She nodded, her gaze on the single red rose in a bud vase near her spectacles. He did not take his hand away. Soon, she might start to shake or weep, if her bad moments resembled his.
“Humiliated, but better.”
“Was it the wine?”
“Spirits don’t help.” She tried to move, but he prevented it. “Nothing else on the table. Thirsty. Mostly, it’s being in a strange place and being overly tired. I woke up…”
“You’re safe, Alice. Tydings is boringly, unendingly safe.”
Though he’d never thought of it that way before. As Ethan remained beside her, his fingers massaging her nape, he realized Alice hadn’t been assessing his silver pattern or his table linen the night before. She’d been looking for a simple glass of water. She could have rung for it…
But she’d been running all afternoon, and she was new to the household, and she was Alice Portman.
“You need fluids,” he said, again being careful to keep his voice down, and to fill a water glass only half-full. He propped an arm under her shoulders and held the glass to her lips, finding it worrisome—bothersome—that she didn’t protest the proximity or the assistance.
“More.”
“Soon. We have to accommodate your tentative digestion. Will laudanum help?”
“God, no. Laudanum makes everything strange, and that is worse than a spell of anxiety.”
And her with that creaky hip. No wonder she had to be so careful with it, if she could not relieve her pain in the usual fashion.
“The breeze feels wonderful.” She addressed her observation to the half-full water glass. “Thank you.”
“It’s still too hot in here.” Ethan retrieved a tray from the chambermaid, then closed the door. He shouldn’t be in Miss Portman’s room, of course, but she shouldn’t be having a damned spell of nerves because she’d overdone and awoken in strange surroundings.
“This is mint tea.” He poured a glass half-full from a ceramic pitcher. “When my digestion is tentative, it seems to help.” He put a basin on the night table. “This is lavender water, with ice. I don’t know if it truly helps, but the scent is soothing, and I don’t think it will hurt.”
“You are prone to unprovoked sensations of dread?”
She lay back on her pillows, sounding hopeful, as if wishing she were not isolated in her misery—except when it came to this ailment, each sufferer was profoundly isolated.
“Not as often as I used to.” Ethan wrung out a cloth in the lavender water and folded it across her forehead. “I’ve learned to dodge much of what causes them.”
“Which would be?” From the expression on her face, the cold cloth was a bit of divine relief.
Ethan frowned at her from his perch at her hip. “Any extreme can set me off. Too little sleep, too little activity, too little food, too little drink, too much exertion, too much change of company or conditions. I expect in your case, you needed fluids and rest, and you ignored those needs for two days. You’re away from all that’s familiar, and the change was not one you had much chance to contemplate.”
Because he hadn’t wanted her to have the opportunity for reflection.
“Perhaps.” She took a sip of her mint tea. “I hate when this happens.”
“I know.” She would hate the indignity far more than the suffering. “But these moments pass, and then one is so pathetically grateful.”
The maid appeared, having the sense to knock softly and close the door softly when Ethan permitted her to enter. She bore clean sheets and some buttered toast.
“No food.” Miss Portman waved a hand weakly when the maid had left again. “I cannot, Mr. Grey.”
“Yes, you can,” he corrected her, taking the cloth from her forehead. “Just a bite or two, washed down with some tea. I’ll help.” She managed a very weak glare at him, which suggested the patient would live. He gently hefted her up, and while holding her forward against his shoulder, he arranged pillows at her back.
He straightened, looking her over as he did. “You did not threaten me with dire punishments for my presumptions, so you must allow you are not yet feeling quite the thing.”
“I am making allowances for your unfamiliarity with compassionate impulses.” The words held only a fraction of her usual starch.
“Two sips.” Ethan held the glass to her lips, thinking it odd that now that he had a moment to order her around, he dearly wished she wasn’t permitting it.
“I’ll do it,” she muttered against the rim of the glass, wrapping her hand around his much-larger one.
“And now your toast.” He set the glass down and picked up the plate, tearing her off a bite right over the plate so the crumbs wouldn’t get on the bedclothes. He held it to her lips, and she took it from him with her hand.
“You are surprisingly solicitous,” she said, munching the toast, “if inclined to managing.”
“Chew,” he ordered, smiling slightly. “To be accounted managing by one of your standards makes my day complete. Two more sips.”
She complied without argument. He suspected she knew that goaded him too.
“The maid will be back shortly to do up your braid, change these sheets, and remove the tray. Remain silent, Alice Portman, and do not fuss.”
He reached for her hand, which was cool in his grasp.
“Now,” he went on, keeping his fingers wrapped around hers, “you will not exert yourself for at least the rest of this day. I will keep the boys out of trouble, but I will also check on you, to make sure you are sipping your tea, resting, and eating enough to keep a bird alive. If that featherbrained young lady serving you does not report to my satisfaction, you will find yourself bearing more of my company.
“You are a disgrace, Alice Portman,” Ethan informed her, “to get into such a state and not even ring for a damned maid. I am not happy with you.”
He was pleased, though, for some unfathomable reason. He was pleased she was tolerating his fussing and scolding. Pleased to be of some usefulness to her. Pleased he knew what to do.
“You are excused from tonight’s meal,” he said very sternly. “And henceforth we will have water on the table at all times. You will rest, and you will acquaint yourself with your surroundings. Write the loved ones you miss, and otherwise take one day to adjust to your new surroundings. Do I make myself understood?”
She nodded when she probably wanted to dump her tea over his head. It was time to go, before he provoked her into a display of vinegar for his own reassurance. Still, he held her hand a moment longer.
It would be a good moment to tell her about his willingness to give parenting his children another try—a better try—but he kept his peace, even as he marveled at the delicacy of the bones of her hand. All women were small to him, given his height and muscle. Alice was taller than most, and yet to him, she was delicate and diminutive. And up close, she smelled good, of lemons and sunshine.
“I’ll leave you in peace now.” Ethan turned her hand loose and wrung out another cold cloth. “You sip tea, nibble toast, and let the maid brush your hair for hours on end. If you don’t behave, I’ll thrash you silly.”
“I’ll behave,” she replied, smiling at him faintly. “My thanks for your assistance, Mr. Grey.”
He rose from the bed and glared down at her. “Would you call me Ethan if I asked you to?” He should not ambush her in a weak moment, but there was no point trying to ambush her in any other kind of moment.
He’d asked. He’d actually put his wishes into the form of a question. This was a measure of his panic at seeing her ailing, though try as he might, he couldn’t resent her for it.
“I would allow it, under certain circumstances, if you asked politely. Any governess worth her salt knows to reward proper manners, particularly when the result is such a marvelously nonplussed expression.”