Chapter 47

Having undone the rusty catch, Cass tried easing the window upward. It wouldn't budge much more than a fraction. Certainly not without screeching and alerting half the household. Had she not needed fresh, cooling air, she wouldn't have bothered. She wiped her hands down her robe, then tried again, managing to push the window as far as it would go.
"I'm sorry." Devorlane Hawley's voice drawled from the bed, sending a shockwave up her spine. Another to match the several that had rocked it already.
Sorry?
"For sweating so badly."
She stiffened, fighting what rose in her as she stared upward at the catch. Oh God, did she need to hear him making whining excuses? No, because then she might forgive him, and she'd no desire to forgive him. Not for what he'd done, not for what he'd said. Not for damn well hanging about in her bed when what her whole self, every jangled bit of her, demanded, was him to damn well clear off and leave her alone, either.
"Oh, don't trouble yourself."
She heard him shift against the pillows. "Well, I am. It's just ... I ... "
"To apologize that is. For that or staying here either."
She turned on her heel and swept across to the sideboard where a small crystal decanter of water stood. "Here." It was nothing to give a dog a drink after all. "I was only trying to cool you down."
Was she hell. And if the icy gust of wind howling around the room made him get up and go next door, so much the better. Gave him pneumonia for that matter. Now he was fevered again-not so badly as last night, at least the bed didn't judder and a faint smile dusted his lips-she'd wasn't falling into last night's trap of caring for, or pitying him. Marveling at him too, that when he suffered so much ... it did nothing to stop him making other people doing the same.
He flicked his eyes open and stared at the glass she stuck under his nose. His voice rumbled from deep in his chest. "Oh, it's not so bad as last night."
"Good."
"But maybe you want me to get pneumonia now?"
"If I wanted that I'd break the window panes. All of them. But if you don't want to drink it, or you would perhaps prefer a small half bottle of opium in it-"
His gaze flicked the glass. "And ruin it?"
She'd no doubt he meant the opium. "Fine. Suit yourself. I can just as easily take it away-"
"Please don't. Thank you."
Thank? Her? Goodness, wasn't he the delirious one? She sat down and also said that word thank to God that she did. She might fall on the floor otherwise and that would detract from her ability to deal with him. "Please don't apologize. It doesn't become you."
The miniscule drop of pity cascading over her heart-the one she instantly arrested--wasn't his fault, was it?She passed him the glass.All her conscious life had been governed by an immovable star. That she also knew dreams could not be destroyed, meant it was no trouble to her whatsoever to wipe her fingertips down her robe.
After all Devorlane Hawley was not a man she could like, and when morning came, he'd be livid that he'd debased himself with pleases and thank yous. If indeed he did debase himself. If indeed this wasn't some pathetically underhand attempt on his part to trowel on his sufferings for her benefit. Men were like that. Have two wooden legs, they were sure to have a dozen. All broken at that. Look at Gil. Look at him. Yes. Hands shaking like a tree load of leaves, lips barely able to fasten on the glass, yet not a single drop spilled, except down his rapacious throat.
"I just sometimes think-"
She did too. That he should go next door. "What, Lord Hawley?"
"It's that damn moment when I was shot."
And that was what, to her, that he bored on about it?
"Lord Hawley, I'm somewhat tired, and I do have papers to search in the morning. Quite a lot of them, if yours and Tilly's extravagant claims are to be disproved. I have other duties to fulfill too. So if you don't mind just drinking that and getting off to bed now, so I can get that window-"
His haggard gaze flickered over her face. "This is the best I've been like this, if you must know."
What had she just said? Whatever it was, he obviously wasn't listening. Of course he never did, except to himself. "Well then, why don't you try and get some sleep? Your own room is just through-"
"And so I will." He slid down the pillow. Closed his eyes and spread himself out. Not before he handed her the glass though. "Yes. If you lie down beside me."
She widened her gaze. Widened it fit to swallow the Turkish rug she was in the process of standing up on.
"I could. Yes. But just because I could, it doesn't mean I-"
He dragged the cover up to his chin. "Look, I'll return to insulting you in the morning if that's what you're so damned worried about."
"Oh, I'm not worried. What makes you think I'm that?"
"And I'm hardly going to touch you. Hell, that would be a joke."
Yes. It would. Must he sound so insulting though? "And I'm hardly going to let you. But be that as it may-"
"Anyway, it's my house. My bed. I want you here so I can sleep."
Wasn't that nice for him? And what about her? She flicked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear, after first raising her gaze to the ceiling and counting to ten. The man was an absolute bastard. But if he got out that bed now and fell on the floor, it would mean summoning Charlie. She'd no idea what room he was in. What if she knocked on Belle's or Tilly's door then she had to explain what Devorlane Hawley was doing on her floor? It would be all the fuel required by that fire to prove she was a tinker's daughter.
"I'm glad you can, Lord Hawley."
Of course, she wasn't for saying so graciously. That would be a graciousness too far when she was going to have to lie down on this bed. Ruby was right. This was starting to take bits of herself. Still she had what he had done to her tonight, the assault on her senses followed by the assault on her senses, to sustain her.
Believe Tilly had only told him that tinker tale this afternoon? Pardon her, but she didn't think so. On the contrary it was probably why he wanted to start again. So he could get her inside to rub her nose in it. Then, just when she felt low enough to crawl ten inches beneath the floorboards over there and befriend whatever wood-lice would speak to her, get inside her. So even now heat scorched at the memory.
She wouldn't allow it. She was Lord Armstrong's daughter. The proof wasn't in the pudding. The proof was in those papers. And she wouldn't rest till she found it. Untilshe faced Devorlane Hawley with it too.