Eight

Lily’s bedchamber at Kelston Hall

Half of nine that evening

A sharp rap upon the bedchamber door drew the man’s attention from the dated news sheet just as the key ground in the lock. Grateful to have the use of his hands, sans their bandages, he had wasted no time in scouring several dated editions of The Times that Miss Granger had sent up with his dinner.

In truth, he had anticipated reading a snippet of something that would trigger his memory.

However, reports on the continued political pressure over Catholic emancipation as well as economic growth and industrial advancements did not spark so much as a tiny flame of recollection. Neither did the death of prominent figures or the fanfare about the upper ten thousands’ social rounds.

The day had passed into evening with no additional insight into who he was, and it frustrated the devil out of him.

Was he a miscreant?

A bounder and a scoundrel?

He did not feel like a cad, but did crooks have consciences?

Did they know they were corrupt to their black souls?

Miss Granger toed the door open, then shoved it wide with her shoulder as she carried a lap tray into the bedchamber.

At once, his pulse quickened, and just as quickly, he subdued his carnal interest.

He was infirm— had practically died, in truth —and she was a prim and proper school director, for God’s sake.

“Good evening.”

She offered a half-smile, as if she was uncertain of her welcome.

Raising a mocking eyebrow in greeting, and with a slight rustle, he folded the papers before placing them on the night table.

“To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

It startled him to realize it was, indeed, a pleasure to see her.

But then again, confined to a bed in a locked chamber, he was eager to see anyone. At least, he no longer wore the ridiculous ruffled nightgown.

“I have brought you a few things to help you sleep.” She set the tray on the commode. “Warm milk, chamomile tea, and slices of buttered bread topped with strawberry jam.”

He detested chamomile tea.

I do ?

Probably not worth mentioning, so she could add it to her sleuthing list about him.

He would far prefer a dram or two of whisky or cognac. That would send him into the arms of Morpheus quite nicely, thank you. However, he rather doubted there was a drop of liquor in the entire house unless it was a bottle of cooking sherry.

Regardless, during his convalescence, he had lost a good deal of weight. Earlier, during their Piquet game, Charles recommended he eat several small meals until his stomach could handle larger quantities of food.

“I would drink the milk before it cools too much,” Miss Granger advised. “The tea is quite hot still. I took the liberty of adding honey.”

A smile tilted her mouth upward.

She was quite becoming when she smiled.

“Charles vows honey’s medicinal qualities can cure almost anything.”

She placed the tray on his lap, and once again, he caught a whiff of her unique scent. Not the cloying, heavy fragrances so many ton ladies preferred, but a refreshing and natural aroma, and perhaps, bearing the merest hint of yeast.

“Did you make the bread?” The words tumbled from his mouth before he registered them in his mind.

She was so close he could see the gold flecks in her doe-like eyes.

Her mouth parted in surprise, drawing his attention to her soft, full lips and breath smelling of tea and lemon.

Had she ever been kissed?

Egads, man. Control yourself .

Straightening, she nodded. “Actually, I did. I do not normally, but we were short two maids today.”

“And the butter and jam?”

Why the bloody hell was he asking these inane questions?

Had he developed brain fever?

Had boredom muddled his mind?

No, it was the knock to his head. It had addled him.

There was no other explanation for his peculiar inquires.

Miss Granger’s musical tinkle filled the chamber as she strode to her wardrobe and tossed the doors open. “Yes, I helped with the jam too, but not the butter. Although the cream came from Buttercup. The milk is from Clover.”

“Ah, the brave lady bovines who rescued me, if I recall.” He could not prevent his grin.

“Indeed.” A smile twitched the corners of her mouth and sparkled in her eyes. “They are Jersey cows. Though at nine and eleven, respectively, their milk production is slowing a trifle.”

Did her dulcet tone contain the merest hint of concern?

Less milk meant she might have to consider sending the old gals to the butcher and replacing them with younger cows. Somehow, he did not think Miss Granger was as pragmatic about her livestock as she was running her children’s home.

Ducking her head inside the wardrobe, she rummaged around.

Outside, an owl hooted, the sound haunting and familiar.

Dutifully, he drank the milk, then gulped down the tea, wincing as the hot, sweet liquid burned his throat.

Godawful stuff .

He shuddered.

One might as well chew grass or nibble hay.

Cows and other herbivores were welcome to the stuff.

Standing back and staring at the wardrobe, Miss Granger planted her hands on her nicely rounded hips, a frown turning her mouth downward. “Where did I put the dashed thing?”

Taking a bite of the thickly sliced bread, slathered with creamy butter and delicious jam, he cocked his head. The muted light gave her an ethereal air, and he realized with a start, she was quite pretty.

Once he had swallowed, he said, “I take it you have misplaced something?”

“My valise.” She sighed, even as she roved the chamber with her astute gaze. “I wanted to move more of my clothes and other possessions to the office, but I do not recall where I stored it. I rarely need luggage.”

“I am sorry to be an inconvenience.” A colossal pain in the arse, in truth.

A pang of guilt speared him.

His presence had caused her displacement. Charles mentioned she would sleep in the study now.

Still gazing about the chamber, Miss Granger flicked a hand in his direction. “It is hardly your fault, and I would do the same for anyone who needed help.”

Yes, he rather believed she would.

A flash lit her eyes. “Aha! I remember now.”

If only his memory would return as readily.

“I put it in the chest.” She swiftly crossed to the end of the bed and dropped to her knees.

Chest ?

What chest ?

With a slice of scrumptious bread in one hand, he levered himself upward onto an elbow.

Indeed, a small wooden chest stood at the foot of the bed. He had not noticed it earlier because the footboard obstructed it from view and because it was not very tall.

She lifted the lid and, after pulling out several items, she released a satisfied, “Yes.”

She proudly held up a dated, battered and, he would wager his tasty snack, what was a moth-eaten carpetbag.

Observing her as she gathered the items she wished to take below, he leaned back and finished his bread. She moved with an innate grace and lack of artifice.

When Miss Granger had finished, she set the stuffed-to-overflowing bag outside the open door, then returned to his bedside.

“You finished it all. Excellent.” She collected the tray. “Charles and Mrs. B will be well-pleased.”

And her?

“It was delicious. I did not realize how hungry I was.” He wiped his mouth, then handed her the serviette. “Miss Granger?”

“Yes?” She gazed at him, her expression open and expectant.

Was she even capable of subterfuge?

He thought not.

“I think we need to give me a name for the time being.” He lifted a shoulder. “It feels rather odd not to ever be addressed by a name.”

“I imagine it is. Do you have a preference?” She wrinkled her nose. “Please do not say, ‘John Doe.’”

A chuckle escaped him, for he was going to suggest John. “How about Zander? Is that unique enough for you?”

Where he came up with that name, he could not say.

“It is.” She crossed to the door.

“Might I make one more request?” If he did not have a bath and a shave, he would go stark, raving mad. “I do not wish to be any more of an inconvenience than I already am, but is it possible for me to shave and bathe tomorrow?”

She angled her head. “I shall see what I can arrange. Tooth powder and a comb as well, I should think.”

He liked that about her.

No immediate promises, vows, or claims.

Pragmatic and logical was Miss Lilibet Granger.

“Pleasant dreams…Zander.”

The door closed with a soft snick and a second later, the key clunked the lock tight.

Laying back, Zander stared at the ceiling.

“If I dream of you, Lilly, they are sure to be sweet,” he whispered to the still night.