Secrets of a Summer Night (Wallflowers #1)(41)

“Hold on to me,” he murmured, adroitly managing to shed his coat while supporting her trembling form at the same time. He wrapped her in the garment, which retained the warmth of his skin, and she responded with an inarticulate sound of gratitude.

Nettled by the sight of her friend being held by a detested adversary, Lillian spoke impatiently. “See here, Mr. Hunt, my sister and I—”

“Go find Mrs. Peyton,” Hunt interrupted, in a tone that was no less authoritative for its softness. “And tell Lord Westcliff that Miss Peyton needs a doctor. He’ll know whom to send for.”

“What are you going to do?” Lillian demanded, clearly unaccustomed to being given orders in such a fashion.

Hunt’s eyes narrowed as he replied. “I’m going to carry Miss Peyton through the servants’ entrance at the side of the house. Your sister will go with us to avoid any appearance of impropriety.”

“That shows how little you know about propriety!” Lillian snapped.

“I’m not going to debate the matter. Try to be of some use, will you? Go.”

After a furious, tension-fraught pause, Lillian turned and strode toward the ballroom doors.

Daisy was clearly awestruck. “I don’t think anyone has ever dared to speak to my sister that way. You’re the bravest man I’ve ever met, Mr. Hunt.”

Hunt bent carefully to hook his arm beneath Annabelle’s knees. He lifted her with ease, clasping a mass of shivering limbs and rustling silk skirts in his arms. Annabelle had never been carried anywhere by a man—she could not conceive that it was really happening. “I think…I could walk part of the way,” she managed to say.

“You wouldn’t make it down the terrace steps,” Hunt said flatly. “Indulge me while I demonstrate the chivalrous side of my nature. Can you put your arms around my neck?”

Annabelle obeyed, grateful to have the weight taken off her burning ankle. Surrendering to the temptation to put her head on his shoulder, she curled her left arm around his neck. As he carried her down the flagstone steps of the back terrace, she could feel the facile play of muscle beneath the layers of his shirt.

“I didn’t think you had a chivalrous side,” she said, her teeth clicking as another chill shook her. “I th-thought you were a complete scoundrel.”

“I don’t know how people get such ideas about me,” he replied, glancing down at her with a teasing gleam in his eyes. “I’ve always been tragically misunderstood.”

“I still think you’re a scoundrel.”

Hunt grinned and shifted her more comfortably in his arms. “Obviously illness hasn’t impaired your judgment.”

“Why are you helping me after I just told you to go to the devil?” she whispered.

“I have a vested interest in preserving your health. I want you to be in top form when I collect on my debt.”

As Hunt descended the steps with surefooted swiftness, she felt the smooth grace with which he moved— not like a dancer, but like a cat on the prowl. With their faces so close, Annabelle saw that a ruthlessly close shave had not been able to disguise the dark grain of whiskers beneath his skin. Seeking a more secure hold on him, Annabelle reached farther around his neck, until her fingertips brushed the ends of hair that curled slightly against his nape. What a pity I’m so sick, she thought. If I wasn’t so cold and dizzy and weak, I might actually enjoy being carried like this.

Reaching the path that extended along the side of the manor, Hunt paused to allow Daisy to skirt around them and lead the way. “The servants’ door,” he reminded her, and the girl nodded.

“Yes, I know which one it is.” Daisy glanced over her shoulder as she preceded them on the path. Her small face was tense with worry. “I’ve never heard of a sprained ankle making anyone sick to her stomach,” she commented.

“I suspect this is more than a sprained ankle,” Hunt replied.

“Do you think it was the willowbark tea?” Daisy asked.

“No, willowbark wouldn’t cause such a reaction. I have an idea about what the problem might be, but I won’t be able to confirm it until we reach Miss Peyton’s room.”

“How do you intend to ‘confirm’ your idea?” Annabelle asked warily.

“All I want to do is look at your ankle.” Hunt smiled down at her. “Surely I deserve that much, after I take you up three flights of stairs.”

As it turned out, the stairs were no effort for him at all. When they reached the top of the third flight, his breathing hadn’t even altered. Annabelle suspected that he could have carried her ten times as far without breaking a sweat. When she said as much to him, he replied in a matter-of-fact tone. “I spent most of my youth hauling sides of beef and pork to my father’s shop. Carrying you is far more enjoyable.”

“How sweet,” Annabelle mumbled sickly, her eyes closed. “Every woman dreams of being told that she’s preferable to a dead cow.”

Laughter rumbled in his chest, and he turned to avoid bumping her foot against the doorframe. Daisy opened the door for them, and stood watching anxiously as Hunt brought Annabelle to the brocade-covered bed.

“Here we are,” he said, laying her down and reaching for an extra pillow to prop her to a half-sitting position.

“Thank you,” she whispered, staring into the thick-lashed sable eyes above her own.