Page 13 of Mending the Baron's Sins
“You look as if you are sitting straighter, my friend.”
“Am I?” Horace had not thought much about it, but he now did as he stared down at the tea.
***
“Enter,” Horace called later that evening as someone tapped lightly on the door of the library again.
He hadn’t left this room all day, though it was certainly better than spending the whole day in his chamber. He looked around the room, putting aside his copy ofMacbethagain as Orla stepped into the room.
He stiffened at the sight of her.
The tea she had given him earlier that day had helped a little. It was true that after he’d had it, he felt a little more strength, enough to look through the business papers that Walter had left behind for him to read, and even make some notes at the writing bureau. Now, he had returned to his armchair, sleepy in the warmth given off by the fire, and struggling to read in the candlelight.
“It’s so dark,” Orla mused as she stumbled into the room, struggling with his dinner tray and looking in danger of dropping it.
“That’s what happens when the sun goes down.”
“Can you not afford more candles, my lord?”
“Of course I can,” he said, then cursed under his breath. He had vowed not to be so argumentative with her tonight, wanting to be more grateful. Clearly, she had a habit of bringing it out in him.
She placed the tray noisily down on the table beside him, showing her irritation, then turned to the fireplace and found a tinderbox with more candles, lighting them fast.
“Why do you live in the dark?” she asked in a whisper as he peered at the dinner she had served him.
In the last five years, he had barely ever found the strength to eat his dinner at the dining table. He was glad she had not insisted on it this evening, though the meal she had brought him now made his body stiffen.
“Mr. Byrne says it keeps the demons away.”
“Hmm,” she made no comment on this, but lit more candles and spread them around the room. “At least this way, you can still read your book. Reading in such poor light will only worsen your headache.”
“Thank you,” he said as she placed a candle beside him.
These words seemed to shock her. She stepped back, staring at him, and he looked at her too.
Do not look at me like that.
He was thinking things he should not think again, imagining drawing her to him, pulling her into his lap. His gut stirred, as did his length, and he rearranged his napkin on top of his lap, making sure she saw nothing through his trousers.
“Miss Byrne–”
“You can call me Orla,” she said hurriedly. “All of my patients always do.”
“I can?” He shifted himself, uncomfortable at the idea. It was infinitely more intimate than before, but he found he couldn’t refuse her. He liked the name too much. “Well, Orla, I cannot eat this.”
“Why not?” She peered down at the plate, sudden fright in her eyes. “Is it not cooked properly?”
“No. I have eaten meager meals the last few years. My stomach cannot bear anything heavy.” He frowned at the plate full of large chicken legs, a lot of potatoes, and so many vegetables they were hard to count. “Did the cook not explain my diet to you?”
“They did. I argued against it.”
“Why does that not surprise me?”
She smiled a little, looking a little proud of herself.
“Do you argue with everyone?” he asked, gazing up at her.
“Only when the situation calls for it.” She surprised him by taking the stool on the other side of the table and leaning uponit. His eyebrows rose. Ordinarily, no servant would take such a seat without it being offered to them first. Yet Orla was not like any other servant he knew. “You are under heavy medication. Your body’s blood sugar will be struggling with it. The result is constant nausea.”
