"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?"
"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.