“Well,” he grumbled. “But I’ll not have you standing whilst I sit on my arse. You’ll take your breakfast with me.”
Belatedly, he realized he was issuing another decree. She ought to box his ears for his behavior. But not his Lady Emma. She was far too angelic to comment on his sullen dictates. Instead, she was attentive, concerned, and sweet. So bleeding sweet.
She returned with her own cup of tea and a saucer, a honey cake precariously balanced on the edge of the porcelain. With a graceful motion, she seated herself at his side, nary a drip of spilled tea, that honey cake clinging tenaciously to the saucer instead of tumbling to the carpets as he had suspected it might.
A companionable silence fell between them as he finished his tea and she consumed her own breakfast. It was almost domestic. As if they were husband and wife, beginning the day together in the sheltered intimacy of their chamber. He found himself wondering what it would be like, just for a moment, to be the sort of man who could marry Lady Emma. To be a gentleman who could whisk her around ballrooms, take her riding in Hyde Park, drape her in diamonds and silks and furs. To be a man who could provide her with the sort of life to which she was accustomed, what she deserved. Not a furtive joining in a room over a gaming hell. But a home in Mayfair. Lady Emma Morgan belonged at the command of London Society.
And instead, he was squandering her radiance, her loveliness, her pure heart. And he was using her for his own gain.
“You ought to rest more,” she said quietly, interrupting his foolish thoughts. “I am fearful your wound shall fester.”
“It ain’t going to fester,” he told her with more assurance than he felt.
He’d been cut and bruised and bloodied more than once in his life, but the Bradley blade that had sliced him yesterday had sliced deeper than the others which had preceded it. Despite Wolf’s valiant attempts at sewing him back together, the wound was taking on a look that troubled Hart just a bit. Perhaps he ought to seek out his sister Caro this morning after all, to see if she had any potions that could aid him in healing and ward off contagion.
And he would, he vowed, after sending the invitation to Haldringham.
“I wish I could be as certain as you,” Lady Emma said.
He held her gaze, shame threatening to drown him. She could not hear his thoughts, of course. She had no notion of what he was planning. What he must do. And yet, he swore there was some understanding in those lustrous, sky-blue eyes. Intelligence, comprehension, and compassion.
The truth was, he was terribly uncertain, both of the decisions he had made before meeting her and of all those that had come since. And he was every bit as uncertain that his wound would heal without concern. Aye, if he was going to die by the hand of a Bradley, it was likely too late to undo that damage. The bleeding bell had already been rung.
At least I’ll die knowing what it is like to make love to an angel.
He drained the rest of his tea and settled the cup in its saucer with more force than necessary. Maudlin sentiments were not like him. He was not the sort of man who was weak or soft. Vulnerability had never been a problem for Hart. He was hard. He had to be, for the world he had been born into demanded it of him.
Nettled, he rose to his feet, biting back a grunt as the stitches pulled his tender flesh.
Lady Emma was on her feet at his side in an instant, following him to the table where the tray she had brought waited.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’ve much to do today,” he lied. “Thank you for the breakfast, love. But a man ’as to earn ’is bleeding keep.”
“But you ought to rest.”
“Resting is for the dead,” he quipped as he strode for his wardrobe and extracted a clean shirt.
It was not easy to pull the damned garment over his head, not with his wound hurting as it did. Each movement of his arms was agonizing, and it required all his concentration to keep his face immobile, nary a hint of distress emerging from him. At last, the thing was on. He did not bother with the tails or a waistcoat, but fastened the short row of buttons at his throat.
She was frowning at him once more, her displeasure evident in the lines of concern on her ethereal face. Even in her disapproval of him, she was glorious. As stunning as any goddess laid before a humble man. And that was most assuredly what she was, utter elegance and beauty and graciousness who had been torn asunder from her privileged world and brought into the darkness of his daily life.
“You don’t look happy, love,” he observed against his will.
Why was he lingering, when he ought to simply leave the chamber and her behind, forgetting everything that had happened between them?
“I worry for you,” she said. “After what happened to you yesterday…”
Saint Hugh’s bones.
“It is the way of it around here,” he said simply. “All the more reason for you to remain safe, where I tell you.”
His pointed reminder had her rolling her lips inward. “Your sister Lily asked me to give her some assistance later this morning, and I accepted her request.”
Lily? That gave him pause. Since Pen had gone and hastily married her viscount, Lily had been the one to keep the ledgers. She had a neater hand and a better head for numbers than most of them, and Hart would be first to admit it. His sisters were far more bleeding clever than he could ever hope to be.
“Help with the ledgers?” he asked, giving her a frown of his own as he pondered what manner of trouble Lady Emma could possibly land herself in with Lily.
His youngest sister was a good, quiet girl. Quite unlike most of the Suttons, as it were. Not a wayward bone in her body, that one. Never one for running about London dressed as a cove as Pen had done. And not sneaking into chambers with Gavin Winter as Caro had.
“She did not elaborate,” Lady Emma said. “However, I was hoping you would not mind. Since you have been occupied for much of the day, and I do get lonely.”
Lonely.
Aye, of course she did.
He had been keeping her trapped in these four walls for far too long.
More guilt rose, threatening to choke him.
“Unless you disapprove?” she asked when he remained silent.
“I reckon not,” he allowed. “But you’ll be wanting to wear your mask.”
“I shan’t be needing it,” she said. “I trust you.”
Fucking floating hell. She trusted him.
And he was the last bleeding person in London she ought to.
* * *