Outside Theo's room he paused, raising his arm to knock with his elbow, and then changed his mind. This was an offensive where surprise was probably his strongest weapon. Using the little finger of the hand that held the glasses, he lifted the latch and nudged the door open with his knee.
The light was dim, but he could see Theo sitting on the window seat, a hunched white figure with her knees drawn up, her chin resting atop them.
"Why are you sitting in the dark?" he asked, stepping into the bedroom.
"Since it's your house, my lord, I imagine you've dispensed with such courtesies as knocking before entering," she commented bitterly.
"Not at all," he returned without rancor, hitching a chair with his foot out from the corner of the room. "But I assumed that if I had knocked, you'd have turned the key in my face."
He sat astride the chair, facing her, his arms resting along the back, supporting his burdened hands. Deftly, he filled the two glasses from the decanter and extended his arm toward her. "Port, cousin?"
Theo uncurled from the window seat and reached for one of the glasses.
"I'm not sure how much good it's going to do you on an empty belly," Sylvester observed, setting the decanter on the floor at his feet.
"And whose fault is that?"
"Yours, and you know it. You didn't have to stomp off in a tantrum."
Theo sipped her port. It slid comfortingly down her tight throat and settled in her stomach with a warming glow.
"You insulted me," she said, adding acidly, "not that that's unusual."
"And you've been insulting me at every opportunity since we met. We can't go on mauling each other in this manner, Theo."
There was silence in the dusk-filled room. Sylvester regarded her over his glass. Her discarded riding habit lay in a crumpled heap in the corner of the room, and she was wearing nothing but her chemise and drawers, her hair tumbling lose down her back. It was the first time he'd seen it unbraided, and he realized it was long enough for her to sit on.
She seemed unaware of her scantily clad appearance, frowning into the gloom, lost in her own thoughts. Then she said abruptly, as if there were no bones of contention between them, "Thank you for the portrait."
It was the first time she'd said anything civil to him, and he blinked in genuine surprise. She'd been staring at her father's picture, now hung on the wall behind him, when he'd entered the room.
"I'm sorry it didn't get moved earlier," he said. "It was an oversight."
"Why? Why did it have to happen?" With shocking suddenness she hurled her empty glass to the floor as she sprang to her feet. The glass shattered but she didn't notice. Tears poured soundlessly down her cheeks, and her face was contorted with anguish. Her voice filled the room in a low torrent of rage at fate's injustice. "It's so unfair! He was so young… he meant so much to everyone… he was so important… and now everything's gone… lost… wasted…"
She was grieving for her father as well as for her grandfather, and sometimes, through the wild, tumbling storm of words, Sylvester found it hard to distinguish which man at any one moment was the focus of her sorrow. But it didn't matter. Sylvester understood pain and loss and the raging fires of injustice, and he knew that for the moment she wasn't aware of him in the room. The whole fetid seething cauldron of grief poured from her in words and tears, and she stood still in the middle of the room, her hands clenched in tight fists.
Only when she kicked blindly at a piece of broken glass with her bare foot did he move. Swinging himself off the chair, he caught her against him, lifting her clear of the floor.
"Be still," he murmured into her hair. "You'll cut your feet to ribbons."
She struggled in his hold, although he sensed that she was so far gone in her agony that she'd no sense of who or what he was. He held on to her, stepping backward to the window seat, sitting down with her, clamping her against his chest, feeling the heat of her skin beneath the thin chemise, the desperate shifting of her thighs and buttocks in his lap, and despite the circumstances, his body hardened in response to the sinuous wriggles.
Eventually, her struggles ceased as the violent paroxysm of weeping eased a little. She still sobbed but rested against him, her face buried in his chest. He stroked her hair, murmuring soothing nonsense words.
He didn't notice when the door softly opened and then closed just as softly. Elinor stood outside, her hand on the latch, deep in thought. She'd come up to check on Theo, and the sound of her desperate sobbing had reached her through the closed door. She'd not been expecting the sight that greeted her on the other side of that door.
Well, she'd told the earl to follow his instincts when it came to his dealings with Theo. It seemed he was taking the instruction to heart. Probably she should wrest her daughter from his arms. But Elinor didn't think she would. She returned downstairs to await developments.
Slowly, the tempest subsided, reality asserted itself, and when Theo renewed her struggle to free herself from the iron arms holding her, it was no longer a blind reaction to her anguish.
Sylvester, recognizing her return to the world, loosened his grip immediately. Theo raised her head and stared up into the gray eyes that were for once not cool, ironic, or mocking.
"What's happening? What are you doing?" she demanded, sniffing, wiping her running nose with the back of her forearm.
"I'm not doing anything," he said. "You're sitting on my knee looking like the fall of Troy, and all I've got to show for it is a ruined coat." He brushed at his sodden coat with a rueful grimace before pulling a handkerchief out of his breast pocket.
"Hold still."
Theo submitted to having her nose wiped because she was too taken aback to protest. She pushed tear-soaked strands of hair from her wet cheeks and drew a shuddering breath through her mouth deep into her aching lungs. Her nose was blocked, her throat was sore and scratchy, and he felt as weak as a kitten.
But she also felt drained and peaceful, as if some poison had been drawn from her. Her head fell against his shoulder, and she lay with her eyes closed, waiting for strength to flow back into her weakened limbs.
With some calculation Sylvester decided he didn't have much option but to stay as he was until she was ready to move.
He traced the curve of her cheek with his finger. She shifted on his lap again with predictable results. Deliberately, he slid his hands beneath her, cupping her backside in his palms as if preparing to tip her immediately off his knee, but for longer than was strictly necessary, his hands stayed where they were.
"Up." At last, with a brisk movement, he propelled her to her feet. "I'm sorry to unsettle you, gypsy, but having you on my lap with nothing but those flimsy undergarments covering your nether regions is more than flesh and blood can bear."
Startled, Theo looked down at herself and realized what he meant, and suddenly she was acutely conscious of the intimate lingering warmth of his hands on her bottom. She flushed but flew to the attack. "I didn't put myself in your lap," she said, but her throat was too scratchy for her usual vehemence. "And I didn't invite you in here, either."
She shivered suddenly as her heated skin cooled in the night air, emphasizing the scantiness of her attire. She took a hasty step backward, instinctively trying to put some distance between them, as if it would lessen the indelicacy of the situation.
She cried out as her foot scrunched heavily on a shard of broken glass.
"For God's sake, that was what I was trying to avoid in the first place." Sylvester leaped up and pushed her sharply so that she fell back onto the bed, her bleeding foot waving in the air. "Stay there until I've picked up this mess."
Theo lost interest in displays of outraged modesty. They seemed pointless and certainly too late. She hitched herself into a cross-legged position on the bed and peered at her cut sole. "Did I break the glass?"