Page 35 of An Acquired Taste

“Just,” I say, teeth chattering, “a little. Chilly.”

Sebastian mutters something unintelligible and unbuttons his coat. “Take yours off,” he says. “It’s wet.”

I nod, too tired and cold to argue. When my stiff fingers fumble with my buttons, he reaches over and helps me. He pulls the coat off and wraps me in his own. He doesn’t have any body heat to offer, of course, but it’s still nice and dry and smells like him, and I wrap it around myself and Barny.

“Here, Trent!” Sebastian shouts over his shoulder. He lifts Barnabas off my lap with one arm and helps me to my feet with the other.

The moment I’m up, my ankle gives. I cry out; I had almost forgotten the injury, since my body’s gone numb.

Sebastian catches me, his eyes widening. “You’re hurt.”

“Twisted my ankle,” I say, leaning on him for support.

A moment later, Trent ducks in from the rain. “Oh, thank God,” he says, his eyes flicking from me to Barny.

“Get Barnabas back to the house,” Sebastian says, his eyes never leaving me as he hands Barny over to Trent.

“Yes, sir.” Trent pulls Barny into his coat, cradled safely in his arms.

“I’m fine,” I say belatedly. “I’m just—” I cut off in a squeak as Sebastian scoops me off my feet. He holds me in his arms, bridal-style, like I weigh nothing at all. I want to protest but his arms are strong, his coat so blessedly dry around me, and it’s instinctive to just burrow my face into his chest and let myself be carried.

With Sebastian’s long strides and knowledge of the grounds, it only takes ten minutes or so to get back to the house, but hedoesn’t set me down when we get there. He carries me through the entryway without pausing to take off his shoes.

Trent comes close behind with an extremely muddy Barnabas. “I’ll take care of him, Lord Sebastian,” he says.

“Thank you, Trent.” Sebastian carries me through to the drawing room and the fire waiting there. He sinks down in front of it, lowering me to a seat on the rug in front of the fireplace. I shut my eyes, enjoying the warmth on my skin, but then they fly open again as I think of my filthy shoes.

“I’m getting mud all over,” I protest. “I should take a bath—”

“No. That would be too much of a shock for your body. You need to warm up slowly.”

He starts to stand, and I reach out and grab his arm before I can second-guess myself.

“Please don’t go.”

I think I might be delirious, because I didn’t mean to say that out loud. But I’m too cold and dizzy to care how pathetic I sound right now. Something about the way he carried me here made me ache to be taken care of, even though I’m sure he’s furious with me.

“I was just going to get you a change of clothes,” he says. But he lowers himself back to his knees on the rug, and I gratefully lean back against him. “A blanket, then. But you need to get out of those.”

I nod but make no move to undress. I’m not sure my stiff limbs are capable of it yet.

Sebastian leans over to grab a nice fuzzy throw from an armchair. Then he pulls his borrowed coat off my shoulders and sets it aside. A moment’s hesitation, and he reaches for the hem of my soaked sweater. I lift my arms to assist him, and he carefully peels it off me. I’m left only in a bra, but I can’t bring myself to be self-conscious right now. Anyway, he’s still kneeling at my back, so he can’t be getting much of a view.

“You can take that off, too,” I mumble, since I don’t feel like fumbling with it with my numb fingers.

Sebastian hesitates. Then his fingers find their way to the clasp of my bra. He undoes it, and I shrug it off and let it fall to my lap. A moment later, he wraps the blanket around my shoulders.

I expect him to leave it at that, but instead he grabs me by the waist and slowly but oh-so-easily spins me around on the rug to face him.

“Which ankle is the one that hurts?” he asks. Not quite able to form words, I tilt my chin at my left foot.

He takes that mud-caked sneaker—my poor, yellow shoes may never recover—and sets it on his knee without a care for the dirt smearing on his nice pants. He undoes my laces, slips off the shoe with utmost care, and scrutinizes my swollen ankle.

I can’t help it; I stare at him, my awareness gradually sharpening as warmth seeps into my bones. I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, although he never lifts his eyes from my ankle. His expression is creased with concentration as he gently feels along the bone.

It doesn’t make any sense. I can’t wrap my head around the way he carried me back to the house, the way he’s treating me so softly, after ignoring me for days.

“I suspect it’s just a sprain,” he says, lowering my bare foot to the rug. “But I’ll call the doctor tomorrow to have a look at it.”

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