Bennet, Pride Before the Fall (Love Austen 3)

The next time he woke up, the local doctor was peering at him. The flu. Lots of liquids and rest, and he’d be fine in a week.

He slept again.

The attic was brighter the next time he made sense of his surroundings. A pair of blue eyes stared down at him, so much like his.

“Heeeeey, it’s you again.”

Lyon looked over his shoulder and spoke to someone. “Still fever-y.”

Bennet tried to hold his eyes open but they kept closing. “Can you do me a little favor?”

“Probably not.”

“I haven’t shaved in what feels like days.”

Lyon eyed his jaw. “Sure haven’t.”

Bennet giggled. “I feel like my skin needs to breathe.”

“I’m not shaving you.”

“What do you mean you won’t shave me?”

“I mean ain’t no way in hell.”

“Fine. At least help me shower.”

Again Lyon turned and talked to someone else. “Delusional. You speak to him.”

Lyon disappeared and Darcy’s form came into spectacular view. Bennet’s mouth was moving, so he might have said as much. “It itches. I hate it scruffy. Why won’t he shave my face?”

“I’m sure he feels like it would be too . . . personal. Him being your brother and all.”

“You’re not my brother. Can you do it?”

“Shave you?”

“Or supervise.” Bennet threw back the sheets and swung his feet out of bed. His head spun.

He stood, unevenly, and Darcy steadied him.

“Is it really that important to you?”

“I always feel more myself without scruff.”

“Fine,” Darcy said. “I’ll do it.”

Darcy settled him onto the closed toilet and dragged a stool into the bathroom. Bennet peeled off his T-shirt.

“Do you always undress before you shave?” Darcy’s voice sounded off. This flu was really getting to him.

“Shower.”

Bennet had never been shy about being naked, and he was even less so when he was sick. He peeled off the rest of his clothes. Darcy moved methodically, helping him into the shower, then stood outside it—back turned—as Bennet fumbled with the soap and steamed the sweat from his pores.

He stepped out in a burst of vanilla-scented mist. Darcy handed him a towel and gestured him to sit on the stool.

A lather of shaving foam was smoothed over his face and Bennet closed his eyes, humming with the intensity of being touched.

Darcy made a strange sound in the back of his throat, but Bennet couldn’t concentrate enough to wonder any more about it. Thumbs pressed against his jaw, pulling his skin taut, and then the glorious glide of the blade stroked lightly over his cheek. Ticklish almost.

Firm yet delicate fingers pressed his face. It felt good to be handled, deftly, like this.

Bennet opened his eyes and found himself staring into Darcy’s dark ones. His pupils were dilated in the small room, darker than the night. The touch at Bennet’s jaw froze, and Darcy dropped his gaze.

More foam frothed his face and the blade scraped sensuously close to his skin. Goosebumps prickled down his arms, followed by a shiver.

Darcy dropped the shaver, apologized, and picked it up.

Softly, Bennet gripped Darcy’s wrist. “Thank you for making me feel good.”

Bennet woke with a gasp. He’d been having the most bizarre dream. Darcy, shaving him.

He felt his silky smooth face and froze. Oh, hell. He groaned.

Where was his phone? What day was it?

God his throat felt like he’d swallowed a burning shotput. Assured by the peace of the attic, he shifted quietly out of bed and plodded gingerly downstairs—

“You’re up.”

Bennet leaped a half-foot and clutched the banister. “Christ, Darcy. You scared me.”

“Apologies.”

“It was so quiet. I thought I was all alone.”

“I’ve spent the last hours reading.”

“Why?”

“I find it a pleasant way to pass the time.”

“No, why have you been reading here?” Bennet coughed, triggering him into a spiral of more coughing. His head still throbbed.

Darcy eyed him grimly. “You sound awful.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you need a bathroom visit?”

“Yes.”

On his way back from the bathroom, Bennet veered towards the kitchen—Darcy pushed out of the armchair and commandingly led him back up the stairs to bed.

“But—”

“Stay here.”

Darcy released his careful hold on Bennet’s arm and untangled the bedclothes. Bennet slipped between the sheets and blessedly sank against a half-dozen propped up pillows. He really did feel groggy and tired, and he liked . . . someone taking care of him.

The sheets tightened as Darcy’s hands flattened them across his waist. His face was trained on the task, and it might have been the musky dimness of the bedroom, but Bennet imagined a worried crease between Darcy’s brows.

“If you’re hungry, I’ll bring you something.”

“And if I’m bored?”

Darcy inclined his head and left. He returned with a tray holding water and a bowl of stew, and then procured Bennet’s laptop. “I assume you have Netflix?”

Bennet gave him the passwords and soon Darcy was scrolling through options.

“Where’s Lyon?” Bennet asked quietly.

Darcy glanced over. “He’s spending a lot of time with a man named William.”

“Has he given you any grief?”

“William? Not exactly.”