She took the tonic, more to get him to move away from the bed than any other reason. It was disturbing to see him mussed and unshaven, looking more masculine than ever. “Mmm. It is sweet.”

He went to fetch her the promised lemonade, and she eyed it thirstily. “After I drink that, I shall get out of bed.”

“You’ll get up when I say you will, and not before.”

“You’ve become overbearing.”

“I’ve always been overbearing.”

She couldn’t argue with that. She took the glass, but her hand trembled so much that he quickly rescued it from her.

“Allow me.” He held the glass to her lips and tilted it for her. Her dry lips burned on contact with the lemonade, but she’d never tasted anything so wonderful in her life.

When she finished, she sighed with satisfaction. “That was lovely.”

He returned the glass to the small table. “Shall I read to you while you rest?”

“I’m really not tired.”

“Mm-hmm.” He lowered himself into the small chair, the wood creaking in protest.

Beginning to feel the effects of the tonic, she sent him a glance under her lashes and watched as he tried to get comfortable. Robert had grown more muscular over the years, his arms and shoulders wider and more powerful. “You are very healthy,” she said aloud. “Very.” She stirred as a restless feeling settled over her.

His amused gaze found hers. “Feeling the tonic, are you?”

“Yessss. I suppose I am.” Every sense seemed heightened. The thick sheets were soft against her legs, the counterpane’s design seemed more prominent under her fingertips, the lemonade scent tickled her nose, and she could hear her own breath. Every moment seemed clear, and oddly sensual. She pulled at the neck of her night rail, which seemed too tight.

Her gaze flickered to Robert and focused on his firm mouth. He’d always been a sensual kisser, teasing and nipping and driving her mad with—Stop thinking about that! “So . . . have you been here with me the entire time?”

“Yes.”

“Without starched cravats, I see.”

His lips twitched. “Despite the arrival of my portmanteau and my valet, I’ve been too busy to do more than wash and change.”

“Your valet must feel slighted.”

“You have no idea. Buffon believes my appearance is a reflection of his value. Needless to say, his sensibilities are a bit bruised.”

“Buffon . . . I should have known you’d have a French valet. No English valet would allow you to wear so many ruffles.”

“My valet will never dress me, nor does he attempt to press his style upon me, be he English or else.”

She eyed him now. “I wish you’d take off that shirt.”

His brows rose. “Why?”

“The wrinkles make my head hurt. My eyes try to trace them and it’s impossible.” He started to reply, but she abruptly said, “I’m surprised you didn’t continue after the box. You had a head start.”

He stretched his long legs before him, his gaze hooded. “I didn’t wish to leave until I knew you were well. I’m sure you would have done the same for me.”