Passion and Propriety (Hearts of Honour Book 1) (11 page)

“At least wait until I can stand so I can show my respects with a bow.” He scowled. “I feel rude enough as it is, lying down with a lady present.”

“We’re not house guests at a garden party, my lord. I
have
been acting as your nurse.”

“As if I’ll ever forget.” He did not sound pleased by the admission, and Hannah feared he was yet to forgive her for her insensitivity or for robbing him of his dignity. Taking a breath, she came to stand at his side. The nightshirt Dawkins had found for him was rumpled, combining with his sleep-tousled hair and newly shaved face to give him an almost boyish appearance.

“May I?” She gestured to his brow. He nodded, closing his eyes when she pressed her fingers to his forehead. She kept her hand in place for a moment, relieved to find his skin relatively cool and dry.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, and his eyes flew open.

“Pardon?”

“Are you hungry, my lord?” she repeated, puzzled by his hoarse tone. Then realisation dawned, and she could have slapped her forehead. “Of course, you’re in pain.”

He’d gone without his medicine during the night because she hadn’t been
there. She stepped to the sideboard and prepared an herbal elixir, making sure it contained a hefty dose of willow bark.

“Why didn’t you have Dawkins wake me?” she asked, looking over her shoulder. “There was no need to suffer. I would have come at any time during the night.”

After returning to his side, she sat beside him on the bed. But when she brought the glass to his lips, he surprised her by grabbing hold of her arm.

“I’m not in pain,” he said. “Well, not overly.”

“Oh.” Hannah frowned. “I thought . . . It’s just that you seemed . . .”

Her gaze lowered to where his fingers were wrapped around her wrist. While she watched, he brushed his thumb over the sensitive skin on the inside of her arm, and her stomach fluttered in a curious fashion. It couldn’t be desire, could it? He squeezed her wrist, and her attention returned to his darker-than-usual gaze.

“Do I still have to take this?” He tilted his head towards the tumbler held between them.

“You don’t
have
to,” she said, her voice oddly breathy.

“But you think I should?”

At her nod, he wrapped his fingers around hers on the glass and downed the contents in one swallow. A shudder ran through him at the taste. An answering one echoed in her, of sympathy . . . nothing more.

“Would you like me to see about your breakfast?” she asked when he lowered the glass, irritated by her discomfiture. She’d sat beside him like this countless times: spoon-fed him, held his hand, wiped his brow. She’d even assisted him in the most intimate of ways, but she’d never been so acutely aware of his masculinity before. It was unsettling . . . and uncalled for.

“My lord?”

Their gazes remained locked, his fingers still clasped around hers on the glass.

“
William?
” she whispered, taking leave to use his name when he didn’t respond.

Blinking twice, he released her hand.

“Breakfast. Yes. That would be good.”

She stood abruptly, then excused herself and left the room, her hopes she and the viscount might renew their childhood friendship in a state of flux.

When she returned, he made good work of his breakfast, his strength and alertness greatly improved from the day before. She was unsurprised when he insisted on feeding himself with his good hand, only allowing her to help him when it started to tremble.

“About your hair cut, my lord . . .” she said after putting the breakfast tray aside, but he raised a hand to silence her.

“I think it would be wiser
if you arranged for the barber from Thornton to visit.”

“Wiser?” She stared for a moment, then continued when he added nothing more, “Very well. If that is your preference. Shall I tell Dawkins you’re ready for your sponge bath, or would you prefer to rest?”

“Bath first, then I would appreciate if you could bring me up to date with the goings on in the district and whatever you might know about the estate. Has there been any word from Grantham?”

“He’s not visited the manor or asked for an audience that I know of. I could send word you wish to see him.”

“Don’t bother. He’ll be long gone.”

Hannah was loath to defend the miserly estate manager but felt compelled to say, “He was away when you arrived, but he did send for Dr Cooper on his return.”

“Probably in hopes the old drunkard would finish me off.”

Hannah hesitated, and he raised a brow.

“You think the man, who I suspect has been lying to and defrauding me for nigh on a decade, has my best interests at heart?”

“Probably not.” She sighed. “I think it was fortunate he stayed away from Hartley for as long as he did. If Dr Cooper had been sent for sooner, Grace and I would have been hard-pressed to keep him from taking control of your treatment.”

The viscount,
William—
she could at least call him by his name in her thoughts—grimaced.

“I can’t recall if I’ve thanked you for all you’ve done, Miss Foster,” he said formally, before a smile curved his lip. “You and your witchy friend with her disgusting potions. You must introduce us properly next time she calls.”

“Gladly.” Hannah smiled at his description, knowing it would tickle Grace.

“My gratitude is sincere.” William reached for her hand before withdrawing. “If I
had
been left to Dr Cooper’s tender mercies, I doubt I would have lasted long. I owe you my life.”

“You are most welcome.” Hannah straightened her shoulders with remembered resolve. “It may have been a long time ago, but I hadn’t forgotten our friendship and wasn’t about to give up on you without a fight.”

“An admirable champion,” he said, before looking away.

Though effectively dismissed, Hannah felt hopeful they were back on a more secure footing. Pausing in the doorway, she acknowledged his earlier instructions. “I’ll send Dawkins up to assist you.”

“Thank you, Miss Foster.”

She smiled at his simple statement. It would certainly make it easier to integrate him into the local community if he continued to remember his manners.

Despite his intentions, William required a rest after he’d been bathed and changed.

“Like a blasted baby in all regards,” he muttered, or so Dawkins had relayed to Hannah’s amusement. Putting the unexpected reprieve to good use, she sent a message to the barber in Thornton then wrote a letter requesting Corporal Markham’s presence, intending to add on any codicil William might want to include when he gave her the address. After finding Naomi in a palatial parlour interviewing potential staff, she quizzed her about how things were faring at the vicarage.

“Stop worrying,” Naomi said with an exasperated huff. “The house hasn’t fallen down around us yet.”

“I never said it had. It’s just . . .”

“You’re worried about Rachel,” Naomi finished for her.

“Has she been giving you trouble?”

“Not overly.” Naomi sighed. “Mr Trowbridge has gone quiet since the viscount’s return and Mr Grantham’s disappearance, so we’ve had no problems on that front. But if Rachel hasn’t got her head in a book, she’s going on about her impossible dreams. Travel to far-off and exotic destinations. Adventure and daring exploits only available to gentlemen of extraordinary stamina and considerable fortune. I mean, really, who ever heard of a young lady climbing a mountain or hunting wild animals in Africa? Then there’s the ridiculous notion her knight in shining armour will come riding in to Hartley at any moment and rescue her from this life of drudgery to which she has been doomed by cruel fate.”

Hannah chuckled at her sister’s recital, which all too accurately mimicked their beloved but at times melodramatic sibling.

“The usual, then?”

Naomi nodded, and it was Hannah’s turn to sigh. “It seemed the right thing to encourage her love of reading, but I hardly expected her preference for adventure stories to have such a lasting impact. I do hope she hasn’t done anything
too
outrageous.”

“Nothing beyond the pale.” Naomi’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “Though she may have been spotted riding
astride
the pony she talked the Jenkins boys into loaning her . . . but not by anyone of consequence
.
”

Hannah’s shoulders slumped. She’d tried so hard to stand in for their mother and raise her sisters to be respectable young ladies. But if their father’s debts and their lack of dowries weren’t obstacle enough to prevent them finding suitable husbands, Rachel’s outlandish behaviour seemed destined to do the trick. There was only so much abuse a young lady’s reputation could sustain before it was irreparably damaged, regardless of her angelic appearance.

“Does Papa know?” she asked, and Naomi shrugged, one of her personal peccadilloes. Hannah’s middle sister was, in her own way, just as much a nonconformist as the youngest, though at least her passions were a tad less self-serving. A staunch advocate of Lord Wilberforce’s efforts to see slavery abolished, Naomi’s concerns tended more towards the plight of the widow and orphan than a thirst for adventure.

“Don’t fret.” Naomi stood and wrapped her arm around Hannah’s waist. “I’ll talk to Rachel and try to keep a closer watch, though please tell me you’re returning home before too long? I’m beginning to worry the viscount has plans to keep you locked away in a tower once he recovers and never allow you to leave.”

“Naomi! You say the most outrageous things. Why on earth would His Lordship want to do that?”

“For companionship. Because he likes the look of you. To make you pay for bullying him into an unexpected recovery when he may have been reconciled to death. How should
I
know? You’re the one who has been holed up with him—
alone—
for days on end.”

“I have not bullied the man.” Hannah focused on a common complaint, ignoring her sister’s more outlandish suggestions. “Well, no more than was required.” To change the subject, she inquired how the staffing of the estate was fairing and received a thorough, if colourful, report.

“Locked in a tower and never allowed to leave,” Hannah muttered to herself as she climbed the stairs to the master suite.

“Pardon, miss? Did you say something?” a newly appointed young maid asked with a wobbly curtsy. Her hands were piled high with linens for making up another of the guest rooms in case her new master desired to entertain visitors, a possibility Hannah thought premature.

“Just thinking aloud, Bess,” she said. “It is
Bess,
isn’t it?”

The girl nodded, her cheeks firing with colour.

“You may carry on.”

The girl hesitated, and Hannah tilted her head in query.

“I just wanted to thank ye, Miss Foster. Me gettin’ work ’ere will make all the difference back ’ome.”

“You’re welcome.” Hannah was aware of her family’s plight. Bess’ father had been seriously injured in a carting accident, and the eldest son would not be returning from the battlefields of France. With the mother busy caring for her husband while earning a paltry income from taking in mending, it left the second son, not yet fourteen and the family’s sole breadwinner, working long hours in the mines. The money Bess earned at the manor would, indeed, make all the difference.