Lord Harry by Catherine Coulter

“Look, Hetty, I merely want to see if you’ve another fever. Don’t be afraid of me. I have no intention of assaulting you or trying to hurt you.”

She just stared up at him and tried to inch away toward the center of the large bed, but another sharp pain in her side held her rigid. She closed her eyes tightly. “None of this makes any sense at all. I don’t have a fever, damn you, but I suppose since you’re the stronger then you’ll have your way.”

He did, lightly laying his palm on her forehead. Thankfully, her skin was cool to the touch. “You’re fine, thank God. Now, I imagine you’re ready to eat your water glass. It shouldn’t be much longer now, Hetty.”

“My name is Miss Rolland.”

He looked faintly amused. “Het Miss Rolland, I believe that I know you well enough to dispense with such formality.”

“You don’t begin to know me, your grace. But I know you, I know all about you.”

“Do you also know that I’ve taken care of you? There’s been no doctor. I see you don’t like that at all. Well, just remember, Miss Rolland, I fought a duel with Lord Harry. Lord Harry you must remain if we are to pull through this mess without a scandal that I personally wouldn’t want to have to live through. I’ve really done quite well by you, you know. You’ll live. You’ll have a scar on your side, but you’re alive and soon you’ll even be eating.”

He wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Her eyes darkened and narrowed. He wondered if she had a pistol she’d shoot him. She’d had so much to adjust to that her hatred of him had been momentarily forgotten. He wondered with amused irony whether feeding her was wise. The moment she gained back some strength, she would be at his throat.

“Ah, food.” He walked away from her before she could speak.

Hetty eyed the steaming bowl of soup and fresh warm bread. She tried to struggle to a sitting position, only to fall back, biting her lower lip, as the wound in her side sent a ripping pain through her.

“Listen to me, Hetty, you must keep still. I don’t want those stitches to tear. I don’t want you to start bleeding again. Just hold still. No matter what’s between us, for now just let me feed you. All right?” He frowned at her, saw how very near to tears of pain she was. “Please, allow me to help you.”

She was simply too weak to resist. She was also dizzy with hunger. As much as she hated it, she knew she’d have to lie here in his bed like a weak fool and let him feed her. She lay limp as he slipped one arm behind her shoulders and the other under her legs. He carefully eased her to more of a sitting position and plumped the feather pillows behind her head.

“There, you’re ready to dine.”

He pulled out the wooden legs of the bed tray and set it across her lap.

“I hope it isn’t corn soup,” she said, eyeing the steaming bowl warily.

“Corn soup? Why the devil not?”

“Father’s a Tory.”

“Good God, do I ever know that. Your father and my uncle between them would run England if allowed. It’s a frightening idea. You aren’t speaking of the Corn Laws, are you? No, don’t answer. Let’s feed you now.” He sat on the bed beside her. He picked up the spoon and stirred the hot soup.

To have him feeding her was simply too much. Besides now she was sitting up, not lying on her back like a lump. “I don’t need your help now. I’ll feed myself.”

“As you will,” he said, and handed her the spoon.

She couldn’t make her fingers do any more than curl weakly about the handle. She slid her thumb closer to the bowl of the spoon and dipped it into the soup. Her hand was trembling and before the spoon reached her open mouth, her thumb lost its leverage and she grimaced as the hot soup splashed onto her nightshirt, rather his nightshirt sewn for him by his aunt Agnes.

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