The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(42)

A large bedchamber filled with plush furnishings and covered in busy floral patterns—ha! And in her mind she’d made her most stern—and only male—friend claim he lived there. Dreams were entertaining at times. St. James’s chosen place to sleep would be on a dark cot beside a desk, wouldn’t it? Or perhaps he never reclined to the prone position at all; he only caught a quick nap in a chair between meetings. She giggled, which only drew him closer. A look of concern made him look more serious than ever as he stood surrounded in flowers.

She scowled back at him and laughed. “St. James, I’m in your bed—your overly feminine bed,” she whispered up to him. “Are we married in this dream? Don’t you want to kiss me, have your way with me here on our wedding night?”

“Devil take it, you’re delusional. I’ll have to have the doctor return,” he muttered. He leaned against the bed, next to her, and lifted a hand to check something on her forehead.

“Oh, a doctor! Yes, I’ll need one of those. I am injured. Horribly injured! Save me, St. James. The only way I’ll live is if you kiss me.” She reached up and grabbed the fabric of his waistcoat, pulling him closer. He braced a hand on the bed on the other side of her body, smoothed her hair back from her face, and watched her. The fabric of his waistcoat was textured by the pattern of gray threads stitched into it and was rough under her fingers, drawing her attention from the intense look in his eyes. How odd to have such detail in a dream.

“Your clothing feels so real.”

He’d removed his coat and cravat. His waistcoat hung open, and his clothes were rumpled, as if he’d slept in them. She’d never seen him in such a state of undress. She moved her hand to his shirt and splayed her hand across his chest. The heat of his skin warmed her fingers as his heart beat beneath her palm. Dream St. James had a broad chest and muscles that twitched at her touch. She lifted her hand to his shoulder, her other hand skimming up his side. His breath hitched in his chest. It was odd that she’d never noticed the real man’s fit form, never before caught the look in his eyes that was one part caring concern, one part intense desire.

He moved his hand over her hair, the pad of his thumb caressing her cheek. The real St. James was her friend, only a friend. She wouldn’t be able to face him for a week once she woke from this scene, him sitting so close, her touching him. “This dream…”

“Isn’t a dream,” he said, not breaking the contact he had with her. Instead he searched her eyes and continued to touch her cheek, her temple, in soothing, gentle caresses, as if she might break.

It took a moment for his words to sink into her aching skull. “It isn’t…” She froze in her exploration of his body, her gaze dropping to her hands that had been roaming over his chest for well over a minute. “What?”

“You aren’t dreaming. I found you on the floor of the museum earlier today.”

“And you brought me here? Where are we? Why? Wait… Earlier today?” She had to leave. She had to find her family. She tried to push St. James away to sit up, but he didn’t budge.

“You were unconscious. I know you’re confused, but you’re safe now…in my home, my bed.”

“Your… No, truly. Where am I?” She ripped her gaze from his to scan the room beyond him, looking for anything that made sense of the past few minutes. This room could not be Mr. St. James’s private quarters. It didn’t fit what she knew of the man. And why was she in his private anything? She couldn’t be. Her reputation. Victoria’s wedding. She needed to gather her things and leave this place, wherever it was.

“You’re in my bedchamber—truly.”

“How? What?” She stared up at him, taking in the sympathy and, unfortunately for her, honesty in his expression.

“You need to rest,” he said in a tone that would command armies but not Isabelle on her sister’s wedding day.

How had she made such a blunder of things? She shouldn’t have gone to the museum. It had been a foolish idea. Blast Mr. Grapling for suggesting such a thing. And then she’d gotten hurt. But this really wasn’t his fault. She shouldn’t blame him. It had been an accident of some sort. What had happened? She didn’t know, but now was not the time to seek answers. She had to get to the wedding. If she were late, everyone would talk. There would be scandal.

“I have to leave,” she stated as she pushed against his unyielding chest in an effort to sit up. “I’ll miss Victoria’s wedding.”

“Everyone missed Lady Victoria’s wedding,” he said, keeping Isabelle still on the bed with a hand on her shoulder.

“Missed,” she repeated, looking up at him. “You said missed in the past tense. How long have I been here?”

“Here?” He shifted away from her to pull out his pocket watch and check the time. “Almost seven hours. I don’t know how long you were unconscious on the museum floor before I found you.”

“Victoria!” She leapt to her feet while St. James was distracted placing his watch back in his pocket. “I have to…” But her words dwindled into nothing as her ears began to buzz and everything turned black once more.

“You need to rest,” St. James said somewhere close to her ear as his arms surrounded her.

As much as she wanted to stand her ground against him, she gave in to the strain of the day and rested her head against his shoulder as he placed her back on the bed and settled her against the pillows.