husband.
This room was its polar opposite. It was huge, light, and airy. With high ceilings and white walls, it was almost palatial. Large windows emitted natural light and fresh air, and paper-thin muslin curtains with tiny flowers embroidered on them billowed at the windows. Cara blinked several times. This most definitely wasn't Boyle Estate. A fire burned merrily in the grate opposite her bed and the mantle above it was adorned with ornate scrollwork covered in gold flake.
"You have a distinctly bovine look of confusion on your face, Lady Boyle."
At the sound of the low voice, Cara's head snapped hard to her left. There, leaning back in a large armchair, was Lord Quentin Eliot. The grin that stretched his handsome, wolfish features was as satisfied as that of the proverbial cat who ate the canary.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. Her voice came out in a scratchy, broken croak.
"I like that!" Eliot retorted. "My own house and she asks me what I'm doing here!"
Suddenly, the memories came crashing over Cara like a rogue wave on a rocky beach.
"Where is my father?" she demanded. She tried to sit up fully, but pain stabbed sharply through her right knee and she gasped suddenly. In an instant, Eliot was on his feet and at her side.
"Lay back!" he commanded. "You're not to move suddenly for the next week."
"Do not presume to tell me what to do, Lord Eliot!"
"I shall presume to tell you," he said with sudden, maddening calmness. He was tucking her back in now, and there was nothing Cara could do about it, except to observe how strong and surprisingly gentle his hands were. And warm. "I'm to be your husband soon. And then you'll be taking orders from me for a good, long while, Lady Boyle. Until you die, I should say."
"Or until you do," she bit back. Eliot only chuckled and resettled himself in the chair beside her bed, re-crossing his arms behind his head. Suddenly, Cara felt very close to crying. Everything was simply too overwhelming: the terrible pain in her knee, the foggy condition of her mind. "Where is my father?" she asked again, struggling to keep the tremble from her voice.
"He went home yesterday."
"Do you mean to tell me that I've been asleep for a whole day?"
"Two days," Eliot said simply. "I had my doctor give you laudanum so that he could examine you without the flailing."
"I was...f-flailing?" Cara stammered. She remembered everything right up until that dreadful moment on the staircase when Eliot had announced they were engaged. But beyond that, her mind was a dark void. She had no recollection of having been seen by a doctor at all.
"Most dreadfully," Eliot sighed. "Quite a sight you were. I had to have Mrs. Cooper and Sanderson restrain you. I hope you don't plan to behave in such a way after you've become Lady Quentin Eliot of Hedgeton Manor."
Lady Eliot.
The words sent a strange tingle through Cara, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes – her left toes anyway, since her right ones seemed to be somewhat numb. She could feel the blood rush hotly to her cheeks. And of course, Quentin Eliot noticed it, as well.
"You blush so prettily," he said. "In fact, I'd say you're quite the comeliest invalid I've ever seen."
Cara could formulate no reply.
"Come, I paid you a compliment, my ladylove," Eliot pressed after a moment of strained silence.
"Thank you," she whispered through gritted teeth.
"You're welcome," he said pleasantly. Then he stood leisurely and brushed himself off. Her eyes drifted to the form-fitting trousers of fine black velvet he was wearing. His legs were strong and shapely, and the loose white shirt he wore was unbuttoned at the collar. She could just see a spray of dark hair peeping up from the neckline. His chin and cheek were lightly-stubbled, as though he hadn't shaved for a day or two. His honey-golden hair was a mess about his head. Again, Cara felt herself blush hotly as she tore her eyes from Quentin Eliot's striking figure.
"I'll send Mrs. Cooper in
This room was its polar opposite. It was huge, light, and airy. With high ceilings and white walls, it was almost palatial. Large windows emitted natural light and fresh air, and paper-thin muslin curtains with tiny flowers embroidered on them billowed at the windows. Cara blinked several times. This most definitely wasn't Boyle Estate. A fire burned merrily in the grate opposite her bed and the mantle above it was adorned with ornate scrollwork covered in gold flake.
"You have a distinctly bovine look of confusion on your face, Lady Boyle."
At the sound of the low voice, Cara's head snapped hard to her left. There, leaning back in a large armchair, was Lord Quentin Eliot. The grin that stretched his handsome, wolfish features was as satisfied as that of the proverbial cat who ate the canary.
"What are you doing here?" she asked. Her voice came out in a scratchy, broken croak.
"I like that!" Eliot retorted. "My own house and she asks me what I'm doing here!"
Suddenly, the memories came crashing over Cara like a rogue wave on a rocky beach.
"Where is my father?" she demanded. She tried to sit up fully, but pain stabbed sharply through her right knee and she gasped suddenly. In an instant, Eliot was on his feet and at her side.
"Lay back!" he commanded. "You're not to move suddenly for the next week."
"Do not presume to tell me what to do, Lord Eliot!"
"I shall presume to tell you," he said with sudden, maddening calmness. He was tucking her back in now, and there was nothing Cara could do about it, except to observe how strong and surprisingly gentle his hands were. And warm. "I'm to be your husband soon. And then you'll be taking orders from me for a good, long while, Lady Boyle. Until you die, I should say."
"Or until you do," she bit back. Eliot only chuckled and resettled himself in the chair beside her bed, re-crossing his arms behind his head. Suddenly, Cara felt very close to crying. Everything was simply too overwhelming: the terrible pain in her knee, the foggy condition of her mind. "Where is my father?" she asked again, struggling to keep the tremble from her voice.
"He went home yesterday."
"Do you mean to tell me that I've been asleep for a whole day?"
"Two days," Eliot said simply. "I had my doctor give you laudanum so that he could examine you without the flailing."
"I was...f-flailing?" Cara stammered. She remembered everything right up until that dreadful moment on the staircase when Eliot had announced they were engaged. But beyond that, her mind was a dark void. She had no recollection of having been seen by a doctor at all.
"Most dreadfully," Eliot sighed. "Quite a sight you were. I had to have Mrs. Cooper and Sanderson restrain you. I hope you don't plan to behave in such a way after you've become Lady Quentin Eliot of Hedgeton Manor."
Lady Eliot.
The words sent a strange tingle through Cara, from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes – her left toes anyway, since her right ones seemed to be somewhat numb. She could feel the blood rush hotly to her cheeks. And of course, Quentin Eliot noticed it, as well.
"You blush so prettily," he said. "In fact, I'd say you're quite the comeliest invalid I've ever seen."
Cara could formulate no reply.
"Come, I paid you a compliment, my ladylove," Eliot pressed after a moment of strained silence.
"Thank you," she whispered through gritted teeth.
"You're welcome," he said pleasantly. Then he stood leisurely and brushed himself off. Her eyes drifted to the form-fitting trousers of fine black velvet he was wearing. His legs were strong and shapely, and the loose white shirt he wore was unbuttoned at the collar. She could just see a spray of dark hair peeping up from the neckline. His chin and cheek were lightly-stubbled, as though he hadn't shaved for a day or two. His honey-golden hair was a mess about his head. Again, Cara felt herself blush hotly as she tore her eyes from Quentin Eliot's striking figure.
"I'll send Mrs. Cooper in
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