An Unpracticed Heart

Chapter Seven

It took all of Charlotte's willpower not to choke and splutter over her tea. She managed to swallow without too much difficulty, and then she returned her cup to the tray.

"I'm sure that is nothing to boast about," she said, choosing her words carefully. "The war succeeded in making killers out of thousands of young men, so I doubt your claims to infamy should garner a loftier rank than those of your compatriots."

He looked up at her from his seat on the chair. His formerly pallid complexion had been invigorated by both his soak in the tub and his current proximity to the fire, and his eyes sparked like pale green gems as they reflected the light from the flames.

"I fought in no war," he told her, his bearded jaw set in a hard line. "I faced no enemy in battle. There can be no military heroics tacked on to my actions."

On his last word a shudder passed through his shoulders, and she knew that whatever strength he'd obtained from the bath and the tea would be fleeting if he didn't put something more substantial into his stomach.

"Some soup," she announced. She was flustered at the turn the conversation had taken, and her hands lost their steadiness as she uncovered the bowl and made a fumbling move for the spoon. "You promised me that you would eat," she said as she handed the bowl to him. "And should you confess to some other evil, even make a claim to be the devil himself, I will still hold you to that vow."

As he accepted the soup, a corner of the towel slid from his shoulder, revealing a portion of his chest and abdomen. Charlotte knew she should avert her eyes. She had looked elsewhere when she'd helped him in and out of the bath, and every inch of him had been accessible to her inquisitive gaze. But it was now, with the firelight playing across the dips and hollows of his frame that she found she couldn't pull her eyes away.

He was too thin, this course of self-ruination on which he'd fixed himself having taken its toll. But the evidence of his former shape remained, and her gaze was drawn to the lean muscles that stretched across his arms and upper body. In all of her twenty-four years, she'd never seen an undressed man before. The greatest amount of male skin she'd witnessed had been the bare forearms of her father's footmen and stable boys, their sleeves rolled up to their elbows when they'd cleaned out the horses' stalls on warmer days.

And now, in less than a week, she had seen a man—this man—in such various states of undress that her grandmother would probably rise out of her grave simply for the opportunity to mutter an oath, declare herself appalled, and sink back into her posthumous home with her offended eyes rolling heavenward in search of relief.

Charlotte's gaze returned to his face, only to find him watching her. Warmth suffused her cheeks, and she cleared her throat, her chin lifting in a gesture that indicated the bowl he held between his hands. "Take a bite," she prompted, and held her breath until his fingers grasped the handle of the spoon.

He ate slowly, methodically, treating the meal as if it were a chore to be done away with, the task devoid of any enjoyment of flavor or pleasure. He handed the bowl back to her when it was empty, and she noticed the fresh shadows beneath his eyes.

"You need rest." She moved to his side, her hands searching for his arm as he slid forward in the chair and began to stand. When they arrived at his bedside, she produced a small stack of clothing from amid the pile of clean linens on the nightstand. "These were donated from George, our gardener, until your own clothing is laundered or more suitable attire can be acquired." She held out a plain, well-worn shirt and a pair of woolen socks. "He is shorter than you and a bit, shall we say—" She spread her arms apart in time with her words. "—broader, but as you'll be spending a fair amount of the next few days recuperating, I doubt that you'll require anything more elaborate than this."