"Yes." He looked up from his knees, shards gathered in his cupped palm. "Don't you remember?"
She shook her head. "I think I must have lost my senses."
"I trust you have them back again," he said with a dry smile, getting to his feet. "I think that's all of it." He put the glass on the dresser and dipped a washcloth into the cold water in the jug. "Let me look at your foot."
Theo stuck it out for his inspection, falling back onto the bed. She wasn't at all sure that she had regained her senses. If she had, why was she lying here in her underwear submitting to the ministrations of a man she loathed? But perhaps she was just too exhausted to care. She closed her swollen eyes.
The next minute she felt cool water on her hot face, the cold washcloth applied to her eyes. "Better?"
She opened her eyes. "Yes… thank you." There was a flickering smile in the gray eyes, and for the first time she thought he didn't look in the least like a man one should… or could… loathe. It was almost as if she'd never seen him clearly before, but always through the veil of her anger and grief.
"You need to eat something," he said, tossing the damp cloth back into the washbasin. "I'll go and organize a tray while you get yourself into bed. Then we're due for a little talk."
Theo pulled herself up against the pillows and took stock. She felt as if she'd been put slowly through a metal wringer and in no fit condition to engage in a "little talk" with Lord Stoneridge, the subject of which she could guess easily enough.
The decanter of port and the earl's intact glass were still on the floor beside the chair. She slid off the bed and gingerly stepped over, filling the glass and taking a sip. Port was supposed to be fortifying. On this occasion it went straight to her knees, and hastily she sat on the bed again, cradling the glass between her hands.
Her eyes went to the portrait that had somehow unlocked the grief. Her father smiled at her through eternity. His inheritance could be hers. If she was prepared to pay the price. She sipped her port.
Elinor emerged from the drawing room as Sylvester came down the stairs. "You've been with Theo, Stoneridge?" It was couched as a question.
Sylvester paused on the bottom step, his hand on the newel. "Yes, ma'am," he said. "I was intending to ask Foster to have a tray prepared for her. She was hungry when she returned."
Elinor regarded him thoughtfully. "Do you intend to take the tray up to her yourself?"
"With your permission, Lady Belmont." Their eyes met.
"It seems you've already dispensed with it, sir," she said dryly. "I trust your coat isn't ruined beyond repair."
Sylvester's gaze followed hers. He plucked at the damp patch on his breast. "If it is, it was for a good cause, ma'am."
Elinor nodded. He really was showing the most remarkable persistence. "Well, I suggest you capitalize on your present advantage," Elinor said, turning to the drawing room. "Theo recovers very quickly from setbacks."
"You do surprise me," the earl muttered in sardonic undertone as Lady Belmont disappeared into the drawing room. He called for Foster, who appeared from the kitchen regions with his usual stately tread.
"Lady Theo needs some supper," Sylvester said. "Prepare a tray and bring it into the library. I'll take it up myself."
Foster's countenance was a mask of disapproval. A lady's bedchamber was no place for a gentleman, particularly one who went up armed with a port decanter.
"Perhaps one of the maids could take it up, my lord."
"I'm sure one of them could," his lordship said impatiently. "But / am going to take it up."
"Very well, sir." With a stiff bow Foster returned to the kitchen.
Five minutes later Foster entered the library with a laden cloth-covered tray. "I've placed a glass of claret on the tray, sir. The same that you had at dinner. It's one of Lady Theo's favorites." The butler was still radiating disapproval.
"I'm sure she'll appreciate it."
Sylvester took the tray and strode past the stiff figure and up the stairs.
"For heaven's sake, do you never do as you're told?" he exclaimed as he entered Theo's room. "I told you to get into bed. What are you doing?"
"Drinking port," Theo said in a rather dreamy tone. "It's supposed to be fortifying."
"And is it proving to be so?" he asked with a quizzically raised eyebrow, setting the tray on the dresser. It was almost full dark now, and he lit the candles on either end of the dresser.
"I don't know about fortifying, but it's certainly making me feel a little woozy."
Sylvester sighed. At this rate she was going to be in no fit state to hear him out, and he was mindful of Lady Belmont's caution. In the morning she'd probably be as obdurate and uncivil as ever. "Get into bed," he directed.
"It's too early to go to bed." Theo stood up, assessing her balance with a frown. Then she gave a little satisfied nod. "I have a very strong head, you should understand."
Strong head or no, she was not entirely sober. The sooner the contents of the tray went into her belly, the better. "You'll find it easier to eat your supper in bed," he stated, scooping her back onto the bed, pulling down the covers, and inserting her between them. The ease with which this maneuver was accomplished struck him as sufficient indication of Theo's presently feeble state. He pulled the pillows up against the headboard and sat her firmly against them.
"Now, cousin, you will eat your supper."
Theo blinked, wondered fleetingly if protest for its own sake was sensible, inhaled the rich aroma from the tray he set on her knees, and decided it wasn't.
"I think you'd better forgo the claret, however," Sylvester stated, flicking away the cloth.
"No!" Theo grabbed at his wrist as he reached to remove the glass. "I can't eat without wine… besides, isn't this the ninety-eight St. Estephe?"
"I believe so." Sylvester yielded the issue. He understood it too well for argument.
Theo examined the contents of the tray. A bowl of mushroom soup, a cold roast-chicken breast, a custard tart. "This wasn't what you had for dinner," she stated. "I could smell suckling
Pig."
"But you chose not to appear at the dinner table," he reminded her evenly. "I should be thankful for small mercies if I were you." He swung the chair to face the bed and sat astride it again, folding his arms along the back.
Theo contemplated an acid retort and then decided that she didn't really have one. She dipped her spoon into the soup.
Port clearly had a mellowing effect, Sylvester reflected, refilling his own glass that Theo had left empty on the floor. He decided to wait until she'd eaten something before beginning the talk he had in mind, so he sipped his port and watched her.
The effects of that violent storm were fading fast and, under the influence of supper, disappeared almost completely. Her eyelids were back to normal again, and her nose was no longer red. In the soft glow from the candles, her hair shone with its usual luster and her complexion had lost its drawn pallor, returned now to rose-tinted gold.
The chemise left her arms and neck bare, and the creamy skin glowed in the candlelight. His eyes drifted to her bosom, to the lace edging that sculpted the soft rise of her breasts, accentuating the deep cleft between them. His own thighs remembered the feel of hers, the unconsciously sensuous wriggling of her buttocks beneath the paper-thin lawn of her drawers.
Such voluptuous reflections were not conducive to the rational attack he was preparing to mount. He put them aside and said briskly, "Would you explain as simply as you can, cousin, exactly what it is about me that you dislike?"
The question took Theo so much by surprise that she choked on a mouthful of chicken. He reached over and slapped her back vigorously before continuing. "Is it my appearance? There's not much I can do about that. My manner… conduct toward you? That's been dictated by you, cousin, so if you wish that to change, you'll have to change your own conduct toward me… What else could it be?"