It was better this way, without her spectacles. If she couldn’t see how handsome he was, she was much less likely to fantasize about kissing him again, and that was good for everyone. Ever since he’d adamantly and convincingly denied that Mrs. Langford was his mistress and then called Jane stunningly beautiful, well, that in itself had been a bit irresistible. But it had really been too much when he’d asked her when—not if—they would repeat their interlude in the drawing room. The fact was she’d been distracted by that thought far too much since he’d said it.

Upton’s laughter was warm and genuine. “I like that, the perpetrator of the Mrs. Bunbury plot telling me what is shamelessly inappropriate. I had to come see how you’re doing, didn’t I?”

Jane continued to clutch at the covers. “But I’m in my night rail.”

“Yes. I saw a bit of it unfortunately. It’s a night rail that looks like something my grandmama would wear and you have blankets up to your neck on top of that. I have absolutely no hope of catching so much as a glimpse of your skin.”

She had to laugh. He was right. The frothy lace of her long night rail was anything but revealing. She pushed the covers back down to her waist and nestled back against the pillows. “You are shameless, Upton. Don’t allow anyone to ever tell you differently.”

“Duly noted,” he replied. “Where are your spectacles?” He sounded nearly … caring.

Jane sighed. “I’m afraid they were hopelessly bent. Cass has sent to London to fetch me another pair.”

“You look … pretty without your glasses.” He cleared his throat. “Quite pretty.”

Heavens. Had Upton just called her pretty? Quite pretty?

“How is your ankle?” he asked. She could see enough of his blurry form to know he’d pulled a chair close to the edge of her bed and taken a seat.

“Twisted. And sore. Lady Moreland offered me a bowl of cream as if I were a cat. I told her I’d be ever so much more interested in a teacake. I suppose I should consider it a victory as long as she doesn’t send a servant with a bit of salmon. Mrs. Cat would love a bit of salmon.”

“Who is Mrs. Cat?”

“A cat. Not my cat. I don’t own a cat. She’s just a cat I feed sometimes.”

The flash of his white teeth was unmistakable. “I hate to tell you this but if you’re feeding her, she’s your cat.”

“No. She’s not. I’m certain of it.”

“I know better than to argue with you,” he said with a laugh. “But tell me, why are you feeding her if you care so little about her?”