Page 10 of Master of Games
“I tried to move my arm.”
“Why would you do that?”
“To touch your face,” he answered with a small smile. He’d use his other arm to do so if Tabbie wasn’t laying on it.
“You clearly hit your head when you fell off your horse.”
He laughed, a small sound that made his whole body hurt. “Why would you say that?”
“You’re not the sort that tenderly touches women’s faces.”
“Why would you say that?” he repeated.
“I saw you at the Guiltmores’ ball this past February.”
His brow furrowed. Guiltmore? The name sounded vaguely familiar, but as he spent most balls completely intoxicated, he had trouble differentiating.
He’d not had a drink in four months. He found he no longer missed it.
“You invaded my shadowy corner with a debutante, I think. Her name was Clarissa.” Her lip curled as she pushed up from the bed.
He missed her heat even as he grimaced at her words.
He had no recollection of a Clarissa, or to the event she referred, but he could only imagine how he’d behaved. “I’m sure Clarissa had a lovely time.”
“I think she did, right up until she realized you couldn’t remember her name.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line. He was certain he’d acted badly, he usually did. He’d add this new hurdle to the list of them that stood between Tabbie and himself. “It would be different for us.”
“I’m sure,” her voice dripped with sarcasm even as she grabbed a pitcher of water and filled a glass.
His mouth watered at the idea of a drink and she obliged, sliding a hand under his head and lifting it up, as she brought the glass to his lips.
He did feel weak this morning, but he could have held a glass. Still, he let her help him, enjoying the feel of her fingers in his hair.
She lay his head back down and he sighed out his contentment. She set down the glass and hesitated for a moment before she took a step back. “If your fever has broken, I need not stay.”
“But you could,” he replied, knowing that he was losing ground. He’d meant to come here and romance her into marriage. Instead, he was fairly certain he’d proposed in a fever-induced haze and she had all her guards up.
“Should I send up a tray for you?”
“And a bath,” he answered, tossing the covers off his body. He still wore his breeches, but his chest was bare, his arm bandaged.
“You should stay in bed,” she cried. “Let your body heal.”
“Perhaps you should stay with me,” he wagged his eyebrows. “And make certain I don’t exert myself.”
“What has gotten into you?” her brows drew together. “Do you still have a fever after all? Have you been drinking?”
“I’ve not had a drop in months.”
Her eyes went wide. “You jest.”
“I do not.”
“What happened?”
He swung his feet over the side of the bed. “It has been a trying year.”
