neck of his nightshirt. Determinedly, she fixed her gaze on his face. He appeared to have temporarily forgotten his questions, but she was sure he would revisit the subject sooner or later. Her brain scrambled in an effort to invent a convincing story that did not reveal the existence of her children, but it was hard to concentrate on anything other than Rothley.
‘This
