Secrets of a Perfect Night Read Online Free

sigh, he sat down.

    Abby regarded him, frowning. “Adrian, when last did you eat?”
    He settled on the bed, sitting straight, and frowned back at her as he thought. It was a slow process. Then his brows rose consideringly. “Breakfast?”
    He looked at her hopefully. Abby humphed again. “No wonder! You’re half drunk.”
    He tilted his head and considered, then sighed. And closed his eyes. “Tired. So tired…”
    His voice died away, and he fell back across the bed.
    Abby looked at him, but he didn’t stir; with another humph, she bent to pull off his boots. Once she had them and his stockings off, she chafed his feet, worried to find them still as cold as ice. She added more logs to the fire, building it into a blaze, then she returned to the bed.
    “Adrian.” She shook his shoulder. “Come on—wake up.”
    He lay like one dead.
    Abby frowned. Climbing up on the bed, she lifted one lid.
    Her charge was unconscious.
    “Damn!” Sitting beside him, she glared at him. “How am I supposed to get you undressed?”
    The answer was obvious. She considered getting Agnes to help, but she was no doubt busy with Bolt. Summoning Esme, frail spinster that she was, was out of the question. Heaving a sigh, Abby crossed to the door and snibbed the lock. She didn’t want Esme or Tom walking in at the wrong moment.
    Returning to the bed, she surveyed her charge, then pushed and tugged until he lay straight in the middleof the wide bed. She’d left the bed-curtains looped back and the room was warming nicely. Earlier she’d spread an old coverlet over the bed, so the fact that his hair was dripping and his clothes were damp didn’t matter. What did matter was that he was still icy to the touch and pale as a ghost.
    The thought that he’d expended his last ounce of strength in climbing the stairs for her spurred Abby on. She yanked his cravat free, then fell on his shirt. The material was thoroughly damp, the buttons difficult to shift. Cursing beneath her breath, she tried to rip them free but couldn’t muttering more direfully, she feverishly worked on. When the last button slid free, she pushed the shirt wide—and paused.
    An instant later, she swayed—she’d forgotten to breathe.
    She sucked in a breath, then started stripping the shirt from him. “You’ve seen it all before, you ninny!”
    But she hadn’t. Eight years it had been, and eight years made a difference. Her senses insisted on pointing out each change—the depth of his chest, the heavier muscles, the alterations in proportions. She was an artist after all, and her eyes couldn’t stop seeing. She’d thought him an Adonis eight years ago; now…
    She shook her head again and looked away.
    She got one arm free, then the other. Without giving herself time to think, she reached for his waistband. As she pushed and prodded, straining to pop the buttons free, she prayed he wouldn’t choose that moment to wake up.
    He didn’t. With his breeches open, she wriggled them down a little, then scooted to his side, reachedunder him, and pushed. And pushed, until he rolled onto his stomach.
    With a sigh of relief, she flung his shirt aside. Straddling his legs, she grabbed his damp breeches and wriggled and pulled until she got them down. Freeing his feet, she shook the breeches out and tossed them to join his shirt, then grabbed a towel and set to, briskly rubbing him all over.
    To her dismay, although she dried his back thoroughly, his flesh remained pallid and icy cold. There was no warmth in him; not even when she pressed a hand under his stomach could she feel any hint of human heat.
    Her heart started to feel as cold as his skin.
    “Miss?” Tom knocked at the door. “I’ve brought hot water.”
    Abby flung the bed-curtains closed, swiped up Adrian’s wet clothes, and ran to open the door. “Thank you—have you taken any to Agnes yet?”
    “Just about to, miss.”
    She exchanged the clothes for a ewer. “Take those down to Esme. After you’ve taken