“Damnation, girl!” the young man said with as much authority as he could muster under the circumstances. “’Tis food I need—not gruel.”
“And food is what you shall get once you have shown me you can hold the gruel down.”
“I am in Hell, and you are a she-devil!”
“Really, Mr. Wimborne, earlier this morning you declared me an angel!”
“I was delirious, for you ain’t an angel but a wicked she-devil bent on having her own way. Knew it the moment I laid eyes on your flaming hair!” retorted Mr. Wimborne.
“Aha! Not only are you an adventurer, you are an ingrate as well!” Myriah teased, pleased to see him in such spirits.
He smiled feebly, but fatigue prevented him from further repartee, and he settled back against his pillows.
Myriah observed this and refrained from teasing him. Instead, she said softly, “Come then … have a spoonful.”
He groaned but did in fact allow himself to be fed, making an awful face as he swallowed the food.
Tabson appeared with a tray and set it on a nearby table before eyeing his mistress.
“Thank you, Tabby.” She knew what he wanted—he wanted to leave and hurry to her grandfather’s and avoid any further trouble. He had already lectured her earlier that morning. She, however, had other ideas.
She tried to ply her patient with another spoon, but he waved a hand at her. ?
?Go away!”
She put the bowl down on the nightstand and propped up his pillows. He eyed her suspiciously. “What are you doing now?”
“Making you more comfortable so you will finish your gruel.”
“No,” said her patient.
“No?” She eyed him warningly. She brought another spoon to his mouth and was surprised when he took it without a fight. “That’s it, Mr. Wimborne … that’s the ticket.”
“Billy to you … after all, you cannot be shoving that slovenly mush into m’mouth and calling me, Mr. Wimborne!” He smiled broadly. “’Tis ridiculous, and I’ll not call you anything but she-devil.”
She wedged another spoonful into the poor man’s mouth and grinned. “My name, sir, is Myriah—Myriah White.” She felt a twinge of guilt; she didn’t want to fib to him, but she had to keep up the pretense.
“Myriah, you know, suits you. You look like a Myriah.”
She smiled, thinking he was giving her a compliment, and then he threw in, “’Tis but another name for she-devil after all!”
She laughed and shoved another spoonful into his open mouth. However, that was the last he would take, and he pointed to her tray of food. “What do you have?”
She sighed and went to her own platter of sirloin and roast potatoes. He watched her pick at her meal and muttered something incoherent. Myriah laughed and brought her platter to the bed, whereupon the two shared the single meal. Each seemed quite pleased with the other, and Myriah left him resting peacefully, promising to return with tea and biscuits later in the day.
Below stairs, curiosity drew her to an open door just off the central hall, and she entered cautiously to find a well-stocked library. However, what captured her attention was the far wall, which was covered with portraits. They appeared to be family portraits. She lit a candle since the room was shrouded in the darkness of the day. It was drizzling outside, and although the library housed a wonderful panoramic window, there wasn’t much light to be had.
With the candle sconce in hand she went to the portraits and held it high to have a good look at one in particular of a young lad and a man. Here was William Wimborne and his lordship, and the painting must have been commissioned quite a few years ago.
Billy looked to be no more than fifteen or sixteen in the portrait, and his lordship looked fascinating and happier than when she had met him. She put a finger to her lips as she studied the painting. His lordship’s honey-colored hair had been very accurately captured … as had been the strong line of his jaw.
She heard someone behind her and spun around to stare up at Lord Kit Wimborne. The air she had been breathing suddenly burned in her throat. He was devastatingly handsome, and for a moment she felt like an awkward schoolgirl. He wore a riding jacket of dark blue, cream-colored breeches, and high black boots polished to a fine sheen. His honey-colored hair hung to his shoulders in waves of thick silk, and his gray eyes glittered and reminded her that she had been naked under his touch.
Her cheeks felt warm as she managed to say, “Oh … my lord.”
He smiled, and as though he had never treated her like a piece of fluff, had never touched her naked skin, he said, “I trust you slept well in your … er … dusty room?”
“I did … and it is dusty no longer. Spent a bit of time this morning and set it to rights.”