“At the foot of the bed,” she answered.
Colin leaned forward, grabbed the garment, and frowned. “This won’t cover anything.”
“It matches my night—” Gillian broke off and looked down at her silk nightgown. “Oh, good heavens!” She looked up at Colin. “Why didn’t you say something?”
Colin winked at her. “I was tempted to say something.” He stared down at her long, shapely legs exposed to his view. “But I was equally tempted by the view. I admit to being partial to your long, lovely legs.”
“And to think my mother packed this for me to wear.”
“Thank heavens for mothers.” Colin breathed the prayer. “Yours in particular, for she has excellent taste in night wear and didn’t seem particularly worried about you catching cold or suffering a bout of shyness.” He gave her his most charmingly boyish grin. “Not to worry. I’ll protect you.”
“From the maids?” Gillian asked. “I’m sure they’ve seen ladies in silk nightgowns before.”
“The maids probably have,” Colin agreed, flipping back the covers and walking around to the other side of the bed. “But the footmen haven’t. And I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Footmen?”
Colin nodded. “Shepherdston Hall is a male household, and Pomfrey assigns the early morning chores to the footmen to prevent the maids from being underfoot during Lord Shepherdston’s and my toilette.”
Gillian stared in wonder as he treated her to an exquisite view of his nicely muscled legs and firm buttocks. She thought he was going to answer the door in all his male glory, but Colin climbed into bed. He lay on his side, the bedclothes draped across his hip as he propped himself on his forearm. He had placed himself between Gillian and the outer door and used his body to shield her from view.
“Now,” he instructed, reaching behind him to pull the covers over her. “Scoot down and cuddle close, and they won’t even know you’re here.”
“Where do you suppose they’ll think I’ve gone?” she asked a bit waspishly.
“Shhh.” Her words were muffled and Colin fought to keep from laughing at her show of irritation.
But Gillian wasn’t easily muffled. “There are only two beds in this suite, and you’re in mine.”
“Enter!” Colin called.
The sound of china and silver clattering against a tray sounded on the stairs, then the door opened, and a footman entered. “Good morning, sir. Cook sent your breakfast. Where would you like it?”
Colin motioned toward the small table by the fireplace. “The table will be fine.”
The footman carried the tray over to the table and set it down, then bent to light the fire in the fireplace. When he had the fire going, he turned back to Colin. “Shall I pour you a cup of coffee, sir?”
“Yes, thank you,” Colin said.
“And chocolate,” Gillian whispered from beneath the covers.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” The footman lifted the coffeepot and poured Colin a cup.
“Would you be so kind as to pour a cup of chocolate as well?” Colin asked.
“Of course, sir.” The footman lifted the chocolate pot, filled a cup with steaming hot chocolate, and set it beside the cup of coffee. “Do you require anything else, Lord Grantham?”
“No,” Colin said. “Nothing—”
“A hot bath!” Gillian hissed, pressing close enough to make herself heard.
Colin felt the twin points of her breasts pressing into his back, felt her slim thighs beneath his, and fought to remember his promise, fought to keep from rolling over and making her his.
“Colin!” she hissed, again.
“And a hot bath,” Colin blurted.
“Was your first bath this morning not to your liking, sir?”